Silence for the Dead(61)

“What?” Maisey shook her head. “I didn’t know that. Would he have done that if the family was ill?”

“He told the servants they were moving.”

“Then why didn’t Anna tell me?” She looked helpless. “When I came home I heard that Mikael died in the war, that he was shot in some horrible way. Sweet, kind Mikael. Then I heard another rumor that he came home after all. I don’t know which one is true. Anna never wrote to me about it. If Mikael had died, it would have devastated her.”

“I promise, if I find out anything, I’ll let you know.”

“If we find out anything,” Jack said. He was still sitting in the grass, listening, looking at me.

“Jack,” I said, “it’s too risky. You said it yourself.”

“And you talked me out of it, remember?” He turned to Maisey, who sat tongue-tied. “Nurse Ravell, if I gave you some letters, would you take them to the village and post them for me?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Maisey said, “Yes, sir.”

“And if the replies were sent to you, could you keep them hidden and bring them here to me somehow?”

“No,” I said.

Jack turned to me. “Mikael Gersbach,” he said. “If there’s a record, no matter how secret, I can find it.” His blue eyes sparked. “England’s fallen hero is owed a few favors.”

“I could bring the replies here,” said Maisey. “To this spot. I could come early in the morning and leave them tucked under this bench here, where no one will see them.”

Jack stood, brushed the grass from his clothes. “I’ll check the spot on my morning run. I’ll put my letters out tomorrow morning. If you bring me a reply, wait two days and come again in case I have another.”

She sat up straight, her tears drying. “Yes, sir.”

“I hope it isn’t too much trouble, on that bicycle of yours.” He turned to me with half a grin on his face. He knew exactly what I’d been thinking.

“This is a terrible idea,” I protested.

“That’s too bad, because it’s yours.” He looked down at me, the sun changing the shade of his dark hair, the wind tousling it against his temples. “Besides, it’s no worse than what you’re planning.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” How did he know everything?

“Yes, you do. And if you’re going to do it, you’ll need my help. Don’t try it without me. And now,” he said with perfect solemnity, “exercise is over. Paulus said there’d be fresh pears at tea this afternoon, and I want to know if he was lying. Nurse Ravell—” He nodded good day to her stunned expression, and jogged back off through the trees.

“He seems . . . rather well,” Maisey said. “I don’t think he was like that when I was here.”

“Oh, God,” I replied. I’d just given a mental patient access to a bicycle, an accomplice, and private mail. Just because a man has lost his sanity does not mean he is incapable of subterfuge. In fact, they have no moral qualms at all. “What have I done?” I said to her. “I’ve enlisted a madman to help me. Now what should I do?”

“I think you should let him help.”

I stood and walked the way Jack had taken, peering through the trees. As he approached the house, Paulus Vries appeared, and another orderly, and another; they’d been looking for him, then. They fanned out in a tense semicircle around him. Jack paused, and then he spoke. One of the orderlies answered. Jack spoke again, and one orderly laughed, and then another. The tension vanished and the four of them walked back to the terrace. Just like that.

I’d enlisted him, but it didn’t mean I could control him. Matron couldn’t control him; neither could the doctors. Jack Yates followed only the rules he chose to follow, and only when it suited him.

And now he was working for me.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


“Sleeves,” said Matron.

Martha, Nina, Boney, and I stood before her in a line. As one we held out our arms, clothed in the long sleeves we’d fastened on that morning, rows of starchy whiteness hanging parallel in the air.

Matron walked from one end of our short line to the other. Her brow was tensed, her gaze malevolent, a look that meant she was seeking something to criticize. It was another inspection, but this one was not in honor of the doctors.

We’d been hard at work since six that morning—even Nina, who had been given permission to finish night shift at two o’clock and get four hours’ rest. We had scrubbed, polished, straightened, hauled linens, dusted, aired every man’s room and changed his bed linens—all nineteen of them. My legs were shaking with exhaustion, but it didn’t seem quite as bad as when I’d first started. Perhaps I was getting stronger.

“This is an important day,” Matron announced to us, Henry V rallying his battle-worn troops. “This is visitors’ day. The day in which members of the outside world come to the inner confines of Portis House. The day in which we make an impression.”

Behind her, something clanged in the kitchen and someone cursed.

“I cannot express to you,” Matron continued, ignoring the sound, “the importance of our conduct today. There will be no breaks. No socializing. Any breach of the rules absolutely will not be tolerated.” I thought perhaps her gimlet gaze rested on me as she said this. “Sloppiness is inexcusable. Rudeness is inexcusable. You will speak to our visitors only when spoken to, and only in polite tones. The patients who do not have visitors may be unhappy and may misbehave. It is your duty to see that any such displays are kept from sight and sound of our visitors. If this is not followed, Mr. Deighton will hear of it. Do I make myself clear?”