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believe that I had run away from the nightmare of nursing there. Pride, I told myself, sometimes had much to answer for.
    But then my ancestress, who had sent her husband off to face Napoleon at Waterloo and danced through the night to conceal the fact that experienced officers had been called to duty, would have appreciated my dilemma. She had helped keep the townspeople of Brussels calm and unsuspecting. It was her duty to the cause, even though she knew she might never see her husband alive again. Perhaps I had inherited a little of her strength. I’d like to think so.
    The following day we faced a long and very difficult surgery as we fought to clean a suppurating wound and save a man’s leg. It had been a near run thing, and the smell of the infection had filled the tiny surgical theater, nearly sickening us, but when the last stitch had been taken, the wound dressed, Dr. Gaines nodded to me and walked out of the room. I could see how exhausted he was, but I was impressed with his skills and dedication. It would have been much easier simply to amputate the lower part of the leg and be done with it. There was always the shadow of gangrene hanging over such cases. But he had done what he could to leave the patient whole.
    I had hoped this morning might bring Simon’s response to my letter, but there was nothing for me in the post. Instead, summoned to Matron’s office as I finished changing into a fresh uniform, I found him waiting for me there.
    Matron said, “Your father has sent a message by Sergeant-Major Brandon. I’ll leave you to speak to him in private.”
    Simon thanked her, waiting until the door had closed behind her and the sound of her footsteps had faded down the passage, before saying to me in a low voice, “Will you walk in the park with me?”
    “Is anything wrong?”
    “Not at home,” he said briefly. I nodded, and we left Matron’s office and went out into the park where we couldn’t be overheard even by chance.
    “The only Colonel Prescott I could find in the lists is an officer in the Royal Engineers. As you’d expect, he never commanded Major Carson. I can’t say whether or not they ever met, but I doubt it. Carson’s commanding officer was Colonel Travers.”
    “Julia must have been mistaken,” I said doubtfully. “But she was impressed by his kindness in his letter, and surely she’d have got his name right when she spoke to me.”
    “This tends to support your dream. I’m beginning to believe there was indeed a murder.”
    “Have you said anything to my father about this matter?”
    “No. He’d order an immediate inquiry, and I don’t think we have sufficient proof to make this public. Besides, it would be cruel to upset Mrs. Carson if none of this turns out to be true. Early days.”
    “I should think that letter of condolence to a family giving false information about an officer’s death would be a place to start.”
    “To start, yes. I’d like to see this carried to a conclusion.”
    “Yes. But, Simon, what about the journal? He read portions of it to Julia. It must exist!”
    “There’s no certainty that it has anything to do with his death.”
    “I know. One can hope. There must be answers somewhere . I must speak to Private Wilson’s family. Not that I expect to learn anything from them, but if they also find it hard to believe that he killed himself, then it supports my own feeling.”
    “I did one other bit of research while I was in London. Remember Sabrina Carson, who married a reprobate? Your mother told me she wasn’t at the memorial service. Whether it’s against his will or not, William Morton is in the Army. Most likely called up and threatened with desertion if he didn’t appear at the proper time.” There was contempt in Simon’s voice. He had no sympathy for a man who refused to serve his country in its hour of need. “His wife is living on a private soldier’s pay. That may explain why she couldn’t afford to travel to the memorial