Read Online The Return of Captain John Emmett by Elizabeth Speller - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Speller
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quite well. Eleanor wrote to the family, too—partly with condolences, partly to try to find out what John had meant by it. No answer.'
Laurence stayed silent, trying to remember if Mary had mentioned a letter.
'They're not in trouble are they—the Emmetts?' William looked concerned.
'No. There's no question of that. His mother and sister would be grateful you saved him, even though the end came as it did. They just—well, his sister mostly, to be honest—wanted to understand.'
William nodded. 'It's a funny thing,' he said slowly. 'I was angry when I heard John had shot himself. There were so many men who didn't come back, and then John makes it, and makes it in one piece, and then ... puts his family through all that. But Eleanor understands it. She saw plenty of men with their nerves gone. She was a nurse; that's how I met her. Shell-shock, that's what they call it now, and it didn't seem to matter how strong a man was before the war; it could hit anyone, any time.' The faintest of smiles flickered. 'Well, not Sergeant Tucker, obviously. War had its own rewards for his sort.'
Laurence thought of Charles, another man whom war suited very nicely. Charles was an ideal officer: not over-imaginative, unflappable and robust. But what happened to those men who had found some pleasure in the fighting and the routines, once it was all over?
As to what pushed him over the edge,' William went on, 'who can tell? I've no idea. He came back from convalescence in England once he was patched up but I never saw him again. I'd been injured by then. We were wiped out, or damn nearly, at Lateau Wood. One leg virtually blown off.' He pointed to the limb, which ended at the knee. 'Other leg went septic. I hovered between life and death—I don't remember a thing—and was nursed by Eleanor, who viewed their having to take off the other leg as a personal insult and wasn't prepared to put up with me dying after all her labours. I don't know exactly what John did when he got back. Seconded to another outfit's my guess.'
'And Tucker?' Laurence asked, not quite knowing why.
'No idea. I expect he survived. His sort tended to. Probably came home with his clap tonic and the Military Medal in his bag.'
William was starting to look tired. Laurence fired off one last question. 'I don't know if you were told but there were another two bequests besides yours. A Mrs Lovell. That doesn't mean anything to you, does it?'
Bolitho shook his head. 'The solicitor implied there were other beneficiaries, mostly to put my mind at rest about taking the money, but he was far too circumspect to volunteer names and I didn't ask.'
'Not Tucker, anyway,' said Laurence, feeling guilty that he'd been so much less discreet than the legal advisors. 'So there were limits to John's gratitude. And there wasn't any Lovell involved in the rescue?'
'No, I'm pretty sure not. Perkins died. I think it was Smith who was probably buried alive. There was Tucker, and the major's batman and a couple of other Welsh lads whose names escape me, if I ever knew them. But I don't think I remember a Lovell at all. Not there, anyway. Certainly never came across a Mrs Lovell. What are you thinking: somebody's wife? Mother?'
'I haven't a clue. It's the wildest of wild cards. I hope to speak to her, if she still lives at the address I have.'
'And could she even have been somebody's sister? A Miss Tucker or Perkins or whatever at one time, I suppose?' William said. 'Or maybe she was a young widow with hopes of being a Mrs Emmett?'
'Possibly. And a Frenchman—called Meurice? No bells ringing?'
William shook his head.
It took Laurence nearly an hour to tell Mary about the afternoon and his impressions. She had not interrupted once although at one point she picked up a biscuit, broke off a piece, dipped it in her tea and carried it to her mouth, all without dropping her eyes from his face. He liked her for it.
'Bolitho was a good man. Perhaps you'll meet him one day. His wife too. If
Laurence stayed silent, trying to remember if Mary had mentioned a letter.
'They're not in trouble are they—the Emmetts?' William looked concerned.
'No. There's no question of that. His mother and sister would be grateful you saved him, even though the end came as it did. They just—well, his sister mostly, to be honest—wanted to understand.'
William nodded. 'It's a funny thing,' he said slowly. 'I was angry when I heard John had shot himself. There were so many men who didn't come back, and then John makes it, and makes it in one piece, and then ... puts his family through all that. But Eleanor understands it. She saw plenty of men with their nerves gone. She was a nurse; that's how I met her. Shell-shock, that's what they call it now, and it didn't seem to matter how strong a man was before the war; it could hit anyone, any time.' The faintest of smiles flickered. 'Well, not Sergeant Tucker, obviously. War had its own rewards for his sort.'
Laurence thought of Charles, another man whom war suited very nicely. Charles was an ideal officer: not over-imaginative, unflappable and robust. But what happened to those men who had found some pleasure in the fighting and the routines, once it was all over?
As to what pushed him over the edge,' William went on, 'who can tell? I've no idea. He came back from convalescence in England once he was patched up but I never saw him again. I'd been injured by then. We were wiped out, or damn nearly, at Lateau Wood. One leg virtually blown off.' He pointed to the limb, which ended at the knee. 'Other leg went septic. I hovered between life and death—I don't remember a thing—and was nursed by Eleanor, who viewed their having to take off the other leg as a personal insult and wasn't prepared to put up with me dying after all her labours. I don't know exactly what John did when he got back. Seconded to another outfit's my guess.'
'And Tucker?' Laurence asked, not quite knowing why.
'No idea. I expect he survived. His sort tended to. Probably came home with his clap tonic and the Military Medal in his bag.'
William was starting to look tired. Laurence fired off one last question. 'I don't know if you were told but there were another two bequests besides yours. A Mrs Lovell. That doesn't mean anything to you, does it?'
Bolitho shook his head. 'The solicitor implied there were other beneficiaries, mostly to put my mind at rest about taking the money, but he was far too circumspect to volunteer names and I didn't ask.'
'Not Tucker, anyway,' said Laurence, feeling guilty that he'd been so much less discreet than the legal advisors. 'So there were limits to John's gratitude. And there wasn't any Lovell involved in the rescue?'
'No, I'm pretty sure not. Perkins died. I think it was Smith who was probably buried alive. There was Tucker, and the major's batman and a couple of other Welsh lads whose names escape me, if I ever knew them. But I don't think I remember a Lovell at all. Not there, anyway. Certainly never came across a Mrs Lovell. What are you thinking: somebody's wife? Mother?'
'I haven't a clue. It's the wildest of wild cards. I hope to speak to her, if she still lives at the address I have.'
'And could she even have been somebody's sister? A Miss Tucker or Perkins or whatever at one time, I suppose?' William said. 'Or maybe she was a young widow with hopes of being a Mrs Emmett?'
'Possibly. And a Frenchman—called Meurice? No bells ringing?'
William shook his head.
It took Laurence nearly an hour to tell Mary about the afternoon and his impressions. She had not interrupted once although at one point she picked up a biscuit, broke off a piece, dipped it in her tea and carried it to her mouth, all without dropping her eyes from his face. He liked her for it.
'Bolitho was a good man. Perhaps you'll meet him one day. His wife too. If
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