Lost Among the Living(50)

Martin seemed surprised I even knew such a thing. “That may be true, Cousin Jo, but not if he were granted a favor. Off the record, you see.”

“Off the record?” I asked.

“It might not be so,” Colonel Mabry interjected sternly. “But Mr. Forsyth is correct. It’s a possibility that could explain what’s in the file.”

“It makes sense,” Martin said. “By then Alex was an officer with a very high flying record. He could have simply called in a favor.” His voice gentled. “So you see, Jo, it wasn’t the case that he took leave without telling you.”

I stared at the file in my lap, appalled. No, Alex had not been granted leave without telling me. Instead, he had called in a special favor asking to make an off-the-books trip—to Wych Elm House, instead of home to me.

Hans Faber, I thought. Who is Hans Faber?

I could feel both men’s gazes on me—the colonel’s sharp and unwavering, Martin’s soft and concerned. I did not want either of them to see the pain on my face, so I kept my gaze in my lap and ran my finger along the page. Alex’s final leave had been in early February of 1918, and it had been three weeks long—the longest leave he’d ever been given. Even at the time I had known that it was a longer leave than most men were granted, but I had guessed it was a sop for a man who had been fighting so well for so long. Except for a strained shoulder and an infected hand, Alex had never even been sick enough to be out of the fighting.

The rest of his war history was pitifully short. After his three weeks’ leave he had been sent back to Reims, where he had originally trained when first in France, for some kind of retraining. After leaving, he’d been sent to the airfield at Verdun, from which he had left on a mission and never come home. There was a notation in the file regarding his recovered plane, but it contained no details that hadn’t already been given to Martin in his inquiries. Alex had been alone. No one had witnessed the plane go down. His parachute was missing. He had not left any identification or indication of where he’d gone. He’d simply vanished as if he’d never been. His status was listed as “Missing in Action.”

I closed the file—I did not turn the page to look at Alex’s face again—and handed it back to Colonel Mabry. “Thank you, sir,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I appreciate your assistance.”

For the first time, the colonel seemed a little unsure. “I realize it must be unsatisfactory,” he said. “But I hope it has answered some of your questions.”

I nodded. “Yes, thank you.” I turned to Martin. “Perhaps it’s time to go.”

As we took our leave, Martin making more small talk with the colonel and me pulling on my gloves, I could feel the colonel’s gaze turn to me. He was no fool, Colonel Mabry. He knew I was holding back. “Would you like me to inquire with the War Office about your widow’s status?” he asked as Martin and I walked to the sitting room door.

“Please don’t,” I said. “It isn’t necessary.”

He did not argue, only gave me another penetrating look, as if he did not believe my impression of a quiet, cowed widow. But I revealed nothing more as we descended to the street and into the Forsyths’ motorcar.

Martin seemed relieved as we pulled away. “I find the higher-ups rather intimidating,” he said. “He makes me glad I spent most of my wartime in the mud and not in an office, playing politics. I’m afraid I’d be no good at it. I’m sorry if I bored you horribly, Cousin Jo, but I felt I had to.”

“You did just fine,” I said absently, watching the town of Anningley disappear from beneath the rim of my cloche hat.

“It’s a bit of a disappointment for you, as he said. But I still think it was worth it, don’t you?”

I could no longer speak, even to make polite talk. I kept my face angled away from him, my gaze out the window. Perhaps he thought I was grieved; in fact, I was angry. My eyes were burning and dry, and I was angrier than I could remember being.

Alex had lied to me, and not just about his trip in 1917.

The file from the War Office had told me more than I had let on. It said he’d gone to Reims in 1915; he’d told me he’d stayed in Reading that entire time. He’d never mentioned any advanced training in France. He had never told me of authorized travel for official business, or of asking a favor of his superiors to come to Wych Elm House. And after his three weeks’ leave in 1918, he had told me he was going back to the fighting, not into retraining at Reims. What had he been training for, and why?

Why had he gone to great lengths to be at Wych Elm House? He hadn’t seen Dottie or the rest of the family for years by then, and Martin wasn’t even home. What had made him ask a special favor to come? How could it possibly be a coincidence that Alex had been at the house on the day that his cousin was flung from the roof?

She has died, poor thing.

What motivation could Alex possibly have had to murder his own cousin? Was it even possible the man I loved could have done such a thing?

Could you? Did you? Was it you?

And what about the other man who had died that day? Had Alex somehow been involved in that, too?

I closed my eyes, shutting out the woods as they passed the window. Alex had lied to me; I was more than certain that Colonel Mabry had, too. It was not standard procedure to put a man’s passport photograph in his War Office file. And the note made next to Alex’s training record—skills very promising, naturally suited for this kind of work—had been signed by his commanding officer, the name blacked out. Except that even as a simple, foolish woman, I could see that the ink was fresh. Colonel Mabry himself had inked it over.