Free A Duty to the Dead by Charles Todd Page A

his wake as I tried to keep pace withhim. We’d reached the house he’d just come from and were hurrying up the walk. “What’s the matter with your patient?”
    As I spoke I looked back. Mrs. Graham was standing where we’d left her, staring after us. I turned away and followed Dr. Philips through the door of the house.
    Dr. Philips was saying, “This is a man who suffers from shell shock. You don’t have any preconceived notions about that, do you? Cowardice, and all that? No? That’s good. He terrifies his poor wife, but there’s nothing she can do when he has one of his spells. I’ll give him an injection and he’ll calm down. But you’ll be there to see to it that he does himself no harm meanwhile.”
    I had had some experience with shell shock. None of it the sort of thing I wanted to walk into the middle of, not knowing the circumstances.
    “Who is in the house with this man—besides his wife?” I asked.
    “No one at the moment, worst luck. It’s the housemaid’s day off, and she’s gone to Cranbrook to visit her sister.” We stepped into the cold entry, went through the inner doors, and turned down a passage on the left side of the stairs.
    A harried young woman stepped out of the nearest room. She had been crying. She said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do—I left him there, I couldn’t watch him any longer.”
    “You did just the right thing, Mrs. Booker. Now run along to your mother’s house and let her take care of you. Miss Crawford and I will see to Ted.”
    He was walking on as he spoke, opening the last door along the passage, pushing it wide for me to enter. It was a small back parlor where a man sat in a chair in front of the windows, a shotgun across his knees.
    I stopped, surprised. I hadn’t expected to find him armed. Small wonder the man’s wife had been terrified.
    “Come along, Ted,” Philips said in a strong voice. “You aren’t going to kill yourself here, in the house. Certainly not in front ofthis young woman. You don’t want to upset her, do you? Let me take the gun and give you something for the pain.”
    From across the room Ted Booker stared at him, unaware who the doctor was. I could see the blankness in his eyes. Ignoring us, he went on talking to invisible companions, men he could see clearly and appeared to know well.
    He was arguing, vehement and insistent and profane. It appeared that a sniper had already killed three of his men, and he was on the field telephone, asking someone to do something about it.
    “I can give you his range, damn it.” His voice was ragged, close to the breaking point. “We can’t hold out much longer. I tell you, the Hun’s got us in his sights—”
    He ducked then, swearing, and shouted, “Someone stop that bastard! No, not you, Harry—” There was a garbled exchange, as if he were struggling with another man, the shotgun jerking wildly in his grip. And then he cried out, screaming Harry’s name over and over again, springing to his feet and finally bending to someone lying there in front of him, pleading with the man not to die.
    I said quietly to Dr. Philips, “Who is Harry?”
    “His brother.”
    Dear God, no wonder this poor soul was distraught!
    The doctor tried again, but I could see he wasn’t getting anywhere asking the man to buck up and put the past behind him. Ted Booker was in a dark place no one else could reach. But there might be a way….
    Ignoring the shotgun, I crossed the room to take Booker’s arm. “We must get him to the dressing station,” I told him urgently. “Hurry, he’s bleeding badly.”
    He shook me off. “Harry, speak to me, for God’s sake, speak to me.”
    “If you wait any longer, he’ll die.” I reached out and took the shotgun away as his hands flexed open, trying to help the wounded man. I put the weapon behind me, and Dr. Philips was there, I couldfeel his grip above mine, then he stepped back. I held on to Booker’s arm. “What rank was he?