Free An Unmarked Grave by Charles Todd

dwellers found sanctuary.
    As we approached the Gorge, I could see the small house that sat to one side. If this was not where Private Wilson lived, the occupants could tell me where to look. Old and weathered, the house must have been freshly painted shortly before the war because it appeared to be in better condition than some of its neighbors. Behind it rose a small barn, and I glimpsed several sheds as well. There were black-and-white cows grazing quietly in a meadow on our left.
    “This is where Cheddar cheese comes from,” I told the Captain. “It was aged in the coolness of the caves you’ll see in a bit, after we’ve finished here.”
    “I thought Cheddar cheese came from New York,” he told me with a grin. “That’s where we buy it, at least.”
    “There’s no pub that I can see just here,” I said, ignoring his attempt at humor. “But would you mind terribly waiting for me in the motorcar? Mrs. Wilson will be shy enough finding me on her doorstep. You’ll frighten her.”
    “Don’t worry. Go speak to her. I’ll be fine.”
    I thanked him, got down, and went up the walk to the front of the house. Marigolds bloomed in clay pots on the steps, and a cat slept on a cushion by the door.
    It rose at my approach, stretched and yawned, then waited to be let into the house when Mrs. Wilson answered my knock.
    She wasn’t quite what I’d expected. A pretty woman in her late thirties, she said pleasantly, “Are you lost, love? The entrance to the Gorge is just down the road over there.”
    “My name is Sister Elizabeth Crawford. I’ve come to see a Mrs. Wilson. I knew her husband in France. I was a nursing sister in the aid station where he served as an orderly.”
    “I’m Joyce Wilson,” she said after a moment. “Will you come in?”
    “Yes, thank you.” I followed her into a neat parlor where nothing was out of place except a yarn ball that obviously belonged to the cat. It had come with us into the room and jumped into a tall rocker that stood by the cold hearth.
    “That was my husband’s favorite chair,” she told me, reaching down to touch the cat’s head. I could hear it purr from where I stood. “Toby remembers and often sits there of an evening. He’s company, he is.” Her Somerset accent was nearly impenetrable.
    “Do you have children?” I asked.
    “A daughter. I’ve sent Audrey away to live with my sister. I didn’t want her to hear what was being said about her father.”
    It was my opening. I had wondered how to bring up such a difficult subject.
    “For what it’s worth, Mrs. Wilson, I cannot in good conscience believe that your husband killed himself. I worked with him day in and day out, you see, and I knew how he felt about what he was doing. Yes, it was depressing work, sad work, often heartbreaking work, tending to the dead. But he took pride in doing it well and with respect.”
    I hadn’t meant to be so forceful, but as I sat in that tidy parlor with a woman whose husband had been branded a suicide, I couldn’t stop myself.
    Her face crumpled at my words. She said after a moment, her voice husky, “I never believed it myself. Not Jerry. He knew he was too old to fight, but he felt he could do something to help stop the Hun. Even as an orderly. When did you see him last?”
    “I was nursing our influenza patients as well as the wounded, and then without warning, I myself was stricken with it. I remember a soldier named Benson dying and your husband bringing in the stretcher bearers to carry the—er—him out to the place where we took the dead while they were awaiting the burial detail. He was himself that evening, and I saw nothing in his face or his bearing to warn me that he was distressed in any way or worried about his own health. There were many people—sisters, doctors, orderlies—who worked with the ill and never fell ill themselves. He had no reason to think he might be the next victim.”
    “I’m grateful to you for coming so far to tell me this,