I didn't recognize the middle-aged woman sitting there.

"Nursing Sister Crawford to see Lieutenant Evanson. He was my patient on his journey back to England, and I've stopped in to see him."

She gave me a strange look. I suddenly felt like an interloper, with no business here.

"Lieutenant Evanson?" I repeated.

"Perhaps you ought to speak to Matron, first," the woman said finally.

"Yes, that's fine," I answered. We walked down a passage between the graceful staircase and the doors to rooms that had once been fashionably decorated for social calls and parties and family evenings at home. Now they were bare wards for those who couldn't mount the stairs.

Matron had established herself in what had been a small morning room, and I remembered the pale lavender walls and a white coffered ceiling. Filing boxes still occupied all the free space, and the breeze from the open windows stirred papers on the desk. Matron looked as harried as she had on my last visit.

"Miss Crawford. How nice to see you again. Do sit down. May I offer you tea?"

"Thank you, no. I must make the next train to Portsmouth. I've come to speak to Lieutenant Evanson."

I realized suddenly that something was wrong. She had turned her head to look out the window as I was speaking, her gaze on the small gazebo in the garden. Then she turned back to me with an expression I instantly recognized.

"I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you-we lost Lieutenant Evanson six days ago."

I started to speak, but she held up her hand.

"He'd been very depressed since the death of his wife. Despondent might be the better word. We did all we could. And then on Tuesday night, we found him in his bed, dead. Somehow he'd managed to purloin a scalpel, we don't know exactly where or how. And he'd cut his own throat. It was the only death he could manage with his bandaged hands. Even so, it couldn't have been easy. But he was determined, you see."