Even as he was dictating his first letter, it was too late. According to the police, Marjorie Evanson had left her house early to set out on the journey that would take her to the railway station and then to her death.

"He did inquire of the doctor if it would be possible for him to attend the funeral service. I needn't tell you it was out of the question. We asked our chaplain, Mr. Davies, to sit with him that day, and offer what comfort he could. I spoke to Mr. Davies that evening as he was leaving, and he felt that Lieutenant Evanson seemed reconciled to his loss. I wasn't convinced, however, and kept an eye on the lieutenant anyway."

So much for Mr. Davies's powers of observation. Still, he was undoubtedly the village priest, and had very little experience in suicide watches. There was something else to be considered. Lieutenant Evanson was trained as a pilot, taught to bury everything that might distract him from the intense concentration required to handle his aircraft and face a very aggressive enemy. He could well have concealed his intentions by drawing on that same training.

Remembering, I said, "What became of the photograph he carried with him?"

"The one of his wife? That was odd, you know. We had suggested that it be buried with him. It had meant so much to him. But his sister wouldn't hear of that. She left it on his bed when she came to collect his few belongings. That seemed so-so cruel to me, somehow."

I interpreted his sister's decision to mean that she had learned about the pregnancy, even if she hadn't told her brother or anyone else here at Laurel House.

Matron opened her desk drawer and took out an envelope. She passed it to me. "I kept it. I really couldn't bring myself to throw it away."

I took the envelope, but didn't open it. I could feel the edges of the thin silver frame through the brown paper. "I understand. I'd have felt the same. I nursed him for days. This was his anchor. Perhaps someone in Mrs. Evanson's family might care to have it later. What a pity."