And then I was on my way to the train, my leave nearly up, and France waiting for me across the Channel.

At the railing of the ship, staring out at the water as we passed out of The Solent and into the Channel, I found myself thinking that whoever had murdered Mrs. Evanson had killed her husband as well, just as surely as if he'd held that scalpel to the lieutenant's throat. Two victims-three if one counted the unborn child.

I found it hard to put Marjorie Evanson out of my mind. Perhaps because I'd first seen her through her husband's eyes as he held on to life amid great pain so that he could come home to her. Not to her as a murder victim or disgraced wife but as his anchor.

I had kept the photograph with me. Of course there was no time to find the direction of Mrs. Evanson's family and post it to them, but remembering her sister-in-law's emotional response as well as Matron's comment that they had never visited, I felt I ought to ask their wishes before sending it to them.

And in the weeks ahead I often caught myself looking for a face I was certain I would recognize, every time I saw an officer wearing the uniform of the Wiltshire regiment.

It had become a habit.

CHAPTER THREE

I was hardly back in France-a matter of a fortnight-before we were given leave. It was unexpected, but the little dressing station in St. Jacques was too exposed and was being moved to another village. A fresh contingent of nursing sisters was assigned to take over there.

First, however, we were to escort a hundred wounded back to England. It was never easy, and on this occasion, even though our convoy moved at night, we were strafed by a German aircraft, racing down our lines with guns blazing and then swinging around behind the lines to find other targets of opportunity.