Simon and I wished them a safe journey and watched them out of sight. He’d only just come back from London, and my father had taken him off for a brief report before setting out. And then to my surprise, without a word he walked off down the Promenade toward the pier.

I thought perhaps he wished to be alone, that something had happened in London or wherever he’d been, because I had noticed a grim set to his mouth as he and my father had emerged from Simon’s room.

But when he returned to the hotel, he waved to me as I sat on my balcony. I went down to meet him, and we walked on to one of the benches set out on the lawn.

“My mother just told me that Major Carson had been killed.”

“He was a fine officer. I spoke to his widow just last week. She’s resigned, I think. If this war lasts much longer, there will be no one left to come home.”

“How did he die?” I fought to keep the anxiety from my voice. Surely not-

“According to Julia he was struck by shrapnel and died instantly. A kindness, she said.”

Everyone in England wished a kind death on their loved ones. No lingering, no crying out for mothers or wives, no pain-filled last moments. It wasn’t always that easy, whatever a sympathetic commanding officer wrote to the next of kin. I’d held too many men during their last moments.

I didn’t intend to carry it any further-this was not the best time to bring up the dream. Indeed I should have felt immense relief that it was no more than that. But the images in my mind, suddenly vivid and disturbing, wouldn’t go away. I needed to exorcise them once and for all.

Before I could stop myself, I said, “Simon, remember I told you once that I believed I’d seen Vincent Carson’s body amongst the Spanish Influenza victims? But it didn’t belong there?”

“Yes. It was a dream, you said. Does it still worry you?”

“In a way. I try to put it out of my mind, but sometimes I question whether it was real or fever.