strip off the page and wedged the frame fast. He returned to the mutilated newspaper and started on an obituary of a centenarian who had fought under Elphinstone in the First Afghan War and survived the massacre at the Gandamak Pass. His last thought as the paper slipped to the floor was how small wars used to be.
Over the next week his own eagerness to get going was matched by a lack of any action elsewhere and yet he couldn't settle to writing. Charles had bought a car and had been trying it out by motoring from one friend's house to another across the southern counties. He wouldn't be back for a day or so. There was no further word from Mary. What was she doing, he wondered. How did she pass the weeks in Cambridge?
After a couple of days' reluctant progress on his book, a letter finally brought good and bad news. Dr Bertram Chilvers, Holmwood Nursing Home, Fairford, Gloucestershire (proprietors Dr B.G.S. Chilvers MD, and G.H. Chilvers) would be delighted to show him round his establishment and discuss possible treatment for Captain Robert Bartram. Trains ran from Paddington to Fairford, changing at Oxford. The station was on the outskirts of town but it was only a ten-to fifteen-minute walk. If Mr Bartram let them know what train he would be catching, a car could be sent to fetch him. If he required accommodation overnight, it could be arranged at the local hotel. It would be helpful, it concluded, if he could obtain a letter from Captain Robert Bartram's doctor to assist in an assessment of his condition.
'Damn,' said Laurence aloud. 'Damn, damn, damn.'
He considered forging a letter of referral but realised almost as soon as he'd hit on the idea that it was hopeless. Doctors all knew each one another and anyway he was sure to get the vocabulary wrong and they'd smell a rat. At the very least he would have to account for the absence of such a letter.
Suddenly he thought of Eleanor Bolitho. Could she help him construct a plausible document? While she had as good as asked him not to disturb William again, he could, under the guise of answering her letter to him, ask for help. He dashed off a note to her before dining at Charles's club.
When he arrived in Pall Mall, he could tell Charles was eager to talk, but they got dragged into a small group digging in on their positions on the gold standard. Finally, as brandy was brought into the smoking room, Charles, who had been fidgeting with impatience throughout the latter part of their dinner, could describe his attempted pursuit of Mrs Lovell's son.
'Truth is, old chap, he doesn't exist. Bought this new book, fresh off the press—bound to come in handy:
Officers Died in the Great War.
Five dead Lovells in there. Not a lucky name. But not our man. The first...' He counted off on his fingers: 'Colonel Frederick Lovell: career soldier and far too old from what you've told me. Number two: Captain M. St J. Lovell RFC—a possibility, but then we have number three: his brother Lieutenant H.B.E. Lovell. He died in 1917, but I think you said our boy's an only son. Four, Captain Bruce Lovell, went down with Kitchener on the
Hampshire
en route to Archangel in 1916. Best hope,' his finger hovered, 'was five: another subaltern, Royal Fusiliers, enlisted in London, nineteen years old: Richard Ranelagh Lovell. Promising but he's too early: missing in action, Mons, 1914.'
'Missing?' Laurence said.
'Yes, missing, but it's pretty certain what happened to him. I checked. Was seen badly wounded but pressing on. Seen to be shot again and falling, and by his adjutant. Know that man myself, as it happens. Married to a cousin. Third cousin, really. I'm off to see him for the weekend. Two soldiers in his platoon saw this Lovell's body but they had no chance to bury him. Body gone by the time anyone got back there. Whole place was unrecognisable by then. Him too, no doubt. So it's simple,' he concluded dramatically. 'Your Master Lovell didn't die in the Great War.'
Laurence responded slowly,
Over the next week his own eagerness to get going was matched by a lack of any action elsewhere and yet he couldn't settle to writing. Charles had bought a car and had been trying it out by motoring from one friend's house to another across the southern counties. He wouldn't be back for a day or so. There was no further word from Mary. What was she doing, he wondered. How did she pass the weeks in Cambridge?
After a couple of days' reluctant progress on his book, a letter finally brought good and bad news. Dr Bertram Chilvers, Holmwood Nursing Home, Fairford, Gloucestershire (proprietors Dr B.G.S. Chilvers MD, and G.H. Chilvers) would be delighted to show him round his establishment and discuss possible treatment for Captain Robert Bartram. Trains ran from Paddington to Fairford, changing at Oxford. The station was on the outskirts of town but it was only a ten-to fifteen-minute walk. If Mr Bartram let them know what train he would be catching, a car could be sent to fetch him. If he required accommodation overnight, it could be arranged at the local hotel. It would be helpful, it concluded, if he could obtain a letter from Captain Robert Bartram's doctor to assist in an assessment of his condition.
'Damn,' said Laurence aloud. 'Damn, damn, damn.'
He considered forging a letter of referral but realised almost as soon as he'd hit on the idea that it was hopeless. Doctors all knew each one another and anyway he was sure to get the vocabulary wrong and they'd smell a rat. At the very least he would have to account for the absence of such a letter.
Suddenly he thought of Eleanor Bolitho. Could she help him construct a plausible document? While she had as good as asked him not to disturb William again, he could, under the guise of answering her letter to him, ask for help. He dashed off a note to her before dining at Charles's club.
When he arrived in Pall Mall, he could tell Charles was eager to talk, but they got dragged into a small group digging in on their positions on the gold standard. Finally, as brandy was brought into the smoking room, Charles, who had been fidgeting with impatience throughout the latter part of their dinner, could describe his attempted pursuit of Mrs Lovell's son.
'Truth is, old chap, he doesn't exist. Bought this new book, fresh off the press—bound to come in handy:
Officers Died in the Great War.
Five dead Lovells in there. Not a lucky name. But not our man. The first...' He counted off on his fingers: 'Colonel Frederick Lovell: career soldier and far too old from what you've told me. Number two: Captain M. St J. Lovell RFC—a possibility, but then we have number three: his brother Lieutenant H.B.E. Lovell. He died in 1917, but I think you said our boy's an only son. Four, Captain Bruce Lovell, went down with Kitchener on the
Hampshire
en route to Archangel in 1916. Best hope,' his finger hovered, 'was five: another subaltern, Royal Fusiliers, enlisted in London, nineteen years old: Richard Ranelagh Lovell. Promising but he's too early: missing in action, Mons, 1914.'
'Missing?' Laurence said.
'Yes, missing, but it's pretty certain what happened to him. I checked. Was seen badly wounded but pressing on. Seen to be shot again and falling, and by his adjutant. Know that man myself, as it happens. Married to a cousin. Third cousin, really. I'm off to see him for the weekend. Two soldiers in his platoon saw this Lovell's body but they had no chance to bury him. Body gone by the time anyone got back there. Whole place was unrecognisable by then. Him too, no doubt. So it's simple,' he concluded dramatically. 'Your Master Lovell didn't die in the Great War.'
Laurence responded slowly,
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