There was a meaningful pause.
“A hotel, she said,” came the reply. “And music—wasn’t there music, ma’am?”
The officer was glaring. “You just met a Belgian, like as not, making money off smuggled wine. They do move around a good deal, to save themselves a raid.”
None of the men looked convinced. One said, “Was it— What was the wine like? And the music?”
“Beautiful,” said Pim at once. She seemed to want to add something else.
A man nudged his neighbor. “Soundslike him.”
“Shut it; he doesn’t exist.”
“Who?” said Pim.
“No one,” said the officer. “Just a story.”
“Will you tell us?” said Pim.
“He’s a charlatan,” said one.
“A madman.”
“A Frenchman.”
“No,” said a new voice. An old, authoritative voice. “He’s the devil himself, and right at home.”
Silence went round the lorry. Laura heard a driver cursing his horses outside. A dog barked, high and sharp. The sun went behind a cloud and the sweat chilled the back of her neck. Then another man snorted and said, “Devil don’t live in old hotels, you can lay to that. No, if the devil’s anywhere, he’s in a château, in General Headquarters, maybe. Eating frog legs with the others.”
Derisive laughter.
“The man in the hotel—he’s called the fiddler,” said one of the men, persistently. “That’s what all the stories say, anyway. Can make you forget all this”—his gesture took in the world around them—“but what they all say, every story, is those who’ve drank with him, heard the music, seen what he shows you, and then come back out here—” He spat out to the leeward side of the lorry. “Well, they’re always pining for it.” Laura caught the Irish in the speaker’s lilting voice. “But you only see it once. You can’t get back. They say men have gone mad. Looking for the fiddler. Like they can’t ever be happy again.”
“And they say that sometimes a man finds him,” said another voice, “and no one ever sees that man again.”
“Twaddle. People go mad for all sorts of reasons. But going for want of a jig…no. It’s just a story.”
One man elbowed his neighbor. “I’d be here if I was the devil,” he said. “Why, half the army’d sell its soul for a decent drink. Bet he’s racking up the score.”
Laughter erupted, over the officer’s protests.
· · ·
They got to Couthove at sunset, after a day spent inching down a packed road amid the horse-drawn ration wagons, the lorries and marching men, the dogs pulling machine gun carts, themotorcycles. To the east, the scattered lights of Poperinghe, British HQ in Flanders, reflected off the low, boiling clouds.
The lorry halted. Helpful hands lowered Laura to the ground. Pim was stumbling. Mary looked ten years older. Laura’s cough had settled deep in her chest. The men called good wishes to them all, health to Laura. Then their motor roared and the road swallowed them.
Mary’s hospital was built into the château itself, looming dark against the sky. Even in the dusk, Laura could see that Couthove had been grand once. There was a grace about it still: in its long, repeated windows, steep-sloped roof, two curving wings. But the windows were boarded up, the drive potholed. They walked up from the gate, the château looming larger.
The door was flung open hospitably before they’d got even halfway. A pair of figures, one stout and one tall, appeared. The stout one wore a white Red Cross uniform; she spoke first, coming quickly down the steps. “Mary, good lord. I had almost given up hope.”
Mary had lit up like a hound at a fox hunt. “Wild horses couldn’t have kept me away. Now tell me—”
The tall figure was wearing a doctor’s coat; his voice was flatly American. “I thought you were bringing us fresh hands, Mary. Not more work. That one can barely keep her feet.” The doctor had a thin-lipped face, dark hair, a prow of a nose, and eyes that saved the rest, large and liquid and dark. He eyed Laura and Pim, frowning.
“It’s all right, Doctor,” said Mary briskly. “Doctor Jones, Miss Iven, Mrs. Shaw. Miss Iven’s got a Croix de Guerre, Jones, and three years’ service with the CAMC. A jewel. She’s just a bit poorly, is all. Influenza.”
Jones’s eyes narrowed as he looked Laura over. “You should have left the poor woman at home.”
