He realized that he was staring blankly at some appalling handwriting and medical jargon. He pulled his wits together—what was left of them—and began to read. He was not much wiser when he got to the end than he had been at the beginning, except on one point. The doctors knew that John Three was a shirker. He would certainly be thrown in the clink very shortly.
Two points. The stretcher-bearers who had witnessed his arrival all swore he had dropped out of the sky.
Smedley jumped as the door swung open. It swung a long way, hiding him from whoever was outside.
"Hand me that chair, would you, Miss Pimm?” Stringer's voice said with breezy authority. In a hospital, a surgeon ranked just above God. “I am not to be disturbed. You needn't wait, Sergeant. We'll send word when we need to ship him back. Come in here, Three."
There was barely room for another chair and two more men and a closing door. Exeter had not expected Smedley. His blue eyes flickered anger for a moment and then went stony blank. He was wearing flannels, a tweed jacket, and a shirt with no tie. He stood like a tailor's dummy as the surgeon squeezed past him to reach his desk.
Stringer sat down and gazed up fishily at the patient.
Smedley shrank back on his seat.
Exeter just stood and looked at the wall. He was tall and lean, as he'd always been. In daylight his cheekbones still bore the inexplicable tan. But his chin and ears ... long hair like a woman's? Exeter?
"Sit down, Exeter,” the surgeon said. Nothing happened, and he sighed. “I know you, man! I shook your hand in June 1914. I have discussed your strange disappearance extensively with Mrs. Bodgley. I have read the reports on your equally mysterious reappearance. I know more about your odd goings-on than anyone in the world, I expect."
Still no reaction. How could the man stand it? According to the file, he had not spoken a word in three weeks.
"You'll be more comfortable sitting down, Exeter,” Stringer said sharply. He would not meet defiance very often. “Cigarette?"
Nothing. Smedley's skin crawled. As the box came his way he shook his head. He needed another Dunhill, but he also needed his hand free.
"Captain?” said the surgeon. “You try."
"I didn't tell him, Edward. He already knew."
No reaction at all.
Smedley felt the willies brush over his skin. Exeter thought he was a traitor. Stringer was scowling at him, as if this were all his fault. Didn't they realize he was just a broken coward, a shell-shocked wreck of a man? Didn't they know he was liable to crack up and start weeping at the first sign of trouble? Please, lord, don't let me get the jitters now!
"I'm leaving here the day after tomorrow, Edward. Dr.—Mr. Stringer showed me your file. They're on to you! I wrote to those two people you named and both letters came back this morning, addressees unknown.” He stared up at that unchanging witless expression and suddenly exploded. “For god's sake, old man! We're trying to help you!"
He might as well have spoken to the desk. Exeter did not move a muscle.
Stringer chuckled drily. “The most remarkable case of esse non sapere I ever saw."
Smedley discovered he was on his feet, eye to eye with Exeter, which must mean he was on tiptoe, because he was three inches shorter. He grabbed at lapels with one hand and a stump, and Exeter staggered back under the assault.
"You bastard!” Smedley shrilled. “We're trying to help! You don't trust me! Well, screw you, you bastard!” Shriller yet. He had not planned this, but he might as well use it. He had his back to Stringer. He stuffed the note down inside Exeter's shirt collar. “I didn't go through all that the other night to help an ungrateful bastard who—who—” He was weeping, damn it! His face was going again. Full-fledged willies!
"Sorry, old man,” Exeter said quietly, easing him aside. “Mr. Stringer?"
The surgeon rose and reached across the desk. “I'm honored once again to shake the hand that humbled the fearsome ranks of Eton."
"Those were the days,” Edward said in a sad voice. He sat down. “You have a good memory for faces, sir."
"Good memory for cricket. Did you kill Timothy Bodgley?"
"No, sir."
"Are you a traitor to your King?"
"No, sir."
Happy to be ignored, Smedley sat down also, and shook like a jelly. He had done it! He had passed the note. “Perhaps I do need that fag, sir,” he muttered. He helped himself and leaned forward to the match, sucking a blessed lungful of smoke.
Stringer, too, drew on his cigarette, eying his prisoner.
Exeter gazed back with an unnerving steely calm.
The surgeon blew a smoke ring. “You say you're not a traitor, and I accept your word on it. But when you made your dramatic appearance amidst the battle's thunder, you were talking."
"Just shock, sir. It hits those who—Just shock."
"Daresay. But you were babbling about treason and spies. If you have any important information, I want it. It's your duty to—"
Exeter was shaking his head. “Nothing to do with the war, sir."
"Tell me anyway."
"Friends of mine in another war altogether. I was not expecting to arrive where I arrived. I was tricked, betrayed."
"You'll have to do better than that."
"I can't, sir. You would dismiss it as lunatic babbling. It has nothing to do with the Germans, the Empire, the French ... no concern of yours at all, sir. You have my oath on it."
The two stared bleakly across the desk at each other.
"You're saying that someone wants you dead, is that it?"
"That is very much it, sir. But I can't even try to explain."
Exeter's foot pressed down on Smedley's instep.
He choked on a mouthful of smoke, remembering Ginger Jones sitting on that bench on Saturday.
"Someone tried to kill him at Fallow,” the schoolmaster had said. “They ran that spear right through his mattress. Someone tried to kill him at the Grange and got young Bodgley instead. When he disappeared from Albert Memorial I was afraid that they had scuppered him at last. Now you say he's turned up in the middle of a battlefield? It sounds as if he's a hard man to kill."
Stringer?
Exeter was trying to say that the surgeon wanted to kill him?
Perhaps Captain Smedley was not the worst case of shell shock in Staffles after all.
Suddenly Stringer defused the confrontation with a patronizing chuckle. “Not just the public hangman?"
"Him too, sir. But private enemies also."
"All right! I shall accept your word on this also.” He beamed and sat back in his comfortable chair. “All the more reason why we've got to get you out of here, what?"
Smedley gulped.
Exeter showed no change of expression at all. “Why? Why risk your career to help a fugitive escape from justice?"
The surgeon smiled with smug, professional calm. “Not justice, just the law. We can't have the school name dragged in the mud, what? And if some private thugs are after you as well, then that's even more reason. If we can get you out, is there anyone who would take you in?"
Exeter turned a sad look on Smedley. “I thought there might be. Apparently not."
"I think I can arrange a place for him,” Smedley said.
"Ah! Somewhere secure?” the surgeon inquired blandly.
Why ask? And Exeter's foot was warning him again.
"No names, no pack drill, sir."
Stringer's chuckle did not quite reach his eyes—or was that just another illusion? “If he is apprehended, Captain, then my part in the affair may become known. I must be sure you have a safe haven ready for him."
Shot while trying to escape?
This was totally crazy! A distinguished surgeon was offering to let a suspected murderer and spy escape from his care, and the aforesaid spy was hinting that the aforesaid surgeon was actually trying to kill him, and Julian Smedley was believing both of them. He had definitely cracked.