I didn’t mind at first, blissfully unaware that my future was now going to be constantly interrupted by sharp, squeaking notes that whined incessantly, filling every corner of our small house.

Jack absolutely loved his gift; ever since he’d heard Grandfather ring out a tune on his own violin, he’d borne a deep wonder for this instrument that possessed the ability to sing any emotion.

And now he had his own.

“Grandfather will teach you.” Father had promised.

And so he did; coming around every time he was in our hamlet, and showing Jack how to bring his violin alive. But Grandfather lived five hours away, in a miniature town called Sandseville, and thus Jack’s progress was slow.

He was still just as content though; always happy with what he was given. Jack had always been a peaceful child, even despite an accident that had left him hobbling since the age of three.

“Jack, please take a break!!” I shout, my ears aching after enduring the last hour filled with rasping notes, as my little brother draws his bow back up across the strings, and then into a sudden nose-dive.

“Oh Bef, please - a little longer?” His chocolate eyes plead with me.

“No, that’s enough. You’ll learn better by not constantly playing.” Being three years older than Jack means I know everything. Or at least, that’s what I think.

My attention returns to the book I’m desperately trying to finish, but I still notice the little sigh that escapes the room next door and can hear him locking the latches on his case.

I’m perched in the window seat, with an unrivalled view of the sprawling garden that slopes down to the lake.

In the corner of my eye, I notice something move.

It’s Jack, hobbling outside, his small head hanging down; honey curls shuffling in the breeze.

He turns, and looks at me, an oversize smile creasing his face.

“Will you play with me?”

I stifle the initial resistance, and smile back, placing my book on the seat.

“I’m coming…”

The sun smothers us with kisses as we play with a patched ball, tossing it high into the azure sky. And then we turn to hide’n’seek, finding our secret spots among the towering giants that have besieged the field; their entangled limbs providing us some relief from the golden rays.

“Bef, do you hate my violin?” Jack asks me, after I sneak up, discovering him concealed behind a stout oak trunk.

Even at eight, his lisp still hasn’t disappeared, and I can’t help but smile softly at his sweetness. “No, I don’t. But I don’t like it either.” My tone is gentle, unwilling to hurt his fragile heart.

His face pulses with sadness. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, holding my hand. “When I get as good as Grandfather, then you’ll like it.”

Winter is making its annual return, gifting the land with a new sparkling white outfit. And with it comes the wind, grasping at anything in its path; scraping its’ long frozen fingers against the shuddering trees.

Jack and I both soon find ourselves bedridden, thanks to a bout of influenza that is ravaging our town. For a whole week, we are up every night, a hacking cough stealing all of our strength.

“It could be worse,” Jack reminds me one evening as he looks longingly at the closed case resting against his cabinet.

I nod numbly, regretting I don’t possess the same positiveness as he.

There is one good thing about this illness, though; it’s providing my ears a solid week of rest from hearing his violin.

In the three times Grandfather has been able to visit, I’ve seen little improvement in Jack’s playing.

But maybe that’s because I don’t want to see it.

“Here you go, darling.” Mother kneels beside my bed, holding a steaming cup of chicken broth. “Are you feeling any better?”

“No,” I whisper, my face flushed red. She carefully lifts the spoon to my lips; I can’t taste it, but I know how good my mother’s broth is.

“Thank you!” My smile is weak, but she knows I mean it.

On the other side of the room, where Jack’s bed is, Father is doing the same.

Chicken broth has always been Jack’s favourite.

“Come Saturday, I’m sure you’ll both be up and running around.” Father’s wide smile is always a comforting sight, and his eyes sparkle teasingly. “Though I must say, your Mother and I have enjoyed a slight rest from our little mischief-makers.” He winks at us.

Sure enough, Father’s words come true on Saturday. But only for Jack.

If anything, I feel worse than before. My head pounds, as if I’ve been pelted with a thousand blows.

And then I hear that sound.

A rasping, whining sound that grates against my burning ears.

I drag my aching body out of bed.

My head is spinning, and my legs feel like lead as I stumble into the living room.

In the corner of the room, a hungry fire is flickering in the hearth. A couch and a couple of chairs adorn the area.

And beside them stands Jack, violin in hand.

He looks up at me, an innocent smile shadowing his pale face.

“Are you feeling better, Bef?”

I ignore him, snatching the violin from his little hands.

“Stop playing your stupid violin!” My body trembles as I hold it, my heart torn as I watch his eyes look at me in horror.

Then I throw it on the ground.

It fractures.

I instantly regret what I’ve done.

We both drop to our knees. “Bef? How could you?” He weeps, scrambling to pick up the pieces.

“I’m so, so sorry Jack!” My eyes sting as tears flood them.

“What’s happened?” Mother’s tone is worried as she steps inside the room, gasping as she sees the carnage. “Oh no!”

I run to her. “It was so wrong of me.” I sob, my shoulders heaving.

She kneels down, pulling Jack into her arms. His face is dripping.

Then she turns and looks at me. “Why did you do it?”

“Because I am so over hearing that horrible noise…and…and I feel awful. My head is pounding, and I couldn’t stand the sound as well.” I drop down beside her. “But I know it was so wrong of me…and I am so dreadfully sorry.” I whisper.

“I know you’re feeling unwell, Beth. But yes, it is absolutely wrong what you have done. He’ll forgive if you truly are sorry.” A sorrowful smile shadows her face.

I nod slowly, knowing the truth in her words. It’s a truth I’ve heard so many times before, but never really lived out. “Jack, I am so sorry for destroying your violin. It was awful wrong of me.” My voice trembles. “Please forgive me…”

His sodden eyes meet mine. “I do.”

It’s been a month since I broke Jack’s beloved violin.

And I’ve been working hard to save enough money to replace it for him. Although he completely forgave me, and demonstrated more maturity than I ever have in my eleven years of existence, my parents and I still agreed it was right for me to buy him another one.

It’s his eighth birthday today, and Grandfather is coming down to see us all. He’s written to Father and Mother, requesting permission to take Jack out in his brand-new automobile.

Jack will be thrilled. Most boys love new inventions, and my little brother is no exception.

The clock strikes three when we hear the roaring sound, and see a trail of dust filtering along the winding driveway that leads toward our house.

“Is that Grandfather?” Jack hobbles to the front door, shaking with excitement.

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A few moments later, a shiny black automobile rolls to a stop outside, and a grey-haired man, with a rumbling laugh and twinkling blue eyes, steps out.

“Grandfather!” Jack stumbles towards him, embracing the aged man.

“Ah Jack, dear boy. Happy Birthday!” Grandfather’s smile is as wide as the golden field that lies just beyond the house.

The minutes seem to last for an age before all the greetings are done. “Now Jack,” Grandfather kneels beside the grinning boy. “I have a special birthday treat for you. What do you say to a drive in my automobile?”

Jack is wide-eyed with excitement. “Really?”

“Of course,” Grandfather laughs. “We should go, though, while it’s still light. We’ll be back around five.”

Jack hobbles back towards us as we stand waiting by the door. “Goodbye Father and Mother.” He hugs them and then turns to me.

“Bye Bef - I love you,” he whispers, squeezing my hand.

And then Grandfather is lifting him into the passenger seat.

The engine roars back to life, and Jack has to shout to be heard. “Love you all.”

A swirl of dust and smoke wrestle in the air, and then the automobile is gone, disappearing down the driveway.

“Oh Jack will love that.” Mother smiles, wrapping an arm around me.

Time is in no hurry that afternoon, and it feels like ages before the clock strikes five. Mother and I are busy preparing dinner; Jack has chosen his favourite again.

The shrill tone of the telephone breaks through the silence. Mother glances at the clock, and then steps into the hallway to answer the call.

The broth bubbles away, spitting drops of liquid.

I can hear her voice answer - “Hello? Who is it?”

And then I hear a gasp.

And a thud.

I stumble into the hallway. The phone is swinging back and forth as it dangles from the box.

And there is Mother, slumped against the wall.

Her face is pale white.

“Father?” I yell as I kneel beside her, my mind racing with the worst. “Mother, what’s the matter?”

She looks beyond me, her eyes glazed and her lips wobbling. “There’s been an accident.”

Two weeks later, we bury both Jack and Grandfather.

The policemen said there had been a collision with a loose horse.

They were both dead when they arrived.

Jack’s coffin looks so small against Grandfather’s; it feels so wrong that one whose life has hardly begun is ended at the same time as one who’s lived so long.

Mother and Father are absolutely devastated.

So am I.

But for some reason beyond my control, I can’t cry. The tears just won’t come.

The day after the funeral, I climb up into the attic.

It’s filled with odd bits and pieces, a hidden trove of memories.

But there is only one thing I’m looking for.

In the corner of the room lies a basket. And inside that, rests the pieces of Jack’s violin.

Oh, how I long to hear the squeaking notes now; to see Jack hold it so lovingly.

I imagine him holding the bow, dipping it up and down across the strings.

I would give anything to hear him play - even the off notes, rasping and whining, would be music to my ears.

Because, now, the violin is all I have left of him.

I gather all the pieces together; washing the dust away with my tears. In the end, there’s still a piece missing.

Just like my heart.

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I wrote this short story for a weekly competition hosted by Reedsy (you can follow their creative writing prompts here https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/.)

The story was inspired by this prompt provided by Reedsy.com: Show how an object’s meaning can change as a character changes.

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“Yes, Dad, I’m here.” Her sweet voice echoed back from the sitting room in which she sat, busying herself with a well-worn book.

The Superintendent stepped into the room, finding a seat beside the fire, opposite Emma. His face was worn and sorrowful.

“Are you alright, Dad?” Her eyes were filled with compassion.

“Yes, Em’s - I’m doing alright. But I dreadfully miss your mother and brother.”

Grief stole across her face. “Me too; I miss them so much. The one comfort I find is at least we had time to prepare for Mum’s death. But Harry’s…” she paused, dashing a delicate hand across her eyes. “His death…it shouldn’t have happened - he was far too young. Why did he have to die?”

“I know Em, I also struggle with it. But at least we can know he died defending his country, and that is honourable.”

Emma stood up quickly, tears flowing freely. “Honourable? There is nothing about war that is honourable. And all it’s done to me is steal my brother from me.”

The Superintendent also rose, and gently took Emma by the hand. “Every single day, I ask myself why he had to die, and I just don’t know. But it has made me think, and actually consider the things that Reverend Goodman speaks about every Sunday. I don’t believe it yet, but I want to talk to him about it, because you know they also lost one of their sons, and yet their grief is different. I don’t know how they manage, without falling into despair, but there’s a hope, or a peace, that they have, and I want it too.” He wrapped his arms around Emma, trying to console the sobbing figure.

“I know, Dad, but then why did God take Harry?And Mum?” She stepped back, a grief-hardened look in her eyes. “I’m sorry Dad, I just can’t stand it when I see people who’ve lost nothing, absolutely nothing, live their lives normally, or people like Jimmy Nibs, who are too lazy, or too selfish to go and fight.” Her fists were clenched, and her knuckles white.

“That’s the reason…” The Superintendent hoarsely whispered.

Emma’s gaze flicked back to him. “What? What do you mean?” She stammered, her face growing white.

“Emma, sit down.” His voice was firm but raw with emotion.

She sunk into the chair, wide-eyed and trembling. “Yes Dad?”

“I know that Jimmy Nibs came to visit you the day he died. And I know it wasn’t about Bonfire Night. Don’t lie to me, because I’ll figure it out sooner or later. It’s best to tell the truth.” He leaned forward, sorrow brimming in his honey eyes. “Em, please, tell me everything.”

She breathed in deeply, sobs racking her body. “Oh Dad, I’m so sorry…I was so, so angry and upset at Jimmy because of what happened to Harry. All those brave young men risking their lives to fight, and here was Jimmy, sitting safe at home. I hated him for it, and I wanted to kill him. I really did.” She paused and looked out into the darkness beyond the window.

“And then what happened?”

“I invited him to come around; I told him it was so we could talk about plans for the Bonfire Night. I knew he often helped out with it.”

“But you’ve never helped with the planning?”

Emma shook her head sadly. “I know, but he would have just thought I was helping out this time. By that point, I had made up my mind to kill him, I just hadn’t decided how. And then Jack brought me a few foxgloves, and it gave me the idea. I knew how poisonous they could be, if not handled carefully, so I decided to brew some tea with a few of the leaves.”

“So Jack was part of it?” The Superintendent’s face was white and drawn with deep anguish.

Emma’s gaze shot up. “No, no, he didn’t know anything. He would never do anything like that; you know him, he wouldn’t.”

“I thought I knew you too…” The Superintendent choked, dashing a shaky hand across his eyes.

“When Jimmy arrived, I poured him a cup of the tea. I knew how much he loved sugar in his tea, so I made sure there was plenty, and that disguised the bitter flavour. He seemed to like it, because he drank it awfully quickly, and I gave him another. We talked for about fifteen minutes, and then he got up suddenly, saying he didn’t feel quite right. He’d gone rather pale and seemed quite shaky. He left a few minutes later. I started to panic, because I didn’t know if the poison would work. I grabbed a whiskey bottle from the kitchen, the one you were saving for Christmas - I knew you wouldn’t notice it gone for a while - and then followed him outside. I knew the path back to his house led through the forest, so I took the shortcut behind the church, and waited to see him come past…” here she faltered.

“Go on…”

“Well, it took him about twenty minutes to come, but when he did finally arrive, I could see something was awful wrong with him. He was stumbling along and kept clutching his heart. Then suddenly he slumped, and slipped into the river. I ran over, thinking he might still be alive, but there was nothing. He was gone. Dead. And I had killed him.” She whispered, choking on her words.

“And the whiskey bottle?”

“I poured it all out on him, and then dropped the bottle nearby. I wanted to make it look like he had gotten so drunk he’d killed himself. And then I ran back home, and pretended nothing had happened. That was the worst night of my life.” Tears splashed down her face. “I didn’t know you’d find out, Dad, but I’m so glad you know now.”

The Superintendent’s face was ash-white and stricken with grief. The room was silent for what seemed like ages, as he sat there, lips quivering. Then his eyes slowly lifted, and met Emma’s teary gaze. “Oh Emma…I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe you’ve done this. You’ve murdered a man, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I have to arrest you, but I hope you know it absolutely tears me apart to do it. Why, oh why, my darling girl, did you do it? I thought I had brought you up differently.” He buried his head in his hands.

“It was for Harry, Dad.”

“But it’s murder! And he would never have wanted you to do that. We’re both grieving, but killing was never the answer. If only I could go back, and reverse the things you have done…”

“I’m so sorry, Dad. I know it was wrong; I wish I had never done it.” She wept.

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The sun shone brightly, scorning the sorrow of Hartley village. The news had spread like wildfire, and before midday, all the locals had been informed of who had killed Jimmy Nibs. It was to their utter dismay and shock when they found out their dearly beloved Miss Emma was the culprit. And for one young man, in particular, this news had dealt a cruel blow. After driving to his army base, the Superintendent had told Jack in person, not wishing him to hear it from anyone else. The young man was heartbroken. Grief clung like fog in the village that day.

Back in the Police Station, Tom stood waiting in the Superintendent’s office, numbly sorting through the stack of papers on his desk. His usual enthusiasm had been buried with Emma’s confession, and a softer side, rarely seen, had instead taken its place.

Dull footsteps tapped outside, and the Superintendent walked in.

“I’m so sorry to hear, sir.” Tom said.

The Superintendent swallowed hard; his eyes heavy with remorse. “So am I, Tom.” He slumped into the chair behind his desk. “I need to take some time off, and I don’t know if I’ll be back. I never expected…” his voice caught, and he paused. “I never thought she did it. My own daughter.”

Tom stepped forward. “I understand sir. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“Thank you Tom. For the time being, you will report to Superintendent Wesley. He’s going to be in charge for now, while I’m on leave.” Weary lines crossed the Superintendent’s face. He slowly rose, each movement almost too much to bear. Tom followed him outside the room. The Superintendent hesitated for a moment, his vision watery as he looked back into the all-too-familiar place.

“I’ll sure miss it here.” He closed the door one last time.

A few minutes later, he was making his way towards Hartley Green. The streets felt cold and distant, or maybe it was simply he who felt so far away, so separated by grief. He hardly noticed the church bells ringing dolefully as the clock struck twelve. The sky was a deathly grey; with pale white clouds patched throughout. The wind wailed mournfully, rocking the trees back and forth as they flailed in its’ grasp.

He trudged along until he had reached the church door. It was ajar slightly. He pushed it open and entered. The place was completely quiet, and yet the silence was almost unbearable.

“Reverend? Are you here?” He stammered, resting against the third row of pews.

A door closed softly, and William Goodman walked in; his face filled with tender care. “Oliver? I don’t know what to say. I’m so dreadfully sorry to hear about Emma.” He gestured towards one of the chairs. “Come, let us sit. How can I help you?”

The Superintendent sunk into the pew; his hands clenched tightly together. “I lost my wife to illness, my son to the war, and now this? My daughter too?” Sorrow broke his voice. “I’ve lost everything.” He whispered, his voice hoarse and cracked.

“I’m so sorry for your loss. I too know what’s it’s like to lose a child.” The Reverend swallowed hard, his eyes damp with the shared grief.

“But you handle it so…differently. There’s a peace I can see in you. And I want it too.” The Superintendent cried.

“Oh Oliver, the truth is the only reason I handle it differently is because I have hope.” His voice caught, but he continued. “I still struggle with my Charlie’s death every day, but I rest in the peace that he’s with our Heavenly Father, and there’s no place I’d rather him be. The hope I have is the same hope I preach every Sunday to you all, and it’s what I desperately pray you all find.”

The Superintendent looked up, fixing his gaze upon the Reverend. “I’ve heard it so many times, but it’s never made a difference to me. I’ve tried to do the best I can, and all God has ever done for me is take away all the ones I love the most. Why? Why does he allow it to happen?”

“Sometimes, our good Shepherd brings us to our lowest point, right to our knees, so that we can truly see our helplessness without him. Salvation has nothing to do with our best efforts.” The Reverend placed one hand gently on the man’s quivering shoulders. “You see, you and I, we both deserve death - we’re both sinners. But that is where this hope comes in…God sent His son to die for us, to pay the price for our sins. Can’t you see His great love for us? If we trust in Him and repent, He gives us eternal life, and complete forgiveness of sins. And that is why I can have hope, even when Charlie died, because I trust Him with everything, and I know it’s all for my good. All these years, I have ever seen the faithfulness and love of my good Shepherd.”

Tears flooded the Superintendent’s eyes. “I’ve been trying so hard these past years, but you mean it’s nothing to do with me?”

A warm smile lit up the Reverend’s face. “There is absolutely nothing you or I can do to gain favour with God - that’s why it’s called grace. We both know death can happen at any time, so why wait?”

“Thank you Reverend. You’ve given me a lot to think about,” he paused, and his eyes seemed to flicker with light for a moment, “and to pray about.”

“I’m always happy to talk, anytime, and I will be praying for you. Don’t put it off - death comes to us all, even when we’re least expecting it.” He pulled one of the pew bibles off the row in front and passed it to the Superintendent. “Here you go, have a read. I suggest you start in Romans.”

The Superintendent smiled weakly. “Thank you; and I’ll see you on Sunday.”

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5 months later. Rain thundered down against the cobbled road, spattering heavy drops across the village. Lightening flickered across the sombre sky, and thunder growled in the distance. A cloaked figure hurried down one of the streets, battling against the bitter wind as it raged on. They paused outside one of the houses, giving a firm knock on the door.

No answer.

Knock, knock.

The door finally opened.

“Tom?” The Superintendent stood within, a baffled look on his face as he beheld the dripping officer. “What on earth are you doing here, in such weather like this?”

“Oh sir,” he gasped. “There’s been a murder. I mean, there will be!”

The Superintendent looked utterly perplexed. “What ever do you mean? You should be telling Superintendent Wesley, not me.”

“But that’s just it, sir. He’s the one in trouble. And we need your help.” Tom panted.

“But what do you mean there will be a murder? And for goodness sake, come inside. It’s ferocious out there.” He stepped back in and led Tom to the sitting room.

“Now, tell me again. What do you mean?”

“We received this today,” he passed a damp note to the Superintendent. The paper was chalky white, with blood-red ink etched across in a perfect line.

Rest in peace…in 12 hours.

“Who was it for?” His face was taut with worry.

“Superintendent Wesley.”

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“And you, Jack.” The Superintendent delivered a firm handshake and then sat down. “I thought you had gone back to base?”

“I had, but I was allowed this evening off, and there was something I really was hoping to talk to you about. Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

There was a twinkle in the Superintendent’s eyes. “Go on…”

Jack knotted his hands uneasily. “Well, you see, it’s about Emma…” he paused, his earnest eyes watching the Superintendent.

“Ah yes…well, what about Emma?”

“Well, I was wondering…or hoping…if I might have your permission to ask her to marry me? I love her so much, and she’s become my best friend. I’m willing to do whatever I need to, to love her and protect her.” A soft sigh of relief escaped his lips.

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The Superintendent leaned back in his chair, a smile wreaking havoc on his face. “And what makes you think you’re good enough for my girl?”

“I don’t think I am, sir. But I do love her, with all my heart, and I want to spend the rest of our lives together.” His tone was earnest and trustworthy.

“I know Jack, and I’ve seen the way you treat her. You’re honest, sacrificial, and I know you’ll look after her. You’re a real gentleman.”

“So is that a yes, sir?”

“Most definitely, and it gives me the greatest delight too.”

“Thank you so much, sir. I promise to look after her to the best of my ability.”

“I trust you will.” The Superintendent smiled kindly, pleased with Jack’s sincerity.

“Oh and sir, could you give these to Em please?” He lifted a bunch of snowdrops from the table.

“She does love her flowers, doesn’t she.” The Superintendent laughed softly.

“Yes sir, she sure does. I’m just sorry I can’t get her favourites - foxgloves aren’t really around any more this time of year. I think I found the remaining few last week, and gave them to her.”

Silence reigned for a moment. The Superintendent’s face was ash-white, and his voice almost a whisper. “You what?”

“I gave her a few stems of foxgloves, like I always did when they were in bloom. Are you alright, sir? You don’t look very well.” Jack rested his hand on the Superintendent’s shoulder, a worried look cast across his eyes.

“Where were you, Jack? I mean, when Jimmy was killed? It was about eight pm on the fourth.”

Jack started with surprise. “Me sir? I was with my parents, at home.” He looked distressed. “I didn’t do it, sir. You have my absolute word on it. I’d never kill a person.”

“But you’re a soldier; it’s what you’re trained to do?”

“Yes sir, I know. I mean, murdering someone outside of war, I could never bring myself to do. It’s wrong sir, plain wrong.” His pleading eyes met the Superintendent’s sorrowful gaze. “You believe me, don’t you sir?”

“I want to Jack, but it’s not looking too good.”

“But what motive, sir, would I have to kill him? He’s always treated our family so well.” Drops of perspiration beaded his face.

“I don’t know, Jack, I don’t know. I agree - I don’t see why you would, but I still have to treat you as a suspect. I’m going to speak to your parents, to verify your statement.”

“Yes sir, I understand. But I promise you, and I give you my word on it, I had nothing to do with his death, nor would I have wanted to.”

The Superintendent shifted his chair back and stood up. “Thank you, Jack. Now, if you’re really telling me the truth, I expect to be able to find you back at the base, should I have need to.”

Jack rose as well. “Yes sir, I will be there. I’m not going anywhere.”

The Superintendent began to walk off, but then paused, and turning back around, he passed the snowdrops back to Jack. “I’m sorry, Jack; I just can’t give these right now.”

The pain of this moment was etched across the young man’s face. “Yes sir, I understand.”

The air outside felt raw against the Superintendent’s face as he left the Twin Barrels, and made his way toward Jack’s parents’ house. The moon was out in full display tonight, lavishing a warm white light across the desolate streets.

Knock, Knock.

“Who’s there?” A low voice called from inside.

“Jerry, It’s me, Oliver Stanton. I’m so sorry to bother you at this time, but I have to ask you something.” His tone was earnest.

The door soon opened, and Jack’s father appeared. “Oh Oliver, I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Whatever is the matter? Is it to do with Jack? Is he alright?”

“Can I come in first?” The Superintendent followed Jerry through into the sitting room, where Jack’s mother, Eliza, was standing, a worried look cast across her face.

“Is everything alright?” She stepped forward.

“Look, I’m really sorry to bother you, but it’s to do with my investigation into Jimmy Nib’s murder.” The Superintendent watched the other two as they glanced at each other with marked concern. “Where was Jack, on the eve of the fourth?”

“Oh,” Eliza withered into one of the chairs. “You don’t think it was him, do you?”

“I have to ask, Eliza. I’m sorry.” The Superintendent’s tone was soft, and it was obvious it was the last question he wanted to be asking.

“He was here with us for the whole day - during the afternoon he and I both worked on the farm, and he didn’t leave, at any point, and then in the evening we read part of a book out loud, together, and then went to bed.” Jerry sounded convincing, and the Superintendent had no reason to disbelieve him. “I can tell, completely honestly, that our son didn’t have anything to do with Jimmy’s murder. That man was a family friend, and Jack would never have laid a finger on him.”

The Superintendent sighed heavily. “Jimmy was deliberately poisoned by foxgloves, and as I’m sure you’re aware, there aren’t any more of them around now. Jack admitted to me, that he had picked the last few for Emma.”

“But that doesn’t mean he did it?” Eliza cried, holding a handkerchief to her eyes.

“I know, and I’m not saying he did, but it does make him a suspect when he’s been in possession of the very thing that killed Jimmy. What can you tell me about Jimmy, anyway?”

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Jerry stepped next to his wife and laid a hand gently upon her shuddering shoulders. “He was a great man, and he often helped us out on the farm. He did have his ups and downs, but since giving up the drink, he really had improved.”

“And how did you feel about him being a CO?”

The two looked surprised. “It didn’t bother us a bit - we understood why he’d chosen that. Even Jack didn’t mind. He actually respected him for it.”

“And when was the last time you saw him?”

Jerry hesitated. “Actually, we saw him that day, about five in the evening. You probably already know this, but he was heading to your house…”

The Superintendent started. “My house?”

“Yes, he said Emma had invited him around for some tea - I think she had wanted to talk to him about, oh what did he say it was?”

“The preparations for Bonfire Night,” Eliza softly interjected.

“Ah yes that was it.” A confused look besieged Jerry’s countenance. “You don’t mean to say you didn’t know about this?”

Dread flickered across the Superintendent’s eyes for a moment, but he quickly moved on. “No, I had no knowledge of this, but I must talk to Emma about it. But what reason would she have…“ He paused and then continued. “I best be going - thank you again for your time, and I apologise for the late hour.”

“No apology needed, Oliver. We understand.” They both rose, smiling kindly at the Superintendent. “What does that mean for Jack?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure yet, but this isn’t at all going how I expected it would. He still remains a suspect, even though I believe you, but I’ll have more of an idea tomorrow.”

Jerry followed the Superintendent to the door. “Oliver, I really hope neither of our children have anything to do with this awful business.”

“So do I.”

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“Sir?” Tom stepped in, his youthful exuberance flickering across his brown eyes.

The Superintendent nodded slightly. “Yes?”

“I have the preliminary report from the coroner here for you.” He passed a crisp white paper across the desk and stood back to attention.

“Thank you, Tom.” The Superintendent scanned his eyes across the writing, a perplexed expression growing as he reached the last few lines. “So far, the coroner seems to think Jimmy Nibs had a violent heart attack, which killed him. He did note though that he hasn’t finished examining the body, and there are a couple of things that aren’t quite lining up with his theory. Also, he put the time of death at around eight in the evening the day before he was found.” He paused and studied the paper again. “That is interesting…” his brow furrowed.

“What’s that, sir?”

“The coroner says he’s found no evidence of alcohol in his system. So why the bottle?”

“Maybe he tipped it out somewhere, deciding not to have it?” Tom offered, unmistakable curiosity written across his face.

“No I doubt it. Something just doesn’t seem right about this…” The Superintendent stood up, grabbed his coat, and rested the hat upon his head. “We’ll go and talk to Doctor Hafling about this - if Jimmy Nibs had any prior health conditions, he’ll know.”

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A couple minutes later, the two men were winding through the dark streets in a black automobile; the headlights flooding light across the cobbled road. They soon arrived at a populous cottage, surrounded by well-kept shrubs and bushes. Frost sparkled on the leaves, and the rumbling wind coaxed the men to hurriedly reach the door.

After a couple of knocks, the doctor appeared at the door. He was a tall man, dressed in a tweed coat, and possessing a rather clever-looking face, to which some individuals have the privilege of bearing. An auburn-coloured spaniel stood attentively at his feet, pulling a perfectly wistful look.

“Come in, please. It’s bitter out there, isn’t it?” He warmly welcomed them in, leading the way into the lounge. It was a stark contrast to the weather outside, with a crackling blaze at the hearth, and a tantalising smell in the air, coming from the kitchen.

“Velma, dear, would you make us some tea, please?” The doctor’s voice was deep, yet ever so kind. “Are you wanting to talk about Jimmy Nib? Such a shame - he was a delightful fellow. Really, his end seemed to come too quickly, but then I know the Lord has numbered all our days.”

The Superintendent nodded. “Yes you’re right. I just have a few questions for you. How was his health lately?”

“Perfect, nothing to worry about. I’m surprised the government allowed his conscientious objection, seeing how fit and strong he was. He’d done a lot of good for himself since giving up the drink. Anyway, why do you ask?”

At this moment, Velma walked in and placed a tray of steaming cups upon the low table. A plate of biscuits accompanied the tea, much to the delight of both Tom and the spaniel.

The Superintendent took a sip of the steaming liquid. “Thank you, Velma. Now, George, you’re telling me there was nothing wrong with his health, no heart conditions or anything?”

“Yes, that’s right.” He stroked the spaniel, who was tilting his head, tormenting poor Tom with the most implorable look in his smoky eyes.

“Well, the coroner’s first thought was that it seemed as though he died from a severe heart attack, but that doesn’t seem consistent with what you’re saying about his health.”

A puzzled expression clouded the doctor’s face. “But I saw him that morning, and he was in perfectly good health. Does that mean..” he faltered, “that he might have been murdered?”

The Superintendent watched the man with a sad expression. “Yes it’s looking like that even more now. I don’t believe, for one moment, that you did it, George, but you know I have to include you as one of the suspects. Especially seeing as you saw him on the day of his death.”

The doctor nodded, a worried expression cast upon his intelligent face. “Yes, Oliver - I definitely didn’t do it, but I wouldn’t expect you to do anything different. I’ll aide you in any way I can.”

The Superintendent rose. “Thank you, George. I’m sorry to have interrupted you. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.” Then turning towards Tom, who was hastily sneaking another biscuit from the table, under the watchful eye of the spaniel, he said “Come on, Tom. We’ll be going now.”

The wind charged them as they left the house, quickly making their way to the car.

The Superintendent sighed deeply. “That will be it for today. Tomorrow, I have a murderer to catch.”

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“Dad, would you like another cup of coffee before you leave?” Emma’s cheery voice carried up the stairs as the Superintendent slowly made his way down. The morning light peeped in through the windows, blanketing the room in a golden glow.

“No I’d best be going - thank you though Ems.” He walked in, his coat lying across one arm. Emma stood in front of the sink, trimming a bunch of rich pink flowers and softly singing a tune.

“They’re beautiful - where did they come from?” He smiled, pointing at the fresh petals.

“Near the edge of the forest.” Her eyes twinkled as she arranged the vase carefully on the table. “Do you mind if Jack and I go out today? It’s his last day off before he has to go back to base.”

“Of course, just don’t be too late. Jack’s a good boy though - I trust him.” The Superintendent gave her a quick hug and then stepped towards the front door. “I love you,” he called out.

“Love you too, Dad.” She replied. “Oh, I forgot to ask last night - how is your case going?”

Cold air crept through the partially open door, as the Superintendent paused for a moment. “It’s a complicated one, Em. But we’re getting there.” He smiled and left.

Emma returned to the kitchen table, and picking up a knife, she proceeded to settle her score with the vegetables. The blade was keen, and she, so distracted by her work, hardly noticed the tapping on the door.

“Emma, are you home?” The voice was faint, muffled by the wood.

“Oh Jack! I’m so sorry - have you been waiting long?” She rushed to the door, opening it wide. A young man stood before her, smiling broadly. He bore a smart army uniform, a respectful expression on his young face, and a bunch of snowdrops in his hands.

“Just an hour or so.” He winked, passing the gift to her.

“Oh Jack, I love them! Thank you! Now come inside, I’m just finishing off the vegetables for supper, and then I’ll be ready to go.”

As they walked back inside, Jack paused and looked gently in her eyes. “How are you doing, Emma? And how’s your father doing? You’ve been through a lot.”

Emma’s smiling expression wilted. “Thanks Jack. We’re doing alright - though I still miss him every day. Harry was the best brother I could ever have asked for, and it just feels so different without him here. I know I shouldn’t…” she faltered, brushing a hand across her eyes, “but I can’t help but feel angry at the men who aren’t serving in the war. Maybe if more of them went, Harry would still be alive.”

Jack wrapped one arm around her. “I understand, Emma, I really do. And I wish there was something I could do to bring Harry back home. But don’t let yourself become bitter towards them - we’re all fighting this together; it’s just some of us are right in the thick of it, while others do it back here.” He stepped back, a gentle smile playing at his lips. “Now come on, I’ll help you finish the food, and then let’s go down to the tea room.”

Hartley Police Station stood proudly on the village’s high street, keeping the place under its watchful eye. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, five days after Jimmy Nibs’ lifeless body had been found in the river. A youthful figure hurried up the steps and entered the building.

“Is the Superintendent in?” he asked the man sitting behind the front desk.

“Yes, Tom, he is.”

“Thanks,” he replied, quickly exiting the room, and entering another a few steps down the corridor.

“Excuse me, sir?” He handed a slip of paper across to the Superintendent. “It’s from the coroner.”

The Superintendent’s brow furrowed as he scanned his eyes across the writing. “It seems that the answer is murder.”

Tom’s eyebrows arched. “In what way?”

“Well, the coroner has determined the cause of death to be poison.”

“What type? Arsenic?”

The Superintendent’s face was perplexed. “No, he doesn’t believe it to be that. More likely, it’s some kind of plant or flower that possessed a high enough toxicity content to kill poor Jimmy.”

“And does he have any idea what plant or flower is responsible?”

The Superintended nodded slowly. “Foxgloves - one wouldn’t think that such a pretty flower could produce such a deadly toxin.”

Tom leaned forward, his eyes wide and slightly baffled. “Really?” A rather sheepish expression was cast across his face. “Actually, sir, to be honest, I don’t really know what they are.”

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A smile trickled across the Superintendent’s face. “Don’t worry, Tom. I doubt many of our kind would be any more the wiser either.” He drifted backwards into his chair. “You would have seen their flowers all over the place here in Hartley; they grow without hesitation. If my daughter was here, she would be able to give you a far finer description of what they are, but needless to say, they’re pretty things with innocent cruelty.”

“Thank you, sir.” Tom scratched his head thoughtfully. “I guess the question, now, is who gave them to him?”

“And in what form.” The Superintendent added, rising from his chair, and stepping towards a small bookcase that rested in the corner of the room. He strummed his fingers across the arches of the books until he found his prize; a thick work dedicated to the subject of poison and its different kinds. Its pages resembled a well-brewed tea, and some bore the evidence of it too. He lay the book on the desk, turning the pages until he reached a section on foxgloves.

“What does it say, sir?” Tom’s hands twisted eagerly behind his back.

“Foxglove poisoning usually occurs due to a part of the plant, like the leaves or petals, being ingested, more so in a high quantity.” He mumbled a few other lines, to which Tom could not quite make out the translation.

“So the victim would have eaten some?”

“Well yes, or drank some sort of tea or something that contained it.” The Superintendent closed the book. “But who would have done this?”

He retrieved his hat from its’ resting place, and left the room, with Tom following close behind.

“Where to, sir?”

“Back to George Hafling’s - I need his help.”

Half an hour later, the two men found themselves seated in the Doctor’s sitting room, waiting for his arrival. The spaniel sat expectantly in front of Tom, watching the young policeman with bewitching curiosity.

Footsteps thudded up ahead, and the Doctor soon appeared. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting - I was just seeing to a patient. How can I help you?”

The Superintendent smiled wearily. “What can you tell me about foxglove poisoning? Have you ever treated a person with it?”

Surprise stretched across the Doctor’s face. “Well, I know it can be very dangerous, even fatal, if ingested. You don’t need a lot of it to cause serious harm.” He paused, one hand stroking his chin. “I do remember one patient, a young boy, who I treated for foxglove poisoning. It was many years ago; he was being a lad, showing off, and had eaten part of one of the leaves. His heart rate had slowed down significantly, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure he was going to make it. Thankfully though, he ended up being fine, but it was a jolly close call. I never go near those plants - I wouldn’t want to risk it. Why do you ask?”

“It’s related to the case I’m working on.”

The Doctor nodded. “Though, foxgloves are hardly around any more now - it’s not their season. They aren’t exactly easy to find.”

“Yes, I know. Well, thank you for your time, George.” The Superintendent rose slowly. “Have a good evening.”

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Knock, Knock! The whisker-faced man paced back and forth restlessly before the door, now and then pausing to look up at the window above him that was nestled between the pastel-coloured wall.

“Really, someone ought to be in! A murder, and no one to report to?” He huffed, tapping his foot impatiently against the cobbled path. The door received another firm knock, accompanied by a heavy sigh.

“Excuse me Mr. Hardy, can I help you?” A sweet, girlish voice drew his attention away from the unfortunate door, and to the street. A young woman, about sixteen years old, was watching him, her soft green eyes casting an inquisitive look. A basket lay in her hands, boasting the riches of the village market.

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“Oh yes, Emma, finally. You don’t know just how long I’ve been waiting here. It’s been almost two hours since they found him, and the authorities are supp’osed to be there.”

“Found who?”

“Jimmy Nibs, bless him. He was found dead this morning. Dead! Can you believe it?”

Emma’s eyes widened with shock. “Really? Where?”

“In the river, and with a bottle beside him. I’m dead sure that’s what did it to him, but the vicar isn’t convinced; he says it could be murder!” Dan Hardy was getting somewhat vexed by now, wishing to be back at his store instead of out here, talking to Emma about a man who, quite frankly, he had never liked. “That’s why I’m here - I need to speak to your father.”

Emma was a smart girl, and thus not wishing to further worry the bothered man, she smiled sweetly, and replied, “Father’s not in at the moment, but I’ll get him for you. I know where he’s gone.”

“You’re a good lass, Emma. Tell ‘im he ought to be quick about though; it’s caused quite a fright in the village.” He gave a slight nod of acknowledgement and then strode back down the street, whistling rather loudly.

The Superintendent stood up slowly, a perplexed look cast across his face; he was a gentle-looking man, with a well-trimmed moustache, and warm honey-toned eyes. The dull grey of his suit seemed to match the bleak sky above.

“Oh Jimmy, what have you gotten yourself into now?” He muttered, watching as two of his sergeants carefully lifted the sodden, lifeless body out of the foaming water, and placed it onto a stretcher resting on the frosted dirt.

He pulled a pen and notebook from his pocket and scratched a few thoughts down onto the paper. Victim: Jimmy Nibbs, 35 years of age. Found face down in river. Likely cause of death drowning - self-inflicted. He paused, pen mid-air, and stepped over to the remains of the bottle that lay untouched. Pulling a cloth from his coat pocket, he fastidiously picked up the bottleneck with it and then sniffed the cracked glass.

Whiskey.

The pen once again lay siege to the paper. Empty whiskey bottle - victim potentially drunk?

“No, no, no…it can’t be that,” He frowned, ruffling his fingers through his chalky-brown hair. “He said he was done with it.”

“Sir, we’re ready to go.” One of the police officers stood a few steps away, a little too eager-eyed for the Superintendent’s liking. “What do you think happened to him? The bottle get the better of him?” He was too nonchalant; too jovial about it all. Death didn’t seem to bother ones like him.

A heavy sigh escaped the Superintendent’s lips. He didn’t appreciate being dumped with new recruits; especially ones that seemed so excitable about events such as this. “Tom, remember; it’s still a person who died. Try to have a little heart.”

The officer straightened up and attempted a more sincere pose. “Yes sir. I’ll try, sir.”

The Superintendent smiled weakly, re-homing the pen and notebook in his pocket. “We’ll see what the autopsy says, and talk to the locals. They won’t be short of opinions.”

“Now Mr. Hardy, what can you tell me about the victim?” The Superintendent stood in the back room of the butcher’s store, watching the bloodstained man run his knife along the inside of a partially gutted pig. The job looked effortless when he did it.

“I’m sure you’d know just about as much as me, sir. Contrary to most folk around here, I didn’t like him much. Yes, he was a kindly fellow, but I knew about his past. They say he killed a man when he was young; spent six years in the block for it. I don’t easily give my trust to a man who’s taken another’s life.” He plunged the knife into the bleeding flesh.

The Superintendent grimaced. “So, were you pleased he died?”

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“No of course not. A death is still a death, and I’m sorry the fellow met his end like that. I’m just saying, though, I don’t think he was just the kind man folk took him to be.” He paused his butchery for a moment, wiping a bloodied finger across his brow. “If you ask me, he well nigh did it to himself, by having no respect for the bottle. I wouldn’t call him your usual drunkard; it only happened every now and then, but when it did, it hit him hard. Say, was it a beer bottle lying near to him?”

“No, it was whiskey.”

Hardy’s eyebrows slanted upwards. “You don’t say so? Now that is odd.”

“Why so?”

“Because although he had a keen taste for much of that sort of stuff, he’d never taken to whiskey. Didn’t quite appeal to him.”

The Superintendent’s brow furrowed deeply. “Do you think there is any possibility he had changed his mind about it?”

“No, absolutely not. Even the smell of it was too much for him.”

“Hmm…well, thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, please let me know.” The Superintendent tilted his hat, and left the store, warmly welcoming the crisp air outside.

He made his way down the high street, now and then stopping to offer a polite “good afternoon” to the village folk as they ambled along. It was a pretty place here, with charming cottages setting off the cobbled streets, and beds of snowdrops sprawling throughout.

A few metres down the road, and he reached Hartley Green; the resting place of the church. The stonework of the walls had aged gracefully, and though storm and wind did indeed try their best at battering the place, it still stood strong. Late autumn flowers scattered the lawn, granting the place a beautiful serene look.

The Superintendent continued on his way, following the gravel path that wound behind the church, leading towards the manse.

Sally Goodman met him at the door, her kindly eyes brimming with concern.

“Good afternoon, Superintendent. Please, please, come in. Let me take your coat. I’m sure you’ve had quite the morning. Really, it’s so sad about poor Jimmy.” She perched his coat on the hook by the entrance and led the way into the lounge. “Here, please, sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

The Superintendent smiled warmly. “Yes thank you. And your husband, is he around?”

“He’s just visiting one of the members; John Demerly. He’s taken ill, and doesn’t have long to live. But he should be back soon.” She stepped back into the room, puffs of steam swirling above the cups she held. “Here you go. Now, I’m presuming this is about Jimmy Nibs?”

The Superintendent sighed, leaning forward in his chair. “Yes, unfortunately it is. How well did you know him?”

“William and I have,” she paused, dashing her hand across her eyes, “I mean we had known him for coming up fifteen years I believe. He was a very kind man, but he was lonely as well. He never married, though I believe there was once a girl he liked. He always came to the Sunday Service, but I believe it was more of a formality for him.”

“And did he have a problem with drinking?”

“He did, at times, slip into his old habits, and he knew it was wrong. But it wasn’t a consistent part of his life. I know Hardy likes to call him a drunkard, but I don’t believe that’s quite fair.”

The front door closed loudly, announcing the arrival of William Goodman. He stepped into the room; his face weary with sorrow and his eyes reflected his tender soul.

“Superintendent, it’s good to see you. Though I wish the circumstances were different.”

“And you, Reverend. I’m sorry to bother you at such a time as this, but these questions must be asked. Do you agree with your wife that Jimmy Nibs wasn’t a drunkard?”

“Yes I certainly do. I wouldn’t once upon a time, but he had changed. He had told me he was ‘giving it up for good’, and I believe he meant it. As far as I’m aware, he hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol for the last six months.”

The Superintendent scratched his head thoughtfully. “Yes that’s what I seemed to recall.”

William leaned forward, an earnest look besieging his face. “Now, I know, Sir, it’s not my job to do the suggesting, but are you considering murder?”

“And what makes you suggest that?”

“Well, for character’s sake alone, I don’t know why anyone would want to murder poor Jimmy. But on the other hand, his personal decisions did give him a bad name in some places; not so much around here, but elsewhere. People didn’t like him because he wouldn’t fight.” William shook his head sadly.

“Do you mean because he was a CO?”

“Yes that’s right. Everyone has to make a decision according to their conscience though, and for him, it’s because of what happened at that pub some twenty odd years ago. I don’t blame him for choosing that.”

“Hmm that’s right. It’s a complicated one. And yes, I am considering murder.”

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“Leave him alone.” The stranger interjected; his voice was husky, with a powerful edge to it. 

“Why?” The bully folded his arms defiantly, assuming a fighting stance.  

“Because I said so.” 

“I don’t care -” the boy started retorting, but something caught his attention and he quickly stopped. He shot a threatening glare at Denni, then ran off. 

“Are you alright?” The stranger asked, his youthful eyes scanning Denni’s bruised face. 

“I’m fine...thank you for doing that.” 

The boy simply nodded, a wistful smile playing at his lips. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

Denni shifted uneasily on his feet. “Yes, I am. My parents just recently moved here, and I don’t have any friends now.”

“I’ll be your friend; I mean it. It’s hard here at first, but you’ll soon get used to it.” He paused as if thinking for a moment. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Denni. Thank you; I needed a friend. And your name is?” His eyes twinkled.

“I’m Ed.”

Rain pelted down, saturating Denni as he trudged along the field. “Are you alright?” He could hear the voice so clearly. He’d heard that voice a thousand times. I’m not alright now. If only I’d encouraged him not to enlist, he’d still be alive. But he would never have listened. “I’m your friend, Denni. True friends stick together. I want to serve my country too,” he’d said as we enlisted together. It’s all my fault.

The bullets fell mercilessly upon the tired soldiers.

Oh Lord...why did he have to die? Why him? 

Freezing drops of rain fell thick and fast, rapidly turning the ground into a trampled field of wet mud. Bolts of lightning flickered through the sombre sky. The once gentle slope up the hill was now a treacherous mudslide. Pools of blood mixed with the wet dirt, transforming the landscape into a reddy-brown bog. Bodies lay sinking into the miry terrain, some stretched across fallen trees, others entangled in barbed wire.  

“Fall back, fall back,” the officer shouted above the din as the Germans pressed hard against them. Slowly, step by step, driving them back across the lines. 

Denni raced along the ground towards the enemy, ignoring the command of his officer. He had seen the young boy go down, after being shot by a German sniper. He couldn’t leave him out there to die alone. If Ed was here, he would be doing the same thing. But he’s not; and I don’t want him to die...not like Ed. As he neared where the lad was lying, a small object flew through the air and landed by his leg. It was a metallic colour, dull like the grey clouds that hovered above. He only noticed it when it was too late. The explosion tore through his leg, mangling flesh and bone. He screamed in agony. He could only just make out the form of the boy through the smoky haze but could hear nothing other than a deafening ringing between both ears. If only...Nausea overtook him, then all went black.

“Denni,” the nurse gently shook him. Her Tennessean accent was a sad reminder of home; the only home he’d known since his English parents had decided to immigrate to America. He had enlisted to fight before America had publicly joined the war as a result of his British citizenship. It was a choice he felt he owed his birth country.  He opened his eyes slightly, trying to concentrate on the blurred figure before him. It was her. Now everything would be fine. But it wasn’t. 

Sunlight streamed in from the makeshift window, lighting up the long room. Rows of beds, occupied by men like him, filled the entirety of the area. Nurses worked tirelessly, caring for the wounded soldiers; their white uniforms brightening up the place a little. 

He rolled over. Something felt different. Then he noticed it. The place where his right leg should have been was now just a stump, wrapped in a bandage the colour of cream. 

“What happened? Where’s my leg?” His eyes flitted around the room, full of fear. A soft hand touched his shoulder. The nurse looked down at him, her face a mask of worry. 

“The explosion took your leg. They say you went to save that young boy.” She wiped the damp cloth tenderly across his forehead. Her very presence seemed to soothe his pain. 

“Did...did he survive?” Denni looked at her face, trying to find some sort of answer. 

She shook her head; her eyes mirroring the sorrow she felt. “No, he didn’t. He lost too much blood. He was dead before we even reached him.”  

Denni clenched his hands together; ignoring the pain as his nails dug into his dry skin. Grief clouded his face. “He’s dead?” He stuttered. “All I wanted to do was save him; I just wanted another chance. Ed died because I couldn’t save him in time. I wish he was still alive. And the boy; he was so young…” his thoughts trailed off. “Please, Ed, don’t go.” His best friend’s face was deathly pale - he’d seen something like that again recently. The boy. The dead boy. 

Silence reigned for a moment; then the nurse nodded, her face grave and compassionate. “I’m so sorry.” She paused, breathing in slowly. “I need to check on my other patients, but I’ll come back later.”

As she turned to leave, Denni called out to her, “I never actually found out your name?”

“Edith.” She looked around and smiled sweetly. 

The year is 1940, and war is sweeping across Europe. Edith, a young nurse, is serving in France and trying to survive the horrors of World War II. When Denni, a gravely injured soldier, winds up in her care, a deep bond grows between the two as they find solace in their shared faith. But when the two are separated, Edith is left alone on the frontline, and her faith is tested like never before. With so much death and suffering around her, the chance of survival is slim. Will she become another victim of war? Or will she live to see her injured soldier again?

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A grenade shot through the air, exploding as it hit the ground. Now only one man crouched behind the mound.

Sweat laced Denni’s forehead. Another dream. He slowly pushed himself up, leaning against the dirt sides of the foxhole he was resting in. His gun lay ready beside him. His neck ached, and every muscle felt as if they had been entombed in a solid caste of iron. 

Everything was deathly quiet; and yet he could still hear constant explosions and screams. Silence was something a soldier like him lost after hearing those sounds again and again. 

“Lord, I don’t understand. Why did he die, and not me?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. His stomach cramped; pain twisting it in tight knots. Parts of the dream drifted through his mind again... 

Blood squirted from his side, spattering everywhere. The man’s face was sickly white, each breath rasping against his lungs, and triggering another influx of life-giving liquid to pulse through the wound. Jagged pieces of shrapnel protruded from the skin.

 Denni swallowed hard. His palms were wet against his face. He closed his eyes.

“Stay with me, Ed. We’re gonna get you back safely. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

“I made a promise I couldn’t keep, Lord. Ed’s gone and so many others are dying too. How long until it’s me lying cold under the ground?” The tears he wished he could feel weren’t there. His throat felt dry. 

“Lord, I know I broke my promise to Ed. I don’t like going back on my word, but there are some things I just can’t change. But I’m going to promise this to You - as soon as I get home, and as soon as this war is over, I’m never touching a weapon again in my life, to hurt someone else. I’ve done enough killing - and I hate it.” His nails dug deep into his skin, breaking the surface. 

“And that’s a promise I’m going to keep.”

The hospital was a dismal place. The only thing that cheered the atmosphere a little was the presence of the nurses; each in their own way, they tried to encourage the wounded soldiers as much as they were able. There was one nurse in particular who was known for her cheeriness and resolute spirit despite the circumstances.  

 She was slender in stature with auburn hair framing a delicate face, and her eyes, baby blue like the sky, seemed to always sparkle. 

It had been a week since she had watched Ed die and tried somehow to comfort his grief-stricken friend. She’d noticed him a couple of times since then, quietly mourning his loss, but never trying to get attention. She understood his pain; the memory of her brother still haunted her daily. It was for that reason that she had enlisted as a nurse in the first place - her brother’s sacrifice was an inspiration that had heavily influenced her decision. 

The cold wind enveloped her in an empty hug as she walked back to the hospital. Her eyes were fixed on a small grey book in her hands; the pages slightly blowing in the breeze. Red and black words marked each side. She closed her eyes, savouring the quiet moment. Oh Lord, thank you for Your Word. It’s the only thing giving me hope right now. She gently shut the book, returning it to a fold in her dress. Every day seems the same; just more wounded people, she thought as she entered the tent. Rows of beds greeted her, each containing war-stricken patients. Several dreary faces brightened a little as she walked past, stopping now and then to encourage one of them. 

A deep groan erupted from the farthest side of the room. She quickened her pace, and soon reached the soldier; his face was a blanket of white - a sharp contrast to his bloodshot eyes. 

“It’s alright,” she murmured, carefully wiping a damp cloth across his sweaty brow. 

“My arm, I can’t feel it.” His voice shook, trembling like his body.

It didn’t take long for her to notice - his left arm stopped at his elbow, wrapped heavily in bandages. “I’m sorry,” she faltered. “They had to remove it.”

Disbelief clouded his face - “Gone?” He swallowed hard, trying to comprehend. 

She nodded, trying somehow to comfort the poor soldier. “I know it might be hard now, but people will recognise your bravery in time to come - every scar is a reminder of the choice you made to fight for the freedom of others. You were very brave, and you will get used to it. I’ll be back in a minute. Would you like a cup of tea?” She gave him a warm smile and left. 

Another nurse met her as she stood near the tent opening, slowly pouring the tea into the tin cup. Little spirals of steam twizzled above the liquid. 

“How is he doing?” The nurse’s voice was distinctly French, each word softly accented. Concern filled her face. 

“He’s struggling to understand. It must be so hard for him, Claire.” 

“Yes, it is. He was telling me earlier that he had proposed to a girl just before he left for war. He fears she won’t want him now, with one arm missing.” Claire shook her head sadly. 

“I feel so sorry for him.” Her voice conveyed the pity she felt. “I better take this tea to him.” She carried the steaming cup carefully back towards the cot, placing it gently into the soldier’s hand. 

“There you go. I’ll be back to check on you soon,” she said, before moving on to the next patient. 

The year is 1940, and war is sweeping across Europe. Edith, a young nurse, is serving in France and trying to survive the horrors of World War II. When Denni, a gravely injured soldier, winds up in her care, a deep bond grows between the two as they find solace in their shared faith. But when the two are separated, Edith is left alone on the frontline, and her faith is tested like never before. With so much death and suffering around her, the chance of survival is slim. Will she become another victim of war? Or will she live to see her injured soldier again?

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And a new chapter to read.

Over the next few weeks, I will be releasing some of the first chapters (in order) of my historical fiction novella, The Nurse. Subscribe now, and step back in time to a world torn apart by war, yet holding on to love.

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“Nearly there,” the soldier whispered as he and another man ran through the mud, carrying the stretcher that held his best friend’s broken body. “Stay with us, Ed. You’ve got to,” he pleaded. The young man’s bloodshot eyes flicked open; his pupils shaking and dilated. He lay restless, groaning deeply with every jolt of the stretcher. The sky blurred, spiralling like a tunnel, then the blackness came, and his body fell limp. Another jerk tugged him back into semi-consciousness as they slipped in the mud. He trembled all over, moaning slowly. Drops of blood fell on the ground below as the two soldiers pushed uphill, towards the medic’s tent. The sky above them was a haze of smoke and rain. Explosions nearby sent tremors moaning beneath their feet. The cries of both wounded and dying men haunted the air. 

Trees that once stood proudly above the soft green grass, boasting verdant foliage hanging gracefully from auburn limbs, now resembled charred stumps, destroyed by the raging fires and machines that kept flinging the land into shuddering fits. Twisted wire burrowed deep into the ground; barbed hooks lay embedded in the uniforms of many a soldier as they lay there, unable to release themselves from the cruel entrapment. 

“Denni, he’s not going to make it,” the other soldier shook his head sadly at the young man lying on the stretcher, ribbons of dried blood trickling down his pale face. No...no, you mustn’t...you’re all I’ve got, Ed. Please...no! Denni screamed silently at his best friend as they ran on. The soldier’s coarse uniform was plastered with mud. The frayed cloth around his wound was stained by the crimson fluid oozing from his body. 

As the soldiers neared the tent known as the “hospital”, they could hear the soft reassuring tones of the nurses alongside the constant groans of the wounded. “Please, we need help!” Denni beckoned to one of the nurses. She quickly led them inside and towards a makeshift bed situated near the end of the tent. 

“Keep that pressure on the wound; I’ll fetch some morphine,” the nurse hesitated for a moment, then quickly walked away. Denni couldn’t help but notice her hands trembling; but somehow despite the overwhelming stress this nurse was enduring, her face possessed a smile that was soothing to look at. The two soldiers lifted Ed gently off the stretcher, and onto the bed. The red stain colouring his uniform grew darker by the minute, his lifeblood draining away despite the force of Denni’s hand. Denni crouched down beside him, pleading with him to stay alive. As he implored his best friend, the nurse returned with the morphine. 

“This will help relieve the pain,” she said tenderly as she administered the drug and gently removed the blood-soaked clothing. Despite the horrific appearance of his wound, she never flinched or shied away. Denni watched her in silence as she clamped the pulsing artery, causing the bleeding to stop completely. Her delicate fingers are so perfect for a task that required such precise movement, he thought.

“He was awful brave out there. That’s why he was hit,” Denni muttered, trying to conceal the anguish he was feeling. 

“You’ve all been brave,” her voice, beautiful and lilting, corrected him. She looked right into his eyes; her gaze piercing his very soul. “It’s not your fault. You can’t prevent people from dying in war, but you can choose to keep fighting for their sake.” Her eyes smiled at him; the way they sparkled seemed to be a silent language - one that said “it will be alright” even when it wasn’t. A language that spoke one word: kindness. Everything she did seemed to embody this word. She’s so beautiful. So perfect. She doesn’t belong in a place like here, he thought as she wrapped the last bandage around Ed’s wound. He noticed how gently she touched him; the way she squeezed his hand so reassuringly, and the way she spoke words of encouragement to him. 

“Can’t you see he’s dying?” Denni whispered hoarsely as she leaned over, gently tucking a blanket around his best friend. She looked at him and nodded slowly. 

“We’re doing all we can to save him,” she replied, carefully wiping away the dried blood on his face with slow and soft movements. Then lowering her voice, she whispered, “but remember, even unconscious people can still hear what we're saying.” A deep groan caught the attention of the nurse. The soldier writhed around on his bed; his face twisted in pain. “Denni,” his voice was barely a whisper, “thank you. I...I tried...be...brave.” Beads of sweat laced his forehead. 

Denni knelt beside him, tears running down his face. “I know you did, Ed. You were more brave than any of us.” He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “Just don’t go, please.” He grasped Ed’s hand. You can’t leave now. You’re the only true friend I’ve got. Please, keep holding on. 

Just talk to him. Keep him thinking.

“Ed, stay with me. Remember the day you gave Rilla the ring - she’s still waiting for you. You can’t die here - France isn’t your home. You’ve always been a fighter, and that’s not always bad. Please, you’ve got to keep fighting for her sake.” 

The young man squeezed his hand weakly. “I can’t. I love her. I’m scared…help… m-m— ” His eyes glazed over as his chest heaved and then fell, never to rise again.  Just wait, he’ll breathe again. He has to. Nothing. He can’t be gone. Denni sat there in dazed shock. He’s gone? My best friend...gone... Salty drops beaded his palms and his chest ached constantly. His throat felt tight as if he was trying to swallow a stone. 

A hand touched his shoulder. He turned his head around, and locked eyes with the nurse. Her eyes were full of compassion, tinged with the ever-present gift of mercy. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wish I could have saved him.” 

“But you never knew him. Why then?” He asked dumbly, trying to understand what she meant.

“Because every life is precious.” She smiled faintly, a single tear rolling down her face. “I know what it’s like to lose someone dear to you - I lost my brother a few months ago.” 

So we’ve both lost someone through this war...we’ve both experienced pain.

Denni stood to his feet as he looked at the young woman before him. “Thank you for trying… it means a lot,” he paused. “And I’m sorry for your loss too.” 

She stared up at him. “I just wish I could have done more,” she shook her head at the lifeless form lying in the bed. She looked up again, locking his gaze with such a gentle expression in those blue eyes. A slight smile wrinkled her lips; her face revealing the compassion she felt. “Over time, the hurt will heal,” she promised as she walked away. 

 Denni watched the nurse as she left. He could still feel her soft touch on his shoulder. Her eyes so full of kindness. 

And yet, his friend was gone. 

The year is 1940, and war is sweeping across Europe. Edith, a young nurse, is serving in France and trying to survive the horrors of World War II. When Denni, a gravely injured soldier, winds up in her care, a deep bond grows between the two as they find solace in their shared faith. But when the two are separated, Edith is left alone on the frontline, and her faith is tested like never before. With so much death and suffering around her, the chance of survival is slim. Will she become another victim of war? Or will she live to see her injured soldier again?

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1943. 

Snow sprinkled the ground, dusting each cobbled stone with a layer of white flakes. The sky was blue; as blue as the lips of the old man trying to find shelter in the skeleton form of a house. Its windows lay shattered on the frozen road. A small picture frame was half-buried amongst the ashes and charred memories. The old man hobbled over to it, retrieving the frame from the rubble. He held it close, tenderly gazing at it. A young girl smiled up at him through the cracked glass. Drops froze as they fell onto the picture. The wind whispered through the streets in icy breaths. 

The man started to return the frame to its place but upon second thoughts, he paused, placing it on a mangled table. Shuffling his wearied feet across the ground, he limped towards a black case. Picking up the marred body of a violin, he slowly placed it under his chin. The first tune was a mournful song; each note haunting and yet beautiful. He paused, letting the sound echo around him. Looking back at the picture, life flickered in his eyes once again as he rested the bow upon those dusty strings. Tears threatened and then fell in time with his faltering heartbeat. 

His mind filled with memories - a little girl holding his hand, clinging on desperately as the last moments of her life passed away. “Soon, daddy, we’ll be together again...in another place.” 

Little children leaping to his music. Then their faces faded, sealed in the past. He was alone again. The only beautiful thing left in that war-swept town was the sound of his violin singing a lullaby to the victims in their graves. The smiling girl still watched him silently. Her picture was the only reminder of what he once had. His heart faltered, and he fell, dropping his violin. 

It shattered. 

He whispered one last time, "ma petite fille”. 

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