Chapter 11 #3
Evie had discovered some of the stories through her own research from former contacts.
Many “natural” deaths happening around medical facilities, but the pattern and signs suggested foul play.
A wounded soldier’s “suicide” with a suspiciously clean gunshot wound.
A tragic fall down the stairs by an officer who’d been asking too many questions.
A nurse who’d apparently died of fever—except the symptoms hadn’t matched any known illness.
No one questioned deaths in a hospital or casualty clearing station at the Front, especially during wartime.
And Evie feared both of their code names were on the list. Her real identity almost certainly was, thanks to her brother’s betrayal.
If the Midnight Angel matched their names to their faces …
They would go from hunter to hunted.
This needed to end. Soon.
Blake had spent the past three days cataloguing both Nurse Wilson’s and Nurse Rivers’ movements, their interactions, the way each positioned herself in any given room. Wilson moved with confidence and remarkable efficiency, splitting her time between the wards.
Rivers flitted about like a butterfly—always cheerful, always helpful, readily available to the soldiers, especially the younger ones.
He rolled his eyes at that particular observation.
But Wilson’s questioning of the patients came with less fanfare. More sincerity.
Or feigned sincerity.
At the card table near Blake’s position by the window in the hospital sitting room, Lieutenant Hartley started recounting a story about his regiment’s movements near Ypres—nothing classified, just the sort of tale soldiers told to pass the time.
Nurse Wilson sat by Corporal Davies’ bed, changing his bandages, seemingly focused on her work.
She paused. Tipped her head in that direction, almost imperceptibly. Then continued wrapping the bandage, made a sympathetic comment about how difficult the fighting must have been, and moved on to check Captain Anders’ fever.
Had she been listening? Waiting for information to pass along to Smith? Or whoever she was meeting at the ruins?
“Lieutenant Blake?” Private Jenkins interrupted his thoughts. “You’ve been staring at that same page for ten minutes. Must be riveting stuff.”
Blake glanced down at the book in his lap—one of Grace’s detective novels, ironically. The Mystery of the Blue Train. Rather apt, given the circumstances. “Just lost in thought. The complexity of the plot, you understand.”
“Right.” Jenkins grinned knowingly. “Nothing to do with watching the nurses, then?”
Blake’s attention snapped to the young private. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir. Half the men here fancy one nurse or another. Can’t blame you for looking.” Jenkins winked. “Though between you and me, I prefer the younger ones. Nurse Rivers has a lovely smile. Always has time for a chat.”
Rivers certainly enjoyed the patients’ attention—she and Nurse Reynolds were always laughing with the soldiers, brightening the wards with their youthful enthusiasm. Excellent cover for intelligence gathering, really. Who would suspect the sweet, bubbly volunteer?
“Unlike some others, I might add, sir.” Jenkins glanced meaningfully toward Nurse Wilson, who was now consulting with Dr. Shaw across the room, her expression as stern as ever.
Blake kept his face neutral, though inwardly he cursed. If Jenkins had noticed his surveillance, had others? Blast it all, he was getting sloppy. Or perhaps spending half the night kissing Evie had addled his brain more than he’d care to admit.
Worth it, though.
“Did you know Nurse Wilson speaks German?” Jenkins continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Heard her translating something for Lieutenant Ashford the other day. Some letter from a German friend of his from before the war.”
Blake made a noncommittal sound. “Useful skill,” he said carefully. “Especially with German prisoners sometimes brought through.”
“Suppose so. Though some of the men think it’s odd, her having German family and all, but working for England. Her grandfather came from Bavaria. Name used to be Wilhelm before they Anglicized it to Wilson. Can’t say it sits too well with some of the men.”
Blake knew a few men in similar situations. German ancestors. Immediately suspicious. Unfair, when they were as English as he was.
Still. The coincidence niggled at him, making Nurse Wilson even more suspect.
“She appears focused on helping wounded soldiers like us,” he offered, even if he didn’t fully believe it. “Since she is a British native, from what I’ve heard.”
Jenkins sniffed. “Aye, it’s just when you’ve seen what the Boche can do …” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Well, keeps us on our guard, don’t it?”
“Certainly,” he answered, standing to his feet. “Looks like Dawson could use some water from the way he’s coughing.”
Which wasn’t a great deal more than usual for anyone who’d breathed in chlorine gas, but it was opportune. Dawson’s cot stood very close to the small desk Wilson used throughout the day.
Clever placement—Dawson had bandaged eyes and a missing left arm. He couldn’t see what Wilson was doing at her desk, and with his injuries, he couldn’t pose a physical threat if he somehow discovered something suspicious.
After glancing across the room to where Wilson had moved to change Private Connelly’s bandages, he poured a glass of water from the pitcher nearby, carrying it to Dawson.
“Private Dawson,” Blake said pleasantly, settling into the chair beside the cot. “How are you managing today?”
“Lieutenant?” Dawson turned his head in Blake’s direction. “Is that you, sir?”
“Indeed, it is.” He guided the man’s hand to the glass of water. “It sounded as if you could use something to help with that cough.”
“Kind of you, sir.” He took a drink.
“And are they treating you well otherwise? Keeping you comfortable?”
“Oh yes, sir. Can’t complain. Nurse Wilson’s a bit stern-like, but she’s gentle with the bandages. Not like some who pull and tug without thinking.” Dawson shifted slightly. “And the younger nurses are always cheerful. Makes the days pass easier.”
Blake let his gaze drift casually across Wilson’s desk as he spoke, keeping his body language relaxed and conversational. Medical journals stacked neatly. Patient charts. A few personal items—his attention stopped on a silver angel necklace.
Coincidence that the woman they thought was the Midnight Angel wore such a necklace?
He continued his scan as Dawson told a story about Nurse Lawson nearly landing in his lap the other day.
A fountain pen with her initials engraved on it, a small framed photograph of a young woman in a nurse’s uniform. Her deceased sister, presumably, from a conversation he’d overheard.
And her medical bag, sitting open atop the desk.
“It can certainly be lively here with all the activities Lady Astley plans,” Blake continued, while his gaze trailed over the bag’s contents.
Bandages, neatly rolled. Surgical instruments, properly sterilized. Medication bottles, all labeled with Wilson’s precise handwriting.
And tucked into the side pocket, partially visible beneath a packet of gauze—a slip of paper with writing that made Blake’s pulse quicken.
Cyrillic script.
Russian.
Blake shifted slightly in his chair, angling to get a better view without being obvious about it. The movement looked natural—just a man settling more comfortably while chatting with a patient.
“Aye, sir,” Dawson was saying. “She’s kept us all busy, but it does help pass the time.”
“Most certainly.” Blake caught a few more details on the document: the word движение (movement), what looked like coordinates, and a date—possibly September.
Why would a British nurse have a document in Russian? Russia was Britain’s ally, yes, but this looked like military intelligence. Troop movements. Dates. Grid coordinates.
And to anyone who couldn’t read Cyrillic—which would be most people—it would immediately spark suspicion. Foreign script. Secret documents. Hidden in a medical bag.
“Mr. Blake?” Brandon’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. The butler stood at his elbow, expression unreadable. “Your presence is requested in the morning room, sir.”
“Of course.” Blake stood, tucking the book under his arm. “I’ll be there momentarily.” He turned back to Dawson. “It was good speaking with you, Private. I hope your recovery continues well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As he left, he cast one more glance toward Nurse Wilson. She was bent over Captain Jones, carefully checking a bandage he had around his shoulder.
But her eyes—just for a moment—tracked Brandon’s movement toward the door.
And when she thought no one was watching, her expression shifted into something harder. More calculating.
Blake felt the familiar cold certainty settle in his chest.
There you are.