An Unwilling Accomplice by Charles Todd

her concern. The war had brought about many changes, people moving about the country under orders from the Army or the Royal Navy, nursing Sisters appearing to staff a country house turned clinic, that had been a private residence not many weeks before, then the influx of wounded, strangers most of them, attended by doctors and orderlies and visited by staff officers and London specialists. It was unsettling, and no one seemed to know what to do about it. Even Ironbridge had very likely seen more unfamiliar faces in the last four years than in the past fifty.
    The room, when she showed me up the stairs and down the passage, looked out on the bridge and the river. Comfortable but not grand, it would do nicely, and I thanked her.
    She handed me an iron key that appeared to be as old as the bridge outside, and then walked away. It wasn’t until much later that I realized she and her family lived in rooms down the passage in the other direction. Small wonder she was careful about guests.
    Mrs. Hennessey had turned her own home into lodgings for strangers. It must have been very difficult for her at first. I wondered how many times we’d been a trial to her before she got to know us better.
    That reminded me of one of my earliest flatmates, a Scottish noblewoman who had surprised all of us by becoming a very fine Sister. She had told me later how appallingly small her bedroom had seemed the first day she arrived at Mrs. Hennessey’s, and how hard she’d found it, sharing such a tiny space with others.
    I put my kit down on the bed, then stood by the window, wondering what to do now.
    It was clear I’d already learned everything I could here. Who the victim was, how he’d died, and what the evidence was against Sergeant Wilkins. And any contact with Sergeant Lessup’s grieving sister or the only witness was forbidden.
    I wished I could talk this over with Simon, but I had no idea where he was. More to the point, he didn’t know where I was.
    Standing here was no solution. But as I turned to go, the rain was upon us, blowing down the Gorge in sheets. I was glad to have a roof over my head. It was late afternoon before it finally moved on. I went out then, not bothering to lock my door. For the next hour or so, I walked around the village, and then crossed the bridge to the tollbooth on the far side. I paid my fee, then walked up the road into some trees, looking about at this side of the river. I had paused, trying to decide just how far to explore when the young woman coming toward me stopped.
    “Are you looking for someone?” she asked, smiling. There was a wooden basket over her arm filled with cut flowers still damp from the rain. She was also expecting a child. I thought she must be six months into her pregnancy.
    “I’m—exploring,” I said with a smile. “Do you live in Ironbridge?”
    “Yes, my mother has the milliner’s shop.” She gestured to the flowers in the basket. “She also makes silk flowers. I thought she might like a few real ones.”
    “They’re very pretty.”
    “My father-in-law owns Ashe Farm. I walk up there every afternoon to see if he’s all right. He works too hard, all his tenants joined the Army, and now most of them are dead.” Blushing a little, she added, “I do apologize. I was asking you if you were looking for someone.”
    “I’ve had a few days of leave,” I said, repeating the story I’d given to Inspector Jester. “And so I came to see the bridge.”
    “You live in Wolverhampton?”
    “No, I came from Shrewsbury.”
    She nodded. “I’ve been there two or three times.” We turned and walked together down the slope toward the tollbooth and the bridge. “There’s a tea shop there where we’d always stop. Do you know it?” She described it for me.
    Of course I didn’t, but she went on talking about Shrewsbury. We had paid our toll and were halfway across the bridge when she began to walk faster, not looking down at the water or up at the view ahead of us. I