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curls and they ruffled in the breeze, reminding the marksman of the baby daughter he’d left behind in Germany.
    Their eyes met. Both of them had eyes the same colour, startling blue. The Britisher smiled. They could have been brothers.
    The marksman understood why a man would invite death in this stink-hole. He hesitated, wondering if he should oblige him. After all, it wasn’t as if he was going to survive himself. He would never live to see his wife, or hold her and his daughter in his arms again. He wondered  . . . did the British soldier have someone to mourn for him? Did it matter? He was here to kill or be killed.
    He sighed regretfully. Gently, almost lovingly, he lifted the gun slightly, took careful aim and stroked the trigger. The man received the gift he sent him, and dropped out of sight before he had time to hear the sound of death.
    â€˜That will teach you to keep your bloody English head down,’ he muttered.
    The marksman had only one bullet left. He didn’t intend to squander that one on a Britisher, but would use it more wisely. After all, he wouldn’t hesitate to relieve a horse of its misery, had it been suffering.
    Two days later, Richard Sangster opened his eyes. He couldn’t see much, just blurred shapes. He was puzzled. His body hurt all over and there was a sharp smell of carbolic soap about him. A pain in his head pounded and he found it hard to breathe.
    There was movement around him. A light shone in his eyes. He whimpered and cringed away from it.
    â€˜Good  . . . he’s come round,’ a voice said, and a shadow moved across. ‘Try not to worry, old chap.’
    Richard stared in the direction of the voice and he began to jerk and shake uncontrollably. Pain filled him and he wanted to shriek. Rather he’d died on the battlefield than this.
    â€˜Morphine,’ the man whispered to someone, and he leaned over him. Though Richard couldn’t make out his features, he seemed familiar. ‘Your name is Richard Sangster. Try not to worry about anything. The war is over for you, my friend. We’re sending you back to England, to the hospital.’
    Richard screamed silently as the needle pierced his skin. A little while later he sank back into a soothing black vapour of oblivion.
    Tears in his eyes, Denton Elliot gazed down at his friend. Richard would recover to a certain extent, though the bullet in his back had damaged nerves, and only time would tell if he’d be able to walk again, though he might regain some use of his legs. He’d probably regain most of his faculties now the bullet had been removed from his skull. But he was also suffering from shell shock, a nervous condition brought on by fatigue, and the result would be depression. His lungs were on an irreversible journey to ruination from the gas he’d inhaled.
    Denton didn’t know how long, or how well Richard would survive, but he did know that his friend wouldn’t live to be an old man. His fingers went to his top pocket and he touched against the pheasant’s feather as his glance went to the other soldiers awaiting attention  . . . so many of them.
    â€˜There but for the grace of God go I,’ he whispered.
    Margaret Sangster was delighted to have Livia to look after her.
    Three days after her fall she was feeling a little better, though there was still a lump on her forehead, and it was very tender.
    Florence Hutchins, the woman the doctor had sent over, had been happy to take over the maid’s position. In the absence of the housekeeper, who’d scurried off to London to spend a couple of days with Henry, or so it was said, and without thought for anybody but herself, Margaret had hired Hutchins, so Livia would be free to look after her.
    Florence was about twenty-five, angular, with dark hair and eyes. She was outspoken in her manner, and had lost her last job because she’d been rude to the person who’d hired