16Number 13, British General Hospital, Boulogne, Wednesday, 5 September 1917
The address was in Lucy’s handwriting and Vicky eagerly tore open the envelope, wondering why the letter had taken over a fortnight to travel the fifty miles from Poperinghe. When she checked the postmarks she saw it had been across to England before being sent back again.
It started with concerns for her health before the news of the Moron’s dismissal, then it moved to the details of Lex’s death. She lowered the letter as her eyes filled with tears, which developed into uncontrolled weeping. Ever since Lucy had told her that Lex was dead, she’d wondered how it had happened, but she hadn’t expected anything like this.
‘Whatever is the matter? Can I do anything to help?’ It was a male voice, refined, upper class
