by R. N. Morris
‘I forbid you to talk of it!’ The force of her anger was shocking. He flinched away from her glare. In a barely audible whisper that nevertheless snapped hold of his attention, she added: ‘Here.’
He turned a look of appeal on her. ‘Where then?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘We could try again. A …’ Quinn gave a nervous nod to indicate a vast range of possibilities. ‘But … would Aunt Constance have to come?’
‘No.’
He didn’t know whether that ‘No’ was a refusal of his invitation or a reassurance that Aunt Constance would not be there.
‘If you’re saying all this just to get to see Sir Edward …’
‘No, that’s not it at all.’
‘It won’t do you any good. You report to Assistant Commissioner Thompson now. That’s what he said. Whatever you might want to say to Sir Edward, you should take to the assistant commissioner.’
‘Sergeant Macadam has been shot.’
‘Yes, I heard. I’m sorry.’
‘I want to be put in charge of the investigation.’
‘Sir Edward can’t help you. His hands are tied. This war has got everyone jumpy. And I hate to say it, but at this moment in time, your enemies are more powerful than your friends. The only way you’ll get what you want is if your enemies wish it.’
‘My enemies have me right where they want me.’
The look she gave him softened. If it was not enough to give him hope, it at least encouraged him to believe that she was not one of those enemies.
TWENTY-THREE
St James’s Park had been turned into a military camp. A squadron of soldiers was being put through its paces by a hoarse NCO. In another part of the park, bloodcurdling cries went up as trainees lunged at sandbags hung from makeshift wooden frames with fearsome bayonets. Officers with their canes tucked under their arms strode purposely about everywhere. There was the sense of a tremendous effort being made – an effort to keep busy while waiting for the real action. Every order was barked at full voice. Every boot came down with a decisive stomp. Steps were hurried. Eyes were eager. The air crackled with the energy of fighting men held back from the fight.
Quinn and Inchball walked in silence. Five minutes earlier, Quinn had caught his former sergeant’s eye and signalled for him to meet him outside. Inchball’s nod of acknowledgement had been minimal.
They came to Horse Guards Parade, where a marquee had been erected to deal with the rush of men to enlist. The recruiting office at Old Scotland Yard was struggling to cope. There were reports of men waiting eight hours without being able to get in. Even now there was a long line of men queuing outside the marquee.
The two police officers stopped for a moment and watched.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Inchball.
‘You’re going to enlist?’ said Quinn.
‘I don’t see how I cannot.’
‘It’s that feather’s got to you.’
‘No. I was already thinking about it before she gave it me. After the news came in of Mons. Our boys are dying in their droves out there. I can’t stand by.’
‘You have a duty here.’
‘What? Enforcing DORA regulations? Teaching the public how to queue at bus stops?’ This had indeed been a duty that some bobbies had been called upon to fulfil.
‘I was thinking more of Macadam.’
‘I haven’t forgotten about Mac.’
‘Well?’
‘I won’t do anything until we’ve caught the bastard who shot him.’
‘It’s going to be up to you, Inchball. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Me?’
‘I don’t hold out much hope of Leversedge and Coddington cracking the case, do you?’
‘You can’t leave it to them, guv. You’re going to have to take it over.’
‘I can’t get near it. I’m what you might call persona non grata. They’re edging me out.’
‘But Mac was your sergeant!’
‘Cuts no ice. He’s not my sergeant now. I want you to get yourself on the case.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. They’re pulling in officers left, right and centre. One of our own goes down, it’s what happens. Then there’s the foreign agent angle.’
‘That still the line they’re pursuing?’
‘Only line they’ve got.’
‘Have they spoken to the family?’
‘They’ve taken statements. Nothing significant has come to light, as far as I know. Family’s in a terrible state, as you’d expect. It’s hit them like a bolt from the blue. Mother’s in bits. Has been since the girl went missing, from what I hear. Father’s trying to hold it together but I’m told the strain’s beginning to show even on him. She had a brother too. Twins, they were, apparently. It’s hit him specially hard. He’s the one who found her, see. So, you can imagine. Father’s a Baptist minister. Pillar of the community and all that. Not the sort of family this kind of thing happens to. That’s what people are saying.’
‘What family is?’
Inchball looked at his former boss closely without answering.
‘I need you to be my eyes and ears on this.’
Inchball nodded.
‘I can’t just sit around waiting for them to share the file when it suits them. By then it will be too late. Leads will have been lost.’
‘Whatever you need.’
The red-faced screams of a sergeant major drilling some ragged squaddies into shape drew their attention.
Inchball consulted his pocket watch. ‘Are you heading back?’
‘You go. It’s better we’re not seen together. Better for you. Besides, I have an appointment.’
The two men nodded, one in confirmation, the other in appreciation, and went their separate ways.
Quinn took his seat in the nondescript room in the Admiralty.
‘I need to speak to Kell.’
Commander Irons let out a deep sigh. ‘That’s not how this works.’
‘I was told my contact would be Kell.’
‘No. You were never told that. You might have been told that your contact would be Kell or A. N. Other intelligence officer.’
‘I have not seen Kell once.’
‘There has been no need. I tell Lieutenant-Colonel Kell everything that he needs to know.’
‘I thought he was Major Kell?’
‘He’s been promoted.’
Quinn shook his head in frustration. ‘What is the point of all this?’
‘Our work has a vital role to play in the war effort.’
‘One of my officers has been shot.’
‘Yes, I heard about that. My understanding was that he was a former officer of yours.’
‘I have to be put in charge of the investigation. You need to tell Kell that.’
‘The allocation of officers within the CID is a matter for the police authorities alone.’
‘You could make it happen, if you wanted to.’
‘It’s outside our bailiwick.’
‘There are briefings occurring to which I am not invited. MO5(g) and the CID are working together without me.’
‘And what? They are talking about you behind your back? Listen to yourself, Quinn. Do you know what you sound like? You sound like a man who has just come out of a lunatic asylum. My advice to you: stop thinking the world is against you. That it’s you versus every bugger else. It’s not. It’s us versus Germany. You have a role to play. Play it.’
‘I can be useful to the investigation.’
‘You’re not a soldier, are you? Never have been?’
‘No.’
‘Thought not. A soldier doesn’t question his orders.’
‘I’m a policeman. A detective. A detective questions everything.’
‘There is a war on, you know. That’s all that bloody matters, when it comes down to it.’
Quinn took a moment to consider Irons’ point of view. He suddenly saw that as far as the authorities were concerned, it didn�
��t matter who’d actually killed Eve Cardew, or even who had taken a potshot at Macadam. What mattered was whether the crimes could be used to manipulate public sentiment against the Germans.
There was no room for detectives in war.
But still. It was not in Quinn’s nature to let this go unchallenged. ‘My understanding is that the officers investigating the case are pursuing the theory that this is the work of a foreign agent. A German spy, I suppose.’
‘It’s an eminently valid theory.’
‘There is no evidence for it.’
‘That’s the police’s job. To find the evidence.’
‘We usually approach cases with more of an open mind.’
‘Really? You don’t just round up the usual suspects, pick the likeliest and fit him up for it?’
‘Other officers may employ such methods, I do not.’
‘No? You’re far more likely to shoot the suspect dead before he is able to answer whatever questions you may have to put to him.’
‘You’re a soldier. You know how it is.’
‘It’s not for me to teach you your job, Quinn. I’m sure you’re a perfectly decent detective. But you have to understand, the world does not revolve around you. There are other concerns at work here of which you know nothing. Of which you can never know. You are a cog, and a cog’s job is to rotate when subject to external force. Is that understood?’
Quinn turned his head sharply as if he had been slapped. He stared in mute appeal at the blank wall opposite.
TWENTY-FOUR
Timberley looked down at the fine white feather in his palm. If he didn’t look at it, he wouldn’t know it was there, so weightless and insubstantial was it. A thing of nothing, spun from nothing. And yet when he looked at it, the weight of it was unbearable. He felt its cold, dark gravity somewhere inside him, oppressing his heart with a burden of shame. He did not think how could she have done this? He did not think she was cruel. His only thought was the one that he gave voice to now: ‘We have to do it. And we have to do it today.’
‘Of course, I agree, without question.’
‘We’ll go together. Enlist in the same regiment. That will be bully.’ Timberley sensed some constraint – reluctance even – in his friend’s demeanour. ‘What is it?’
‘Nothing … only … I had thought of applying for a commission.’
‘Well, of course, you must do whatever you think is best for you. But I think it’s nobler somehow to serve in the ranks as a regular soldier. I don’t think I’m officer material, Appleby. But if some chap tells me what to do, I’ll do it all right.’
‘No, yes, you’re right.’
‘Besides, I can’t put it off any longer. If you want to apply for a commission, go ahead. I shall not. I intend to become a soldier today.’
Timberley saw the look of calculation come over Appleby. He knew what he was thinking all right. It all came down to one question. Who would steal a march on whom when it came to Mary?
No doubt she would look favourably on an officer. But applying for and receiving a commission would take time, and was by no means a certain endeavour. The one who enlisted today would gain the immediate advantage. There was also the romanticism of the gesture to be taken into account. For a young man of good background, from a good public school, Oxford-educated to boot, to volunteer to serve as a regular soldier in the ranks was akin to joining the Foreign Legion.
Appleby must have come to a similar conclusion. ‘You’re absolutely right. We’ll go today. No moment like the present. That’s what I say.’
Timberley was glad. On the whole, he would rather have his friend there with him. And if they could get themselves in the same battalion, so much the better. ‘I say, Appleby, this isn’t about Mary, you know.’
‘God, no!’
‘Well, in one way it is, I suppose.’ Timberley felt himself blush. Some truths were hard to own up to. ‘I mean, I know she was the one who shoved these damnable things under our door.’ He continued to stare fixedly at the feather. ‘I do so hate the idea of her … contempt. That is to say, I would prefer to know that she held me in some esteem. But it is too late for that, I fear.’ Timberley broke off and was lost for a moment in silent contemplation. ‘No, really, I’m doing this because I believe it is the right thing to do.’
‘Yes, me too.’
Timberley slowly raised the hand holding the feather, as if he were lifting something of great value or weight. ‘I have no … expectations. No hope. It is all the same to me whether I live or die. And so, I might as well fight.’
‘There’s no need to be so glum about it, Timbers, old chap.’
‘I’m not glum, Apples. But one may as well face up to what one is getting into. And why.’
He slipped the feather into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
It was rotten luck. But his beastly asthma flared up on the way to the recruiting office. The shortness of breath and the harshness in his lungs set off a coughing fit that left Timberley hot and weakened. The handkerchief he held in front of his mouth was sodden with mucus.
Timberley felt the first tightening of his chest when they called in at the Natural History Museum. Appleby reckoned it was only fair to give old Gahan notice of what they were intending. Besides, they couldn’t just not turn up for work.
Several rooms in the basement of the museum were given over to the Department of Entomology for storing specimens and carrying out research work, dark, subterranean chambers which seemed somehow appropriate for the study of exotic beetles. The Endopterygota room was an Aladdin’s cave for entomologists; each specimen tray glistened like a tray of gems in a Hatton Garden jeweller’s shop. Sunlight never penetrated the walls. The exclusively artificial lighting gave the room a curious, almost magical atmosphere, as if it were a realm cast under a fairy spell. It was easy to become engrossed in one’s work there, and lose track of time and what was happening in the outside world. The air was charged with a vertiginous energy. The dark wood tables were washed with a silvery glow. Their gravity and substance evaporated. On one of them, a tray of pinned specimens lay open. The beam from an electric light appeared to be transfixed by the garish colours of the beetles. It seemed to be communing with them, seeking to draw them up into the air. And they were on the cusp of taking wing.
An Irishman in his early fifties, Charles Gahan, Keeper of the Department of Entomology, was unexpectedly emotional. ‘My boys! My boys!’ he cried. ‘For I think of myself as something of a father figure to you both. I must say, it is a sad day for me, but also a proud day. I confess, I was of the mind that you would better serve your country by staying here and dedicating yourself to your work; you, Mr Timberley, with Chrysomeloidea; and you, Mr Appleby, with your research into the diversity of Cupedidae. But reading the reports in The Times the other day has changed my mind. And when the lists came in, those terrible lists of the wounded and the missing and the dead, well, then I realized I could not be so selfish and keep you to myself. I must let you go if it came to it. And today, I see, it has come to it.’
His eyes were dewy as he shook their hands, holding on to them for as long as possible with both his hands and only letting go with great reluctance.
‘You have my blessing, of course you do.’
It was at that point that Timberley felt the ratcheting sensation across his chest and the breath went from him as suddenly as if he had been punched in the solar plexus.
Emotion overwhelmed him. He told himself it was a mixture of pride and love and honour, if honour could be an emotion. But there was also a slight nagging sense of something that might have been disappointment. Had he secretly wanted Gahan to try to talk them out of enlisting? Was that part of their motive, so far unacknowledged, in coming to see their supervisor? Of course, they would have resisted his entreaties, but it would have added even more to the poignancy of the moment. And, who knows, he might have swayed them.
The acknowledgement of that shameful hope was another ratchet on the chain th
at was wound around his chest. Mary had been right to give him the feather. It was no more or less than he deserved.
He found it impossible both to speak and continue breathing. A chair was brought for him and he was encouraged to sit down.
‘Are you well enough to do this?’ asked Appleby. ‘Perhaps we should wait a day?’
Timberley shook his head. ‘Today,’ he managed to wheeze.
The medicinal cigarette he smoked on the top deck of the number 9 bus gave some short-lived relief, but a second attack of coughing nearly finished him off.
At the sight of the crowds of men milling on Horse Guards Parade, the tightness in his chest returned. There was something humbling about it, so many men with the same intent: to sign up to fight for their country. At the same time, it was the moment that their intentions became reality.
They had to stand in line for two hours before they made it into the marquee. Timberley took advantage of the delay to smoke a couple more cigarettes, although he had to abandon the second as it provoked another bout of coughing.
They were given a critical once-over by a red-headed sergeant major, who did not seem overly impressed by the sight of them, nor by the sacrifice that their presence implied. It seemed to be all the same to him whether they joined the army or not, which Timberley had to confess he found rather discouraging. He had imagined that they would be welcomed with open arms and lavished with rapturous praise. Instead, they were told to sit at one of the long tables to fill in the forms he gave them.
When Appleby raised his hand to say they had finished their forms, the sergeant major answered him sarcastically, ‘Aren’t you the clever one!’ which Timberley had to say he found unnecessary. But he supposed there was a point to the fellow’s rudeness.
Eventually, they were told where to go to see the doctor for the medical examination. Timberley felt a fresh spike of abrasiveness inside his lungs.
He let Appleby go first and watched nervously as his friend was weighed and measured. He then read rows of letters of diminishing size off a card, before having his chest listened to through a stethoscope.
‘You’ll do,’ pronounced the doctor, signing him fit to serve on his form. ‘You can wait there for your friend, if you like, then you can both be sworn in together.’ He turned blandly to Timberley. ‘Your turn now.’