The First Casualty

by Ben Elton

  ‘He’s a fast sort, isn’t he, sir, and no mistake?’ Banks whispered down the crackling line. ‘Brought a trunk full of wine in the boot of his staff car, although he don’t mind sharing it, I’ll give him that. But you won’t believe it, sir, he’s brought a girl with him as well. Bold as you please! All the way from Paris. Says he’s promised to show her some action and I think he means it!’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like Captain Shannon,’ Kingsley replied. ‘Could you please inform him that I have returned from the front and that I shall expect to see him at the Château Beaurivage at six o’clock this evening.’

  Having concluded this phone call, Kingsley rang the château and made suitable arrangements for his meeting with Shannon. When he emerged from the little booth the ageing proprietress was waiting for him.

  ‘What do I owe you, madame?’ he asked in French.

  The old painted woman waved a hand and mouthed the traditional French ‘Bof’, as if to say that such matters were of no consequence to her, before adding with a pantomime wink that she was always most happy to oblige the Military Police. Kingsley made his way back through the village and then on to the château, thinking of the sad establishment he had just left and of all the misery and suffering he had encountered in his life and then passed by. He thought of ‘Red’ Sean McAlistair in the prison canteen, taunting him for his apparent indifference to the condition of the poor. He thought of Kitty Murray, still a girl when she was brutalized by the police force that he served and loved. He thought of the Germans he had killed whilst ‘not participating’ in the war. His mind reeled at the daily compromises a man must make with misery and injustice simply to muddle through. He remembered that it had been only the sheer scale of horror that the war had brought which had caused him to take a moral stand. Kingsley reflected that in 1917 the twentieth century was not yet two decades old, but the quantity of human misery it had already witnessed was unparalleled in all history. He wondered what scale of suffering and injustice future generations would find it practical to accept before they took a stand. Or if, in fact, they would find it practical to take no stand at all.

  This was why he knew he must complete his case.

  Brutality, it was clear, had a cumulative effect on the people who perpetrated it and on those who witnessed it, numbing their senses to decency, until in the end it was difficult to remember what decency was. No matter how inconsequential his investigation might be within the wider picture, justice must be done. The concept that there was such a thing as right and wrong had to be maintained.

  Then Kingsley wondered whether he was fooling himself with these grand and sombre thoughts. A part of him strongly suspected that his dogged pursuit of evidence had more to do with vanity and pig-headedness than grand ideas of justice. Logic dictated that he would be doing more good by joining a stretcher party, as many other conscientious objectors had done. Whatever his reasons, however, Kingsley intended to see the case through to the end, and the end was approaching.

  As he neared the now-familiar house, he could see a splendid staff car parked outside and concluded that his acquaintance of London and Folkestone had arrived. At the front steps Captain Shannon came out to meet him. To Kingsley’s relief, Shannon appeared to have left his new girlfriend elsewhere.

  ‘Well, well, old boy,’ he said, ‘you have been in the wars, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I have,’ Kingsley replied.

  ‘Enjoy it?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Simple question, chum. Being in the wars. Did you enjoy it? A lot of us do, you know. We’re not all Sassoons by any means.’

  ‘I haven’t noticed many people enjoying it.’

  ‘Oh, not being shelled, of course, no one much likes that, or sitting in a puddle, or eating filthy rubbish and all the other dull business. But a battle, eh? Can’t deny there’s something about a battle…’

  ‘There is something absolutely hellish about a battle.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Shannon replied, looking at Kingsley with a thoughtful smile. ‘I wonder.’

  ‘I should like to talk to you, Captain. The rain’s holding off, shall we take a stroll?’

  ‘By all means, Captain, by all means. Did myself rather well in Gay Paree, I’m afraid. Too many rich sauces, too much foie gras.’

  Could use a little exercise.

  Together they went back down the gravel drive towards the woods, Shannon swinging along with his usual arrogant gait, splendid, as always, in his perfect uniform, looking as if he owned the whole estate.

  ‘I’m not saying war isn’t hellish, of course,’ Shannon remarked, swishing his swagger stick at the hedges that lined the drive. ‘Absolutely hellish, as you say. But there is an exhilaration too, surely? The point where you become blind to your own fear. It’s almost primeval, like being a beast of prey amongst other beasts. I mean, that’s where we came from, isn’t it? It must still be in us somewhere. I sometimes think that to feel truly, absolutely and completely alive, a chap has to be charging pell-mell into the teeth of death. Of course, no one who hasn’t done it could ever remotely understand.’

  ‘So you often observe.’

  ‘Not boring you, am I? I’d hate to think I was repeating myself. But, come on, Kingsley, you must admit that — ’

  ‘Marlowe.’

  ‘Oh, shove that rubbish, will you, Kingsley? I know you and, what’s more, I’d be prepared to wager that somewhere in the midst of the battles you’ve been through, you too felt alive. I mean really and truly alive in a way that you could never feel back home.’

  Kingsley did not answer. He did not wish to give Shannon the satisfaction of admitting that he had a point, for there was no doubt that the man had struck a chord. There was a curious and terrible thrill to being in a charge, Kingsley knew that now; he had felt it as he breasted the parapet and followed McCroon towards the German line. He had felt it as he leaped into the trench in pursuit of Abercrombie’s gun. He had felt it as he emptied his own gun into four Germans in succession and then managed to get the raiding party out in relatively good order. It was not that he remotely enjoyed killing, but to be a part of a furious mêlée, to be in the thick of a life-and-death struggle, to be an animal once more, existing exclusively on one’s animal instincts…It was in some ways exhilarating, and Shannon was right, primeval was a good word to use. However, one thing was certain, he had not enjoyed it, as Shannon was claiming to do. And so he determined not to discuss the idea further.

  ‘I want to talk about the Abercrombie case. I want to finish it so that I can leave this damned place.’

  ‘Ah yes, and sneak off to Botany Bay with a new name and passport, eh?’ Shannon replied. ‘Your message to Cumming said you were reaching your conclusions. Fire away, I must say I’m agog.’

  They were approaching the trees now, the same trees under which Kingsley and Nurse Murray had first made love.

  ‘I knew it would be you who came,’ Kingsley replied. ‘When I sent my message I knew that you’d come.’

  ‘I’m your contact. Who else would come?’

  ‘All the same, I knew that it would be you.

  ‘Missing me, I expect. I have that effect on all the girls.’

  ‘You are, of course, aware that Hopkins did not kill Abercrombie?’

  ‘Of course. They released him. Bullet didn’t fit, sensational bit of news. Sir Mansfield assured me that Lloyd George was thrilled, no more class war. The union’s satisfied, MacDonald and all those self-righteous novelists and playwrights happy as larks. The Tories have been forced to stop Red-baiting. The only sour note is Lord Abercrombie’s not unnatural interest in who actually did kill his bloody son, but that’s not a political issue after all.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Ah-ha. So Sherlock Holmes has surprises to reveal. Well, come on, man, spit it out, I can see you’re dying to. What of this shadowy officer who was seen? I presume it was him who did it.’

  ‘I know who that was. A young subaltern named Stam
ford. Abercrombie’s lover.’

  ‘Lover? I say, that is juicy. So the people’s hero was a bugger, eh? Bloody poet, you see. Should have guessed.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t know?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Well, what with you being Secret Service and all.’

  ‘We don’t know everything. In fact the truth is we know very little. It’s all show with us.’

  Now they were well amongst the trees, Kingsley felt that they must be nearly at the exact spot where he had made love to Nurse Murray. Involuntarily he found himself wondering for a moment what Agnes was doing.

  ‘I saw your lovely wife again,’ said Shannon, almost as if he had been reading Kingsley’s thoughts. ‘Felt I ought to, you know, since it was me who arranged your death. See how she was and all that. She’s a fine-looking woman though, isn’t she?’

  Kingsley remained silent but he could feel his fists clenching as a surge of rage swept through his body.

  ‘Don’t you want to know how she was? How I was received and all that…?’ Shannon sneered.

  ‘We are discussing my assignment, Captain.’

  ‘…Not warmly, as it happens. Proud piece, your missus. God knows why, considering she married you. What she needs is a proper breaking-in. Damned if I don’t fancy the job myself.’

  ‘We are discussing,’ Kingsley said, struggling to keep his voice steady, ‘the Abercrombie murder.’

  ‘I thought you just said Stamford killed him? Lovers’ tiff, I suppose. God, this’ll be a nasty one to explain away to the press.’

  ‘Stamford did not kill Abercrombie.’

  ‘I thought you claimed he was the shadowy officer?’

  He was one of the shadowy officers.’

  ‘There was more than one?’

  ‘Yes. There were two. McCroon and Nurse Murray saw two different officers.’

  ‘Ah yes, Nurse Murray. Top-hole little filly to take over the jumps. More fire than a furnace, more spirit than a distillery.’

  ‘We are discussing the — ’

  ‘Did you have a crack at her? More your type than mine, I imagine, at least intellectually. All that politics, not for me, so dull. Not that I bed a bint for her conversation. And too skinny, of course. Why do girls these days want to look like boys?’

  ‘Captain Shannon, you are trying my patience!’

  Kingsley blurted it out and knew immediately that he had dropped his guard. Shannon leaned languidly against a tree, a sneer upon his face.

  ‘Oh dear, have I touched a nerve? I rather think I have. Perhaps the good captain has taken his comfort where he could find it? She don’t half scratch, eh? And bloody strong, considering she’s practically a midget.’

  Kingsley struggled to master his rage. He understood very well that Shannon was deliberately making him angry.

  ‘The mistake that was made in the early part of this investigation,’ Kingsley said, slowly and clearly, ‘was to presume that the two eyewitness reports regarding an officer leaving Abercrombie’s room referred to the same man. They did not. I know this because McCroon told me that Nurse Murray was still in the room with Hopkins when he left it. Hence the man with the music case who pushed past McCroon immediately thereafter could not have been the same man that Nurse Murray saw when she left the room some time later. Abercrombie was visited by two officers on the night of his death. Subaltern Stamford was the first of them and it was he whom McCroon sighted.’

  Shannon shrugged and then, as was his habit, lit a fresh cigarette from the burning stub of the previous one, as if to say that, much as he would like to, he could not get overexcited about Kingsley’s revelations.

  ‘You interviewed McCroon in the field, didn’t you?’ Shannon drawled.

  ‘Yes, I did. We shared a shell hole for a short time.’

  ‘Cool bit of work, I must say. Well done. You’ve made quite a soldier, haven’t you? I saw the medal citation that Colonel Hilton submitted after you shot up that Hun trench. Cumming and I shared a smile when that came through. Nice work for a conscientious objector, we thought. So much for all that bloody ‘offended logic’ you used to bang on about ad nauseum. How many blameless, innocent Germans do you think you killed, by the way?’

  Now it was Kingsley’s turn to chain-light a cigarette. He was rarely rattled by anybody but Shannon had a curious ability to get under his skin.

  ‘So the obvious question is — ’ Kingsley began, having drawn deeply on his fag.

  ‘Do they bother you,’ Shannon insisted, ‘those dead Germans? Do you dream about them at night? Can you still see their faces? Bet you can.’

  ‘If Nurse Murray did not see Stamford — ’

  ‘I mean, what an appalling moral balls-up for you, eh? You ruin your life, let down your beautiful wife and desert your son so as not to kill Germans, and within days of arriving in France you’re slaughtering them by the bloody trenchful. Damned strange way to claim the moral high ground, if you ask — ’

  ‘If Nurse Murray did not see Stamford,’ Kingsley continued, calmly and firmly, ‘who did she see? And I think we both know the answer to that question, don’t we, Captain Shannon? Because the officer Nurse Murray saw was you.’

  Shannon smiled and stepped away from the tree on which he had been leaning. His stance was no longer quite so nonchalant; the cigarette still hung lazily from his lips but nonetheless he looked ready.

  ‘Me? Inspector Kingsley,’ Shannon drawled, and this time Kingsley did not bother to correct his name, ‘why would she have seen me?’

  ‘I should have spotted it earlier — in fact Nurse Murray gave me the clue without knowing it on the first day I met her, but I only understood its significance when I realized that there had to have been two officers sighted.’

  ‘And what did the delightful but rather violent Nurse Murray tell you?’

  ‘She said, ‘First Captain Shannon came. Then we had the murder and the police said they’d solved it and now you turn up.’ Do you hear that, Captain? First Captain Shannon came. You did not go to France to interview the witnesses in the case, you were already there.’

  The ash was growing longer on Shannon’s cigarette but he did not flick it off.

  ‘I never denied it. I’m a soldier, where else would I be but France?’

  ‘But you weren’t in combat. You had already been seconded to the Security Service. You were here on spy duties, looking at the likes of Hopkins and McCroon, weren’t you?’

  Shannon shrugged once more and the ash fell.

  ‘Yes, I was, as a matter of fact, and I would have told you so had you asked. Now that Kerensky’s gone in Russia and Lenin’s in, our number-one fear is Bolshevism in our own ranks. But what, if you’ll forgive me for asking, has any of that to do with Abercrombie ?’

  ‘Well, Abercrombie may not have been a Bolshevik but he was no longer quite the standard-bearer for British arms that he had been, was he?’

  ‘Wasn’t he?’

  ‘I think you know he wasn’t. Abercrombie was totally disillusioned with the war. His view was graphically described in his recent poetry and, what is more, he intended to do something about it.’

  ‘You seem to know rather a lot about a chap who died before you had a chance to meet him. Have you been consulting a spiritualist?’

  ‘No, no. Just reliable witnesses. In the last days of his life Viscount Abercrombie had been anxious to secure a green envelope, whereby he might send a letter home that would escape the eye of the censor.’

  Shannon’s hand was resting on the leather cover of his holster now. Kingsley had not seen Shannon’s arm move towards it but, nonetheless, there his hand was, fingers toying with the little button that secured the flap. Shannon smiled a patronizing smile.

  ‘Amazing how soldiers believe that ‘green envelope’ rubbish,’ he drawled through his cigarette smoke. ‘For heaven’s sake, if we want to read a man’s letters we read them, whatever colour the envelope is.’

  ‘Abercrombie had already had one le
tter refused him. His colonel had picked up the one in which he was attempting to resign his commission and refused it passage. But this wasn’t a letter to the army, was it? Otherwise it would have been an internal matter. So to whom was Abercrombie writing? Not his mother, I think. What possible help could she be in the matter? His father perhaps? Hardly, I doubt the Tory Chief Whip in the House of Lords would be very sympathetic. No, my view is that he was writing to a newspaper. He intended, in fact, to follow directly in the footsteps of Siegfried Sassoon. Colonel Hilton, perceiving the disastrous effect that this change of heart would have at home, came to see Abercrombie here at Château Beaurivage and attempted to get him to change his mind. Furthermore, he explained that if Abercrombie would not reconsider, the colonel intended to forward the inflammatory letter to Staff HQ. This he did.’

  ‘And you think that the letter came to me?’

  ‘I cannot imagine who else they would give it to other than the senior security officer on the ground. Your brief was to deal with mutiny and here was mutiny indeed, and of the most inflammatory kind. A decorated officer refusing to serve? The author of ‘Forever England’ denouncing the war as stupid and wicked? It would take a far less astute mind than yours, Captain, to deduce that this was a very dangerous letter indeed.’

  Shannon had flipped the button on the cover of his holster, so that the leather flap was hanging loose.

  ‘Here was a man,’ Kingsley continued, ‘who could do far more damage to morale than working-class Socialists like Hopkins and McCroon could ever do. They had always been against the war. Abercrombie, like Sassoon, had been turned against it, which is far more corrosive. And Abercrombie was a much worse case than Sassoon: certainly they had both been decorated for valour, but Abercrombie had been a celebrated jingoist, he was the son of a senior Conservative politician, a British aristocrat…’

  ‘He was a lily-livered swine, that’s what he was,’ Shannon snarled, for the first time losing something of his sangfroid. ‘A damned turncoat about to let the side down with a bloody almighty clunk.’