by Ben Elton
‘Except that you did not intend to let him, did you? So late one night you crept into the château, that same château which housed the revolutionary troublemaker Hopkins, one of the very men you had gone to France to deal with. What a happy coincidence, simply too good to miss. Two birds with one stone, eh? Dispose of a national embarrassment and frame a Bolshevik into the bargain.’
For all that Shannon had tried to provoke Kingsley, it was now Shannon who was the angry one. He spoke with bitter venom.
‘How do you think the other fellows would have felt? The ones still in the trenches doing their duty? How would they have felt to learn that national bloody hero Abercrombie thought they were all sheep, cattle! Fools making a pointless sacrifice?’
‘So you entered the viscount’s room, took up one of his boots to act as a silencer and then shot him through the heel of it as he slept.’
Something in Shannon seemed to change. He had made a decision and so once more was his old, relaxed, arrogant self.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,’ he said with a shrug and an easy smile. ‘I rather liked the macabre little detail of there being only one boot left at the scene, like in a novel. You know, the thing that defies all logic and baffles the investigation. Not that I intended there to be any investigation.’
‘Because you planned to pose as a staff officer and call off the Military Police.’
‘Yes.’
‘A Colonel Willow.’
‘Mmm. Don’t know why I picked that. Constance Willow was the first girl I tupped — that must have been it, although God knows why. A servant, don’t you know. Often the way, I’ve found, talking to other chaps.’
‘So you shot Abercrombie and no doubt intended to plant your gun on poor deranged Hopkins, but then you noticed that Abercrombie still had his gun amongst his kit. A most unusual circumstance for a hospital patient, I’m sure.’
‘Yes, I hadn’t expected it.’
‘But having seen it you couldn’t resist the added detail. It would always have appeared strange that Hopkins had had a gun available to him, but to have snatched up Abercrombie’s own gun in a moment of madness, that was much more plausible. An added touch which seemed brilliant at the time but which was, of course, to lead to your undoing.’
‘Well, obviously I never dreamed that a ridiculous figure like yourself would think to go sneaking about the place digging up corpses and comparing bullets. Too clever for my own good, I suppose.’
‘No, Captain Shannon, you are not. I am. Because it was only your plan to frame Hopkins for Abercrombie’s murder that sparked the political row which brought me into the game in the first place. If you had just sneaked in and killed him, you probably would have got away with it.’
‘Oh, I think you’ll find that I did get away with it, old boy.’
Whilst still maintaining his same easy smile Shannon lifted the leather flap of his holster and rested his hand on the butt of his gun. Kingsley had on an officer’s greatcoat, and there did not appear to be anything so large as a weapon secreted within it.
‘So you pocketed your own smoking weapon,’ Kingsley continued, ‘took up Abercrombie’s and fired it once, no doubt out of the window. I’m sure that if we searched for long enough we should find a bullet lodged in one of these trees hereabouts, or perhaps a slaughtered squirrel.’
‘Probably,’ Shannon agreed, affecting a yawn. ‘I’m such a damned superb shot that I’d probably hit something even at random in the dark.’
‘You then took up the ruined boot and Abercrombie’s smoking pistol, crept into the next-door ward and deposited the incriminating gun on Hopkins’s bed. Having done that you made a hasty exit, walking away from the ward up the corridor. It was then that Nurse Murray returned, having forgotten to take away the needle she had administered to a patient earlier. She saw your back as you made your retreat. Later on, when she heard about the murder, she of course drew the mistaken conclusion that the mystery officer had departed from Abercrombie’s room, when in fact it was Hopkins’s ward that you had just left.’
‘Ah, the lovely Nurse Murray.’
Shannon’s hand closed around the butt of his gun.
‘Yes, the lovely Nurse Murray,’ said a voice from within the trees.
Nurse Murray stepped out from the foliage in which she had been hiding, holding in front of her, in both hands, a German officer’s magazine-loaded Mauser pistol, cocked and in the approved firing position.
‘Take your hand away from that holster, Captain, or I shall shoot. You know very well that I have good cause.’
‘Well, well, well,’ Shannon drawled, ‘what’s this, Kingsley? An accomplice?’
Shannon had not yet moved his hand away from his gun. Perhaps he was about to, or perhaps he was going to draw it. Nurse Murray was clearly in no mood to wait. She lowered her sights, pointed the gun at Shannon’s groin and squeezed the trigger.
As the report of the shot rang round the surrounding trees, Shannon stood for a moment, his face a mixture of shock and horror, then he looked down. Already a dark crimson stain was growing at his fly.
‘Think about what has just happened to you, Captain,’ Nurse Murray said calmly. ‘Think about what a bullet there means.’
Shannon sank to his knees, his head bowed, contemplating the ruination of his manhood. Then he raised his face to Murray, agony etched in every line, agony and blind fury. He screamed, a long, cold, blood-curdling scream. A scream that was both horrified and horrifying.
‘You’ll rape no more,’ Nurse Murray whispered and then cocked her gun again.
‘No!’ Kingsley cried.
It was too late. Nurse Murray shot Shannon through the middle of his forehead, so that his whole body lurched backwards and spread itself upon the ground. Stone dead.
Kingsley was lost for words. Nurse Murray spoke first.
‘He was a rapist and a murderer. Any English court would have hanged him if they had the chance. I have just saved everybody a whole lot of trouble.’
Kingsley found his voice.
‘An English court might well have hanged him, Kitty, but they would have tried him first.’
‘This is war. We just had his trial and heard his confession and he’s met a damn sight fairer fate than is afforded to most poor fellows out here.’
‘When I asked you to follow us and to cover him…’
‘Look, I didn’t set out to shoot him but when I heard him confess to murder and saw him go for his gun, or very nearly go for it, quite frankly I thought, why not? He raped me, do you understand that? And, what is more, in a most appalling and unnatural manner, if one rape can be considered more unnatural than another, which I don’t know that it can. However, one thing is certain, Captain Shannon was a very, very bad man.’
‘Yes,’ Kingsley admitted quietly, ‘I know that.’
‘Of all the Englishmen who will die in France today or on any day, I think, his is the best death. The only good one.’
‘Yes. I believe that is true.’
‘So you approve of what I did?’
‘No…I don’t.’
‘Well, that’s just bloody stupid. But then, from what Shannon said, you seem to be a bit mixed up over your morals in general.’
Nurse Murray stepped forward and inspected the corpse for a moment.
‘I’m going to get my bike,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Because I can’t carry that bastard all the way to Ypres, can I? I’m going to wrap him up in an army blanket, sling him over the pillion and go and dump him in a shell hole.’
Kingsley joined Nurse Murray by the corpse, bending down to remove Shannon’s gun from its holster and pocketing it, together with his papers.
‘I think that’s too risky. A body on the back of a motorcycle so far from the action might attract comment. It’ll be dark in twenty minutes, we’ll put him in his staff car.’
‘You’ll help me?’
‘Yes, I’ll help you. Justice has been done.’
And so, under cover of the night, Kingsley and Murray loaded the corpse of Shannon into the boot of the big staff car that Shannon had arrived in and took it as far up the line as they could get. Then Kingsley shouldered the corpse, and walked with it in a fireman’s lift out along the duckboard pathways. He had not gone far when he came upon a dressing station. There was a steady stream of stretcher-bearers and walking wounded approaching it and nobody took any notice of the fact that Kingsley was coming from the opposite direction to the rest of them. As Kingsley had guessed, a man carrying a wounded comrade in whatever direction caused no comment whatsoever in the dark confusion to the rear of a massive battle. The one thing on earth least likely to provoke interest in Flanders that cruel autumn was a dead body.
Kingsley approached the front of the large tent where an RAMC orderly was making initial assessments of the wounded, the dying and the dead. Kingsley put the body down on the ground and the orderly glanced at it.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but he’s dead. Nothing we can do for him.’
Kingsley shrugged. The orderly summoned a passing stretcher-bearer and nodded towards Shannon’s corpse. The bearer picked it up and took it to a large horse-drawn limber upon which were piled at least twenty other mutilated, lifeless bodies. Kingsley watched for a moment. The medical orderly had already turned away to assess another bloody human ruin, and the stretcher-bearer, having deposited the corpse, also moved on to his next weary job. Kingsley turned away too, leaving Captain Shannon to be buried as one of the many unidentified casualties of the Third Battle of Ypres.
Kingsley returned to the car, where Nurse Murray was waiting. ‘Just as a matter of interest,’ she enquired as they began their journey back, ‘if I hadn’t shot him, what were you intending to do with him?’
‘I was going to have him held at Armentières until I had made my report to his superior.’
‘And what do you think would have happened then?’
‘I think probably they would have quietly court-martialled him and shot him.’
‘You really think so? For obeying orders? I think they would have quietly shot you.’
‘I do not believe Shannon’s superiors ordered him to shoot Abercrombie. I believe he acted on his own initiative.’
‘Ha!’
‘That is what I believe.’
‘Ha!’ Nurse Murray repeated.
They drove on in silence for a little while.
‘So your name is Kingsley then? Not Marlowe?’ Murray asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’re not a military policeman either, are you?’
‘No, I am not.’
‘There was a detective called Kingsley, wasn’t there? A very famous one, but he went to prison and he died.’
‘Yes. That’s right, he died.’
Again there was silence.
‘This is a rum business, isn’t it?’ Nurse Murray said finally.
‘Very.’
‘I’ve never killed anyone before, you know.’
And then Nurse Murray burst into tears. Kingsley drove on while she wept.
‘You mustn’t cry, Kitty,’ he said eventually, ‘because you were right. It was a good death. The right result. The logical result.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it any more,’ Nurse Murray replied, trying to dry her eyes and light a cigarette all at once. ‘I don’t want to talk about it ever again.’
FIFTY-TWO
Back from the dead
Kingsley took Nurse Murray back to Château Beaurivage, where he asked to be allowed to collect Abercrombie’s poems. Having now learned of the viscount’s ambitions to resign his commission, Nurse Murray agreed to hand them over to him.
‘Perhaps we shall meet again some day,’ Kingsley said.
‘Oh, I expect I shall pretty soon meet some marvellous chap and forget all about you,’ she replied. ‘Whoever you are.’
She turned and ran back up the steps into the château, clearly fearful that she would cry again. Kingsley drove the staff car to the nearest civilian main-line station and, having telegraphed Cumming to announce his return, began his journey back to Britain.
One week later, a cab drew up outside the Kingsley household in Hampstead and a smartly dressed officer emerged into the evening gloom.
The officer had written:
Darling Rose, You will know by this ring which I am returning to you that I am alive and well. I have had an adventure and now it is over. I am returning to you but I return under another name, that of Robert my brother…
In his letter Kingsley told his wife the whole story, from the moment she had left him in Brixton Prison to the point when he and Kitty Murray had dumped Shannon’s body and he had retrieved Abercrombie’s poems. He was almost entirely frank, leaving out only certain details concerning Nurse Murray. Kingsley had agonized considerably on his journey home as to whether he should tell Agnes the truth about his relationship with Kitty. He had never deceived Agnes before and he hated to do so now. In the end, however, he had decided that he must never speak of it. It had happened, that was all. It had happened at a time when he thought Agnes was lost to him (although he knew Agnes would not consider that fact to be remotely mitigating), and he intended to bury the memory of Nurse Murray deep in his heart forever. Apart from that, he related his adventure with absolute candour, knowing that this was the only time the story would ever be told. He concluded:
I returned to England last week and met Sir Mansfield Cumming at my hotel in Victoria. There I told him of Shannon’s guilt and also that Shannon was now dead. Here, I embellished the truth a little, not wishing to incriminate Nurse Murray. I told Cumming that Shannon had resisted arrest, that he and I had exchanged shots and that he had lost. Cumming seemed genuinely shocked at what I had discovered and I still honestly believe that he knew nothing about Shannon’s crime until I revealed it to him. I told him that I had proof of Shannon’s guilt in the shape of Nurse Murray, a corroborating witness to his confession, and that I also had Shannon’s gun, which I was sure would match the bullet that killed Abercrombie.
I offered Cumming a deal. I told him that if the true facts were ever known, his department would be finished and he along with it; Abercrombie’s father would see to that. I offered to cover up my discoveries and submit a confidential report stating that whilst I had been able to clear Hopkins of the murder, I had been unable to ascertain who had done it. This, of course, meant that the ‘killed in action’ story could stand without further complications. I told him, however, that I would only do this if two conditions were met. First, a small selection of Abercrombie’s last poems must be published posthumously in order that the world might learn of that great hero ‘s disillusionment. Secondly, that I be allowed to assume the identity of my dead brother. I told Cumming that it must be announced that Robert had in fact been a prisoner in Germany for the past year but that he had now escaped and returned to Britain. Robert and I shared a distinct resemblance and, although he was three years my junior, prison camp would surely age a man. Most of his friends are dead, and of course he never married; you will recall how often you tried to match-make for him, without success. Darling, please agree to this unusual deception! This way George will have a father who was brave enough to protest the war and an uncle who was brave enough to fight in it. Ironically, the father died and the uncle lived, an uncle who very much wishes to be a father to his nephew.
He signed his letter: ‘Douglas. For the last time.’
There had been an agonizing wait of twenty-four hours before Agnes had replied. Kingsley clutched her note in his hand as he paid the cab driver and made his way up the path of the home that they had once shared.
My dear Robert,
I was overcome with emotion to hear of your survival and safe return to England. You know by now of course that Douglas is dead. You know also how completely I loved him.
Am I to presume that your letter was by way of a proposal?
Your affectionate sister-in-law
, Agnes
She answered the door herself. It was past eight and George was in bed as she had decided he should be. She had also given the servants the evening off, so she and Kingsley would be alone.
For a moment the two of them stood motionless, staring at each other, she inside the house, he on the step. Then she reached out and drew him inside, closing the door. Kingsley almost leaped forward, enfolding her in his arms, kissing the lips he had thought lost to him forever.
For quite some minutes no word passed between them.
Then Agnes disengaged herself and, as suddenly as she had embraced him, she hit him. The savage slap to the face actually made Kingsley stagger. Agnes looked as surprised as he was.
‘I didn’t mean to do that,’ she said. ‘I didn’t plan to.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Kingsley replied.
Suddenly she was shouting.
‘You could have found a way to tell me. You should have found a way! I went to your funeral! It was so…so … cruel!’
‘What can I say to you?’ Kingsley stammered. ‘I’m truly sorry. I was dealing with very dangerous people. The stakes were high. I couldn’t put you at risk. I did it for us, you know. I did it all for us.’
‘Ha!’ she snapped. ‘And also, I’ve no doubt, for the thrill of your precious investigation! You forget how well I know you!’
Once more there was silence between them, although this time without the pleasure of kisses.
After a little it was Kingsley who spoke. Something had occurred to him.
‘You say you went to my funeral?’
‘Did you doubt it?’
‘Well, I…’
‘Of course I went to your funeral! Perhaps I am wrong,’ she added with angry sarcasm, ‘but I rather thought it was customary for a wife to attend the funeral of her husband.’
‘I was disgraced. Buried within the confines of the prison.’
‘And what has that got to do with anything? You were my husband! I loved you! I hated you but I loved you. I told you as much when I gave you back your ring. I read Kipling’s ‘If’ over your grave! How could you think I would not attend your funeral?’