In Pale Battalions - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  ‘You say he had no friends, Inspector. Would you say he had enemies?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me, sir. He had in his possession a number of promissory notes, some outstanding.’

  ‘We will leave you to pursue that matter, Inspector. Have you found any trace of the weapon described to us this morning?’

  ‘No, sir. I examined a number of sporting weapons and military revolvers lodged at Meongate. None had been recently used and none fitted the description.’

  The coroner consulted his notes. ‘A small, wide-bored pistol. Would that be commonly known to the uninitiated as a derringer?’

  ‘I believe so, sir.’

  ‘A weapon more common in the United States than this country?’

  ‘I believe so, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

  Shapland cast a baleful look in my direction as he left the box, as if to warn me that, even if the coroner fell for an American connection, he wasn’t about to.

  Olivia’s performance was, as I might have expected, impeccable. She entranced the court with her perfect imitation of the dismayed hostess. She had heard what might have been a shot at about eleven o’clock, had been concerned for Mr Mompesson when he did not answer her knock, had fetched her maid, had entered the room and had found, too awful to recall, what the court now knew.

  ‘May I ask, Lady Powerstock, how long you had known the deceased?’

  ‘Somewhere over a year. My husband and I had entertained him at Meongate on several occasions.’

  ‘Did you ever gain the impression that he felt in any way threatened?’

  ‘Not at all. Mr Mompesson was the most relaxed and carefree of men. Of course, we knew nothing of his business dealings. He was merely refreshing company and had done much to lighten my husband’s sense of loss following the death on active service of his son.’

  ‘The police found no evidence of a break-in, Lady Powerstock. Does this, to your mind, preclude the idea of an intruder?’

  ‘Far from it. My husband is not – I should say was not – in the habit of locking any of the doors at night. An intruder would not have found it necessary to break in.’

  ‘Quite so, Lady Powerstock. Thank you.’ The coroner’s mind seemed to be moving more and more in a direction that suited us all.

  Then, suddenly, before I’d expected it, the case was over. No more witnesses were called. The coroner explained his reasoning to the jury. ‘The business of this court, ladies and gentlemen, is to determine the cause of the death of Mr Mompesson. It is abundantly clear in this case that the deceased was murdered and I shall shortly direct you to return a verdict. It will then be for the police to continue their investigations into who may have committed that murder.’

  And so it was. The verdict was brought in that Mompesson had been murdered by ‘a person or persons unknown’ and the court was adjourned for luncheon. The coroner departed, the jury followed him and, slowly, all the others drifted away. Thorley came across and invited me to join him at the White Horse. I declined. Nobody else spoke to me.

  The court reassembled an hour later. The same jurors were sworn in to consider the next case: the death by gunshot wounds of David John Cheriton, second lieutenant. The same whey-faced pathologist presented his gruesomely dispassionate findings. This time, they only confirmed what I already knew. And this time I was the next witness.

  ‘How did you come to be resident at Meongate at this time, Lieutenant Franklin?’

  ‘I had been invalided home from France to recover from a shoulder wound sustained in action on the first of July. During the summer, I received an invitation to spend some time at Meongate, Lord Powerstock being in the generous habit of accommodating convalescent officers.’

  ‘When did you arrive at Meongate?’

  ‘Early in September.’

  ‘Was Lieutenant Cheriton then also in residence – on the same basis.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘From what was he convalescing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he give any sign of having been physically injured?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did his malady, then, appear to have had a nervous origin?’

  ‘There were some indications of that. But I didn’t pry into the matter. He kept himself very much to himself.’

  ‘Did he display any notable reaction to the death of Mr Mompesson?’

  ‘I can’t say I had the opportunity of discussing it with him.’

  ‘Please now describe to the court what you found upon leaving the house early on the morning of Sunday, 24th September.’

  I repeated my well-worn account. But the coroner didn’t let me go without obliging me to convert omission into perjury.

  ‘Was there a note or any other sign on the body to indicate why Lieutenant Cheriton might have acted so drastically?’

  ‘I didn’t search the body.’

  ‘But there was nothing visible?’

  ‘There was nothing.’

  Shapland said his piece, then Lord Powerstock was called. Making his way to the witness box, he moved more slowly than usual, seemed shrunken and shuffling, reduced already to the pale shadow of a proud aristocrat.

  ‘How long my Lord, had Lieutenant Cheriton been your guest?’

  ‘Since the beginning of August.’

  ‘Did you know the circumstances of his invalidity?’

  ‘I was given to understand that he had suffered from what is commonly known as shell shock.’

  ‘You knew nothing more specific than that?’

  ‘Not until Mr Mompesson volunteered certain information to me during one of his visits.’

  ‘What was that information?’

  ‘Mr Mompesson had, by chance, met in London Lieutenant Cheriton’s company commander from France, who was on leave at the time; he had mentioned to him that Lieutenant Cheriton was staying at my house. The officer expressed surprise and disclosed that, in his opinion, Cheriton had displayed sufficient cowardice in the face of the enemy to warrant a court martial rather than convalescence. Mr Mompesson said that he felt I ought to know this.’

  ‘Did you take any action arising from this intelligence?’

  ‘No. I did not consider it my business.’

  ‘Did Mr Mompesson take any action?’

  ‘I cannot say for certain. But there were indications that he confronted Lieutenant Cheriton with the accusation. I recall interrupting one heated conversation between the two when it was difficult not to construe that it had been the subject under discussion. Mr Mompesson, I should add, was proud of having been decorated for gallantry whilst serving in the Spanish–American War of 1898 and was not a man disposed to tolerate weakness in others. From about this time, Lieutenant Cheriton’s state of mind seemed to me to deteriorate progressively.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Towards the end of August.’

  ‘And how did this deterioration manifest itself?’

  ‘Moroseness. Reluctance to converse. A nervous tremor in the hands.’

  Next, Thorley.

  ‘When did you arrive at Meongate, Major?’

  ‘A week after Cheriton.’

  ‘What was your impression of him?’

  ‘Frankly, I thought he’d lost his nerve.’

  ‘Did you notice any sign of friction between him and Mr Mompesson?’

  ‘Yes. Can’t say it surprised me. Mompesson was a cocky fellow. He was like a cat with a mouse.’

  ‘When did you leave Meongate?’

  ‘Twenty-second of September.’

  ‘Shortly before the murder of Mr Mompesson?’

  ‘Yes. Strange coincidence.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘I thought it was time to get back in harness. Too much moping around isn’t good for morale.’

  ‘When you heard subsequently of Lieutenant Cheriton’s death, were you surprised?’

  ‘Can’t say I was. He had a medical board at the end of the month. I don’
t think he could face the thought of going back.’

  ‘Did you connect his death in any way with that of Mr Mompesson?’

  ‘Can’t say I did. If Cheriton had had the nerve for that kind of thing, he’d have pulled himself together a long time ago.’

  An army doctor was produced who stated that Cheriton had been diagnosed neurasthenic. He had detected no signs of clinical depression but had, on the other hand, not seen him since he took up residence at Meongate. The coroner then read a letter from Cheriton’s commanding officer in France.

  ‘Lieutenant Cheriton was an enthusiastic but highly strung officer. Had his temperament been more robust, I would have been more dismayed than I am at the suggestion that he took his own life. He was originally certified as neurasthenic on 23rd June this year and invalided home three days later. I cannot enlarge upon the circumstances of his illness. Captain Speight, who might have been more familiar with his case, was killed in action on 29th August.’

  The coroner then addressed the jury on what he described as a ‘clear case of suicide’. He said that it was for the police to determine whether there was any connection between the two deaths but that the very absence of a note might tend to suggest that there was. Without withdrawing, the jury returned its verdict that Cheriton had ‘killed himself whilst the balance of his mind was disturbed’.

  This time I didn’t linger. I made for the exit, wishing to be away before there was either chance or need to speak to the Powerstocks. But Shapland – moving with that disarming speed of his – caught me up.

  ‘In a hurry, Mr Franklin?’

  ‘The cases are closed, Inspector,’ I said as we emerged into the yard. ‘What do you want of me?’

  ‘You heard what the coroner said: police investigations will continue. That means I’ll go on asking questions.’

  ‘Not of me.’ We turned out of the yard into the lane, made narrow by the throng. ‘I’m to resume active service next week.’ I strode past the police station towards the main road. He didn’t follow and I didn’t look back.

  The first train to Alton was due at ten to eight. I was at the railway station by 7.30 on a cold, mist-fringed morning, a light frost clinging to the rails. It was as I wanted it: an early departure, a clean break, a final leaving. It seemed so much longer than a month since I’d stepped off the train from Fareham, so much longer for me and for others. I dropped my bag by a bench and sat down to wait.

  I felt cold in the still air. I pulled up my greatcoat collar and lit a cigarette. A bell rang in the station building: train due. Then the door from the ticket office slammed and a figure walked along the platform towards me.

  It was Charter Gladwin.

  ‘Well met, young Franklin.’ He smiled, doffed his hat and sat down beside me. ‘On your way, I see.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I take it ill you didn’t come to say goodbye to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I expected to see you at the inquest.’

  ‘And I expected to see you when you came back last week. I wanted news of Leonora.’

  ‘I understood she’d written to Lord Powerstock.’

  ‘She had. But that’s not my meaning.’ I hadn’t heard him so gruff before. I genuinely regretted having let him down, but an old man’s consolation had seemed at the time of small moment.

  ‘I am sorry, Charter. Since Mompesson’s murder … it’s been difficult.’

  ‘But you have seen her?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve seen her.’

  There was a dull metal clank as a signal was raised. From the south, through the chill, motionless air, drifted the sound of a train whistle. ‘Where are you off to now?’

  ‘My uncle’s place in Berkshire. Then, next week, I resume active service.’

  ‘Glad to be leaving Droxford?’

  ‘To be honest, yes. But I will miss you.’

  He laughed, with some of his old guffaw, his breath misting in the air. ‘Good of you to say so. But I think it’s John you really miss.’

  ‘Maybe it is.’

  The train came into view with a sudden gout of noise and steam. It rumbled and juddered to a halt. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘You’re leaving as well?’

  ‘No. But I’ll run up to Alton with you. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.’

  We climbed aboard and settled ourselves in a compartment. Charter lit his pipe and beamed across at me like some smug Pickwickian traveller. A whistle blew and the train drew out.

  ‘John was born in the old Queen’s golden jubilee year: 1887. He was a month old when the villagers and estate workers celebrated both his birth and the Jubilee. I came down from Yorkshire for the occasion. It was a grand day.

  ‘He was a handsome, good-natured boy, a natural leader of men. You could have followed him to the ends of the Earth. But, even as his grandfather, I saw the signs of what was wrong.’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘I fear he was cursed with something most of us are spared: foresight. He knew what was going to happen. That’s why there was always that sadness about him. He grieved when Miriam died, of course, but he didn’t seem surprised. And the war? I think he knew it was coming. Not feared, or suspected, but knew.

  ‘He loved Leonora, but even she couldn’t make him happy. I don’t think anything could. She could give him some form of contentment, that was all. It was the same contentment he got from gazing at the stars through his telescope or taking his dinghy out in Langstone Harbour.

  ‘I’ve got through life by the skin of my teeth, not knowing what was going to happen next. But what if I had known? What then, eh? Can you imagine what that would be like?’

  ‘No, Charter. Nobody can.’

  His eyes drifted to the passing fields. He puffed at his pipe. ‘How is Leonora?’ He looked at me. ‘And the Fotheringham girl?’

  ‘You know about her?’

  ‘I know enough to guess that’s where she is. If I’m to see her again, I suppose I’ll have to take a trip to the island.’

  ‘She asked to be left alone.’

  ‘I don’t think she meant by me, do you? Besides, I’ll certainly want to be on hand … for the birth of my great-grandchild.’ He smiled as he said it and blew a smoke ring to the luggage rack. And I stared at him and heard his throaty laugh mock all my subtle deceptions.

  The sun was beginning to turn through the mist. It picked out the curving line of the downs and filtered on to Charter’s white hair through the dust on the carriage window. Still he was smiling, waiting patiently for my mind to catch up with the implications of what he’d said.

  ‘Did you think I didn’t know? Old men don’t sleep well. I wake early of a morning. Early enough to see who might be leaving the house at crack of dawn. I know he’s alive, as, I imagine, do you.’

  ‘Where is he, Charter?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was hoping you might have found him.’

  ‘The trail went cold. He’d visited a man named Fletcher in Portsea.’

  Charter ground his pipe stem between his teeth. ‘So he went to Fletcher. I might have known.’

  ‘Since then, he’s vanished. He left his last known address the day before Mompesson was murdered.’

  ‘Where do you think he’s gone?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve no way of tracing him. And I’m not even sure I want to. If I did track him down, what would I find? And there’s something else. You can’t come back from the dead, Charter. I think he may have come to understand that.’

  The train shuddered to a halt at West Meon station. From down the platform came the scrape and thump of freight being loaded into the guard’s van. Abruptly, Charter hauled himself from his seat. ‘After all, I think I’ll get off here.’

  ‘You said you’d come as far as Alton.’

  ‘I’ll walk back from here. It’ll do me good.’ I followed him into the corridor. ‘We’ve said all there is to say, haven’t we?’ He pushed a door open and climbed down to the platform, then turned round
to look up at me. ‘So – take care, young man.’

  I pulled the window down and closed the door. ‘You too.’

  ‘I never did tell you about that duel in St Petersburg, did I?’

  ‘No. You never did.’

  ‘Well, it can wait now.’

  The train lurched into motion. I held up my hand in farewell. Charter stepped back and raised his hat. As the engine gathered steam, the platform – and Charter with it – slid away behind me. My last sight of him was as a portly, silhouetted figure on the vanishing station, benignly waving his hat, for all the world a kindly uncle seeing off his favourite nephew.

  TEN

  SO I WENT back to war. It had waited patiently, like some huge, dormant beast, waiting to claw me back. And now I went willingly, almost with relief. No Anthea to see me off at Southampton, no shocks awaiting me at Rouen. For I knew where I was going. Back to the third battalion, changed in all but name, still locked in the Battle of the Somme and entrenched now near the village of Courcelette, three miles east of where I’d left them as many months before. Three miles – for how many thousand lives?

  I rejoined the third battalion at the beginning of November, by which time only the high command maintained the presence that the Somme campaign was still in progress. By the 16th, it had officially closed and we were left to spend the winter in flooded or frozen trenches.

  There were few faces I recognized. Sergeant Warren, who’d written to me in September, had been killed the same month, probably before my reply reached him. Colonel Romney had been transferred to Egypt. Lake’s successor, Finch, was a nerve-shattered alcoholic. As for the men, they were mostly new to it but, by instinct or reason, grimmer than their predecessors. Despair hung upon us under the grey skies of wintry France. Hope was a stranger. And I no longer cared.