All the way down the train, soldiers looked out from carriage windows. It was the waiting that drove you mad.
The captain turned and called out in that jolly wanting-to-be-liked voice, that didn’t fool Milner. ‘Sorry, men. War should come supplied with a comfortable waiting room, but it never does.’
The drips obliged him by laughing at his little joke. Not Milner.
Milner strained to hear. ‘I’ll order them off now, sir,’ Sergeant Lampton said quietly.
The captain lowered his voice. ‘Let the blighters wait. They’ll be kicking up dust soon enough.’
So much for which of them was the bigger bastard, Milner thought. He could see why Wolfy wanted to keep them on the train. A small welcoming party hurried across the bridge, led by a major.
The major saluted sharply. ‘Captain Wolfendale?’
‘The same.’
‘Pleased to have you here, sir.’
When the captain had gone, Lampton turned back to the train and gave the order to disembark.
By nightfall, tents were erected, row on row. Men queued for their rations of bully beef, hard biscuit and hot sweet tea. A thunderstorm rolled out a welcome, smacking the tents with sharp pellets of tepid rain.
The sergeant turned his dusty face to the African heavens and ran his tongue over his lips to catch rain drops.
In his tent, the captain wrote his diary. Men keen to get on with the show. Through the walls of the tent floated the disembodied voices of the men who’d been first in the queue for food and now had time on their hands. They were singing filthy ditties, arguing the toss as they played dice. A wisp of blue smoke from the camp fire wafted through the tent flap. They were burning acacia bushes and eucalyptus.
A loud argument had blown up, over nothing as usual. A private from Blackburn wanted to lasso the ostrich and bring it along as a mascot. His mate disagreed. The ostrich was definitely a Boer spy, he said.
Sergeant Lampton put his head around the tent flap. ‘Everything all right, sir?’
‘Shut them up,’ the captain ordered. ‘Make an example of them.’
The sergeant hesitated.
‘Just do it. And then look into what I asked you.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
The sergeant took a deep breath, let the tent flap fall behind him. He shut up one private with a punch to his jaw and his mate with a blow to the ribs. ‘You’re disturbing our captain.’
The men fell silent.
A thin young African lad, wide-eyed and anxious, approached the sergeant. ‘Message for Sergeant Lam.’
The sergeant drew him to one side, out of hearing of the men. ‘What’s the message?’
‘For Captain Wolf, a room.’
When the lad did not move, Sergeant Lampton gave him a coin. ‘Go!’
‘Thank you, baas.’
Sergeant Lampton went back to the captain. ‘It’s fixed up, sir.’
The captain nodded. He pulled on his jacket.
Sergeant Lampton watched him go, marching towards what passed for a hotel where a Kaffir woman would be waiting. It had always been the same. Gin. The most comfortable room. A woman. In that order.
Mule carts would transport bell tents, blankets, big guns and cooking pots. Each African mule driver carried a concertina. Sergeant Lampton listened to them at night, playing and singing. He imitated their tunes on his mouth organ. It gave him the odd notion that the mules had an ear for music and would serve willingly.
At four o’clock on a muggy, misty morning, under marching orders, men stoked the fire with acacia brush. Smoke would mislead enemy scouts into thinking that the camp stayed solid, stayed put. A scouting party gave the all-clear. Men would march alongside the railway line carrying rifles, food and ammunition. The train would come back with reinforcements, heavy guns, and engineers who would hop on and off, repairing the line. They would repair the dynamited bridge.
Long before Lord Methuen gave his pep talk – British pluck, British surprise, British Empire – word had passed through the lines that they would be heading for Kimberley.
The colonel told the major. The lieutenant told Captain Wolfendale. Captain Wolfendale told Sergeant Lampton. Sergeant Lampton told Corporal Milner.
‘I knew it,’ Milner said.
Kimberley had the deepest diamond mine in the world. Its owners scoffed toast and marmalade from gold plates and supped ale from gold tankards. But the Boers had Kimberley under siege.
Captain Wolfendale was ready for the off.
The stationmaster had said that a few Boers were burrowed into the river mud like water rats. Soon see them off. A scout said six thousand? Six hundred more like.
Sergeant Lampton despaired of his captain. ‘You’ll be a sitting duck, Captain, all that gleam and polish. Let me . . .’
The sergeant scooped mud from the river, to take the shine off his captain’s buttons, the sparkle from his stars and buckles. The captain frowned. He liked to be pristine.
Soon only the steady, monotonous tramp of thousands of boots could be heard, scudding through stubbly grass and over small rocks. The thickhead bird that started out with them, hui hui, had taken flight.
It must have been a tale, about the enemy digging in the mud. What fool would hide in a muddy trench? If the Boers were anywhere, they would be in the hills. Scouts had gone ahead and would signal back when the sun rose and the heliograph messaging could be put to use.
Captain Wolfendale had entered that state of pretending, that he is riding along an English country lane, easy enough with the poplars and the river to his right. And now his horse needs rest in the shade of an English oak. It is ninety degrees in the shade. In the absence of an English oak, the captain halts the column by the foot of a kopje. The sergeant spreads his groundsheet. The captain sits down, takes a swig of water, pulls a clean hanky from his pocket.
It was when the riders led the horses to water that the firing began. At first it was not clear where the shots came from. A hail of bullets ripped the air. The captain jumped to his feet. A bullet sent him staggering. The sergeant leapt at him, shoved him to the ground shielding him with his body.
A dark patch stained the captain’s trouser leg and the shoulder of his jacket. The sergeant saw both stains. One, at least, must be blood. ‘Stay down!’ The sergeant gave the order now. ‘Lie flat.’ The sergeant squashed himself into the ground, rifle at the ready, looking for a target.
An Irish corporal made a sudden dash for the river, his horse as cover. Both horse and man fell. Not only was the Boer invisible on the mountains, armed with Mausers that shot at a range of a mile, he was invisible by the river bank.
With no rocks, no sandbags, no wagons for cover, the soldiers were living, breathing target practice, sitting ducks, only they were not sitting but lying flat, some hiding under their blankets.
With the butt of his rifle, his hands, his nails, the sergeant began to dig a dip. The ground was sandy here. If they could survive till nightfall, hold on until dark . . . He urged the captain into the hollow, helping him, so that for a moment they looked like two boys playing on a beach. The shelter was poor but if the captain lies still, the sergeant told him, he may escape another more deadly bullet.
Then the sergeant crawled on his belly away from the river. He passed crafty Corporal Milner, sheltering between the carcass of a dead horse and the body of a fallen comrade.
Bullets bounced from the ground like hailstones. One bullet skimmed Lampton’s hair as he edged his way down a dip in the terrain. Smoke and dust dimmed his sight. His throat burned. He blinked and cringed for what he believed would be the last time. It was not supposed to end like this. He should have made NCO, earned a few more bob, respect, not doing the captain’s bidding thirty hours out of every twenty-four. A twisted length of railway line crashed through the air and landed by his side. Invisible Brother Boer was north, south and east, but there was a lull to the west.
The sergeant touched the twisted metal of the railway line, for luck.
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Shouldn’t have left the captain. Must get back to the captain.
Ahead, a young face looked at him, popping up from the camouflage of a trench. For a moment, the young
Boer and the sergeant stared at each other in surprise. Split seconds, rather than the long minutes it felt like.
The sergeant’s Lee-Metford has a ten-round firing capability, but the British Army, in its wisdom, has fitted a plate so the soldiers don’t go mad and discharge ten rounds at once. Sergeant Lampton can fire one bullet at a time. Is it loaded or not? He can’t remember. The sergeant caresses his rifle, and presses the trigger. A moment later he is diving into the trench beside the dead Boer.
Under cover of darkness, he dared to come crawling out again. Miraculously, a shocked horse let him lead it to be tethered. The sliver of a moon obliged, refusing to be more than candlelight in the black sky.
Then the moon did the favour of hiding. Stooping low, the sergeant found his captain. Shoulders tearing, arms pulled to breaking, Lampton carried Wolfendale to the horse and helped him on.
West. The earlier racket and the sudden quiet made him hope that the Boer line gave way there. They travelled on through the early dawn, to where the smell of a burned-out camp fire told Lampton he was near some stopping place. Boer or British, who could tell? ‘Rest here,’ he said.
But the captain had a second wind. ‘On we go.’
The sergeant obeyed. The captain had a sixth sense for comfort, and he was right. There was a farmhouse on the horizon.
The Tommy on the gate said, ‘We broke through. Brother Boer’s done his vanishing trick.’ He helped the sergeant get the captain into the farmhouse. Sergeant Lampton willed himself to stay upright. ‘Who’s your officer in charge?’ he asked.
‘Major got it in the neck, sarge.’
So the captain was the highest ranking officer. Two highlanders lifted the captain onto the table. The back of the men’s legs bore ugly blisters from lying face down under a burning sun. They held the captain steady while Sergeant Lampton dislodged the bullet from the captain’s thigh.
When the general arrived, he shook the captain’s hand. ‘Brave man for fighting your way through. You’ll be mentioned for this.’
The captain smiled. ‘Saw a weakness in the enemy’s flank, sir. Led the charge through, scattered Boer to the winds.’
‘Don’t just stand there, sergeant,’ the general barked. ‘Make yourself useful. Find some food.’
The sergeant waited, half expecting some small acknowledgement from his captain. None came.
Too tired to sleep, I lay on Meriel’s narrow bed. The thin mattress was worn through to the springs. The discomfort took me back to my VAD days, when we took roughing it for granted much of the time.
Across the room, Meriel slept soundly on a chaise longue, snoring gently.
A weakness of mine is that people intrigue me, especially those with a story to tell. Meriel was just such a one. We met at the fancy-dress party held by a mutual friend. Our host had allocated characters. On arrival at the party, we were instructed to find our mate. I was Pierrot, the clown, dressed in a rather dull loose white tunic with a ruff at the neck and a boater perched on my head. It did not take long to find Pierrette, the lovable French pantomime figure. Meriel was elegantly dressed in ballet skirt, brightly coloured peasant waistcoat and cocked hat. We drank a little too much of some homemade concoction. Meriel held me in thrall as we sat on the stairs.
She was brought up in concert halls and theatres, travelling with her mother, an opera singer. She picked up several languages and was taught to play the violin and other instruments by various members of the orchestra. The violin was her first love and what she believed she excelled in. Her mother gave up singing when she re-married in Switzerland, just before the Great War. Her step-father was under the impression that the marriage gave him rights to Meriel too. She spent less and less time in their apartment and gravitated towards a Russian émigré theatre group. She fetched and carried, played walk-on parts or lying still parts as a corpse. She learned the ways of actors and directors. Unable to find work in an orchestra, she hovered on the edge of the theatre, sewing costumes, finding props, acting as prompt and understudy, writing up rehearsal schedules, and selling tickets. She made a living when and where she could.
Her story impressed me, hinting at far greater hardships. I felt I understood why she escaped into the theatre, and preferred it to real life. When she asked me would I take photographs for her planned production, I said yes. We clinked glasses and I gave her my address. That would teach me not to drink unidentified liquor in large quantities.
So it was thanks to a fancy-dress party that here I was exhausted, still seeing Mr Milner’s face when I closed my eyes. If I were at home, I would get up and go downstairs. But Meriel’s room was as far downstairs as you could go without visiting the sewers, or Hades. At least until dawn, there was nowhere else to go.
I guessed the time to be about three in the morning. Saturday. Soon the world would be stirring to life.
At least I was not the only one who could not sleep. Footsteps sounded on the floor above, the captain on the march.
Well, if sleep would not come, there was something else I might do. Inspector Charles had asked for a statement. He should have one. If, without too much noise, I could light the candle from the mantelpiece, set it on the table, and take my writing case from the bag, then I could get on with it.
Do it now, I told myself. Hand it in tomorrow on the way to the railway station, and get home in time to make a couple more visits for Mr Moony. The poor man had already given me his cheque, and he deserved priority.
Enough moonlight came through the curtains for me to see the candle, and matches. Fortunately, Meriel had her back to me. She slept soundly as I took out my writing case. Meriel’s theatre programme lay on the table. I used it as a crib, to remind myself of the names of the cast.
Mrs Kate Shackleton, Statement, Saturday, 26 August, 1922
I met Miss Jamieson through a mutual friend last December. About three months ago, she asked if I would do her the favour of taking photographs of the cast of Anna of the Five Towns. She then invited me to see the play.
At last night’s performance, I sat in the front stalls, next to Mr Burrington Wheatley, a theatre producer from Manchester. Mr Milner arrived about ten minutes into the performance. He took the empty seat on my left. After the interval, I moved to the rear stalls, as did Mr Wheatley. Mr Milner had been rather talkative during the first act.
During and after the performance, Mr Milner expressed admiration for the leading lady, Lucy Wolfendale.
In the theatre bar, Mr Wheatley spoke to Miss Jamieson. He then left for his hotel, The Grand. Miss Jamieson was very much engaged, moving from group to group in the bar, accepting congratulations.
Knowing that I was staying the night with Miss Jamieson, Lucy Wolfendale asked me to remind her grandfather (Miss Jamieson’s landlord, Captain Wolfendale) that she would be spending the night with her friend, Alison Hart. (Alison played the part of Beatrice Sutton in the drama.) While Lucy and I were talking, Mr Milner approached and in a rather insistent way said he would give Miss Wolfendale a lift home. She said that she was not ready to go home. It was apparent from her manner that his attentions were most unwelcome. She went back to be with her young friends: Rodney Milner, Alison Hart and Dylan Ashton. They surrounded her in a protective manner and, as far as I am aware, remained together, and left together, along with another young man whose name I do not know.
Out of sympathy for Lucy, and because I thought Mr Milner was being a pest to her, I kept him talking. I got the impression of a vain man, happy to boast about his success. Mr Milner told me that as a young man he joined the police force in South Africa, and signed on with the army at the outbreak of the Boer War. He rose to corporal. Demobbed at the end of the war, he returned to England, to London. He experienced hardship at first, until an old comrade (unnamed) helped him. He came to Harrogat
e, where he started his business.
We talked until Madam Geerts (she played the alderman’s wife) drew Mr Milner away.
At various times, members of the cast went to collect their property from the dressing rooms, which had to be left clear for the next day. I also went to a dressing room, for my overnight bag.
Unfamiliar with the backstage area, I looked in at the wrong door and saw Madam Geerts and Mr Milner in a compromising and intimate situation. Unseen, I closed the door. M. Geerts was coming along the corridor. I felt sorry for him and tried to divert his attention by asking him to help me find my bag. He did so but did not walk back with me to the bar. It is highly likely that M. Geerts interrupted his wife and Mr Milner.
Miss Jamieson and I were, I believe, the last guests to leave the theatre. We left by the stage door at about 11.30 p.m.
I paused. What could I write here? ‘The rest you know.’ It seemed inadequate. If the inspector hoped for an account of who left the theatre when, he would be disappointed.
It began to rain as we left the theatre. In the stage door alley, I stepped into a shop doorway and there saw Mr Milner, a knife in his chest. Although I could see that he was dead, I felt for a pulse on his neck. Miss Jamieson went back to the theatre for help. Mr Milner’s motor was parked on the road at the bottom of the alley, tyres slashed. I noticed a cufflink in the gutter.
Kate Shackleton
By the time I had finished writing, the sun had risen. My intention was to dress and hurry home. But tiredness hit me. I dropped back into bed, like a stone hitting bottom. The faces that floated before my eyes as I fell asleep were Mr Milner’s, and Captain Wolfendale’s. They were younger, and wore military caps.
A Medal For Murder: A Kate Shackleton Mystery Page 6