by Robert Ryan
Watson, Coyle, Mason the doorman and Churchill, all to some degree speckled in Gibson’s blood, stood in silence, waiting on a Lazarus moment that was never going to arrive.
Watson risked a glance at Coyle, but his face was set, granite-like, his breathing rapid and shallow. It was not a good sign. Already the Irishman was figuring out how to compartmentalize his grief, bottle it for another day, setting up the kind of internal conflict that Watson had spent the last six months trying to resolve – teaching soldiers to bear the unbearable.
‘I’m sorry—’ Churchill began, breaking the silence.
‘Shut up,’ Coyle snapped. ‘Sir, don’t say anything.’
Watson had seen Churchill explode at a lesser insult, but the man remained impassive. He had been through enough combat to make allowances. He’d probably give Coyle that one, perhaps another, before reminding him of his place.
‘Oh, fuck,’ muttered Coyle in a thick voice. ‘Fuck it all.’
After a few long moments, Churchill crossed to the pitchers and poured a healthy three inches of brandy into a glass. He offered it to Coyle who took it. ‘I was the one who was meant to break the partnership, ye silly man.’ He raised the glass. ‘Go maire sibh bhur saol nua.’
The brandy disappeared in a blur of movement and Coyle held out the glass for a refill. Churchill took it with a slow, deliberate movement. Watson could tell Coyle was pushing his luck, treating the MP as his footman.
The Irishman turned to Mason. ‘Get back downstairs. There’ll be police after all that in the streets. Tell them it was a training exercise with live firing. Any damage will be paid for by the Special Branch. Understood?’
Mason nodded and left, buttoning up his coat to hide the worst of the bloodstains.
Watson looked at the unfortunate Gibson once more. ‘You think it was me meant to be laid out there?’ he asked nobody in particular.
‘I can see no other explanation,’ said Coyle. ‘I would hazard a guess that, whatever you are planning to do for Mr Churchill here, there are some who would rather you didn’t.’
Watson nodded, trying to come to terms with the idea that men were intent on killing him. He had been in danger before, of course. Everyone who ventured into the trenches was in the firing line, but out there, it was mostly fate that decided whether the sniper chose you as the recipient of a precious high-velocity round or if a whizz-bang dropped on your head or the gas got to you before you could get your mask on. To be on a death list, that was something very different. It was personal. Watson wished, not for the first time, that Holmes was with him, for he had spent a considerable time dodging Colonel Moran’s bullets.
Coyle took the second brandy from Churchill. ‘Who knew that Major Watson was coming here today?’
Churchill thought for a second. ‘The Steering Committee for this project. Macfie and Wilson of the Royal Naval Air Service and William Tritton, the senior engineer. Kell, of course. And you two.’
‘Holmes?’ asked Watson.
Churchill thought for a second. ‘Not specifically about today, no. Knew you were to be involved. But he—’
‘And they all know about the flight from Hainault?’ Coyle interrupted. ‘All the same people?’
‘Some do,’ Churchill confirmed. ‘Not all.’
Coyle blew out his cheeks. ‘Where were you flying the major to?’
Watson looked puzzled.
‘Me and Gibson, we was told to drop you at Hainault Farm airfield,’ explained Coyle. ‘The RNAS were to take over from that point.’
There they were again, the navy, footprints all over the place. But why take over an estate in Suffolk for naval manoeuvres? Unless it had a large lake. That could be the answer.
‘So,’ Coyle continued, ‘we never knew your final destination. We didn’t have to. Then, at least.’ Coyle turned his attention to Churchill. ‘Sir, I’ll be needing to know where you were flying the major to.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Churchill suspiciously, pouring himself a brandy.
‘Because I’m not daft enough to take yer man out to the airfield now the plan is compromised. We’ll go by road. In our own sweet time. And before you ask, I won’t be telling you the route or the time we will get there. You tell these people to expect him when we arrive.’
‘Time is pressing,’ Churchill reminded him. ‘You don’t understand the politics involved.’
Coyle pointed at his deceased colleague. ‘I understand something got my friend here killed. And don’t you start with an Irishman about how messy politics can get. Just tell me where to deliver the major, please, sir, and I’ll get him there in one piece. The rest is up to you.’
Churchill hesitated for a moment and Watson pre-empted him. ‘It’s in Suffolk.’
The MP glared at him. ‘Yes. It’s a place called Elveden Forest. It’s Lord Iveagh’s country estate—’
Coyle began chuckling, although it was a sound devoid of mirth.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Churchill, irritated at the man’s manners.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Iveagh, you say? I think I paid for a good portion of that land.’ Before Watson could voice the obvious question, he added, ‘It’s Guinness money, isn’t it, sir?’
‘It is,’ confirmed Churchill. ‘And the earl is being very generous.’
‘Aye, he is that,’ said Coyle in all seriousness. ‘A great man for the good works, is Edward Guinness. So, as I say, you telegram your man up there and tell him we’re on our way. I’ll call in to Kell now and then, just so you know we’re still alive.’
As if to emphasize the mortal threat, he took out the pistol from his belt and checked the cylinder. ‘We’d best be moving along. I’m going to change cars. The Deasy is too conspicuous now.’
‘There is a vehicle that goes with this apartment, garaged nearby,’ offered Churchill. ‘I’ve never used it, but the keys are in the hallway. It’s a Vauxhall.’
‘The Prince Henry?’ asked Coyle hopefully.
‘I believe so. Will that do?’
‘Nicely,’ nodded Coyle. ‘And another thing, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d like to attend the funeral.’ He looked down at the dead man. ‘Captain Gibson. Royal Engineers.’ In death, he would revert to his old army rank. Watson doubted there was an equivalent of full military honours for spies.
‘Of course. I’ll make the arrangements.’
‘Just a moment,’ said Watson. ‘I’d like to know why he died.’
‘You’re the doctor,’ said Coyle. ‘But I suspect that’ll be the bullet in his stomach.’
But Churchill knew what he meant. Watson wanted to know what was so important, so secret, as to start a gunfight in central London. Churchill shook his head solemnly. ‘That’s up to Swinton. I can’t—’
‘Then you’ll have to do without my services. The game has changed somewhat since our earlier conversation.’ It was Holmes’s turn to point at poor Gibson. ‘I want to know what cost this man his life and, it seems, might cost me mine. And what is so important that you have imprisoned Sherlock Holmes. If the country—’
‘Enough, damn it.’ Churchill looked enquiringly at Coyle.
The Irishman gave an exaggerated shrug. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, sir, the less I know the better. My job is to get the major to the estate. That’s good enough for me.’
Churchill frowned, not a pretty sight as his features folded in on themselves. ‘Very well, Watson,’ he said at last. ‘Follow me.’
‘Where to?’
‘The library.’
Coyle took off his bloodstained jacket and began to unbutton his shirt. ‘And I’ll be sending for a change of clothes for both of us, Major. There’s no sense in going back to your place, eh? There might be eyes on it.’
When they had gone, Coyle crouched down and held the hand of his friend, the skin already unnaturally cool, the blood on the captain’s fingers rapidly crusting over. ‘And when I’ve delivered the major, I’ll come back here and I promise you
I’ll tear this fuckin’ town down brick by brick until I found who did this and then I’ll crucify the bastards. All right? But forgive me if I don’t think on you for a few days, because that’d slow me up, Harry, and you wouldn’t want that, would you? Gotta have all me wits about me to make sure the doc gets where he is goin’. Finish the job, that’s what you’d want, isn’t it?’ He leaned over and kissed Gibson’s forehead. ‘And besides, I reckon I’ll be seeing you on the other side soon enough.’
FOURTEEN
Miss Pillbody picked her way gingerly over the shingle, towards a churlish North Sea that refused to shake off its perpetual greyness, even for the summer sun. Small clouds bustled across the sky above her, as if late for some appointment or other, while gulls screeched vague warnings at her. Miss Pillbody turned back and waved, before hitching her skirt a few inches up her calf as she stepped onto the sandier foreshore. Beyond that, the waves licked hungrily around the steel posts that supported the coils of rusty barbed wire, designed to stop small boats being landed.
Booth and Ross were sitting on the low concrete wall of a machine-gun position, which, for the moment, was devoid of both machine gun and gunners. In the dunes behind them were two tall watchtowers, manned by units of the Eastern Command’s Home Service Defence Force twenty-four hours a day. Should the Germans decide the Norfolk coast was a convenient place to strike at the heart of London – unlikely, granted – then the HSDF would hold them off until reserve troops could be rushed up from Colchester to reinforce them at positions like these.
‘Tell me, are your intentions towards Miss Pillbody strictly honourable, Lieutenant?’ Ross asked, examining the extravagantly striped pebble he held between thumb and forefinger.
Booth let out an exasperated laugh. ‘Is that any of your business?’
‘We Americans can be blunt. We like to know where we stand.’ The colours of the stone he had chosen were remarkable – creams, blues, browns – and he considered taking it home. ‘Are they honourable?’
Booth raised an eyebrow. ‘Are yours?’
‘I’m very fond of her,’ said Ross, tossing the pebble back into the anonymity of the masses and picking up another. Very fond of the insight she gives me into the village, he thought. Very fond at how jealous my presence in her company clearly makes you.
Booth laughed. ‘Spoken like a true, mealy-mouthed cad.’
‘I’m not here to stop your fun, Lieutenant.’
‘We’ll come to that.’
‘What?’
‘Why exactly you are here.’
Ross took out a silver flask and offered it to Booth. After a fleeting hesitation the lieutenant took it and drank. It was followed by a rasping cough. ‘Whisky. Little early in the morning for me. I was expecting brandy.’
Ross raised the flask and took a deep slug. ‘Brandy is soporific. This stuff gives you a jolt.’ He watched two terns wheel in the sky, their narrow wings impossibly long and elegant. ‘So, we find ourselves in a fine pickle, eh?’
They had both turned up to invite Miss Pillbody out on a picnic, Ross on a tandem, Booth in a Morris he had borrowed from the estate. This had amused and no doubt flattered her, and she had come up with what she considered a most pleasing solution – both would take her out. So they had motored to the coast, picking up extra provisions on the way at the market in Norwich.
‘Well, don’t worry,’ said Booth. ‘One of us won’t be around for much longer.’
‘Oh?’ Ross ran a thumb over his pebble, feeling the sea-sharpened ridges of its whorled surface.
Booth showed his teeth in an unattractive smile, one that hinted at some sly victory. ‘I did some checking up on you. You aren’t who you say you are.’
Ross was careful not to betray any emotion.
‘You are a writer, yes, but also a journalist.’
Ross relaxed a little. ‘Ex-journalist.’
‘But only very recently.’ Booth took a smaller hit of the fiery liquor and grimaced with pleasure as it caught his throat.
‘Your point being?’
‘What are the odds of a hack—’
‘Former hack.’
‘—turning up at one of the country’s most top-secret installations?’
‘Should you be telling me that?’
‘I’m sure you’ve been in the pubs, Mr Ross. And you know what we did to Miss Pillbody and all the local farmers. Of course it is something hush-hush.’
That phrase again. ‘So you don’t think I am here because I got off the fence and want to write the book that’ll bring America’s boys to Europe? You think I want to know what is going one behind your trees and your barriers?’
Booth nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘So you plan to remove me from the area?
The lieutenant waved at the now-distant Miss Pillbody. ‘In a nutshell, again, yes.’
‘Can you do that? Legally? To an American citizen?’
Booth fiddled with the cap that lay on his left thigh. It was a moot point, but he wasn’t going to reveal that. He certainly didn’t want Ross shouting ‘foul’ at his embassy. ‘It’s said we hanged Roger Casement on a comma. That the question of whether DORA applies to acts of treason committed outside Great Britain hung on a little piece of punctuation. We made sure it was interpreted the correct way, of course. In your case, we don’t need to resort to such a merry dance. In your case, you’d be spying for a foreign power.’
Ross looked horrified. ‘But I’m not. That’s slander, young man.’
‘I think you’ll find America is foreign, Ross.’
‘Perhaps. But I’m not spying for it or anyone else.’
Booth grunted his disbelief. ‘Perhaps not for America in total. But a newspaper? Once a hack . . .’
A voice drifted over on the breeze. They both looked up. Miss Pillbody was waving at them across the undulating waves of shingle.
Ross stood and brushed sand off his trousers. He was angry at being challenged by the youngster. His eyes flicked to the figure of Miss Pillbody, holding on to her hat against the stiffening onshore breeze, her dress pressed against her slim figure. The sea, so placid a few minutes earlier, had begun to show signs of restlessness. The lead-heavy waves, shedding spray as they came, were thumping percussively into the beach. The water’s colour had changed too, from gunmetal grey to a more ominous brown. ‘If you should remove me from the area, then what is to stop me going into the first telegraph office I come to and telling my former newspaper that I have the biggest scoop of the war? That deep in the Suffolk countryside, the British are developing something hush-hush—’
Booth leaped to his feet, the flask forgotten, fists clenched. ‘You wouldn’t dare—’
‘Two million readers, Lieutenant Booth. But if that was my game, don’t you think I’d have done it by now? At least tipped them the wink I had a big story? Asked for some expenses up front? Go and check all the local telegram offices. There’ll be nothing from me, I promise you. And the local exchange will confirm no calls to America. Really, I ought to box your ears—’
‘You are welcome to try.’
At that moment Miss Pillbody’s plaintive voice drifted over to them and they turned to see her frantically waving for them to join her.
‘It’s probably not the best time,’ said Ross.
‘Perhaps a postponement?’
He turned to go. Booth grabbed his sleeve. ‘Hold on . . .’
Ross waited.
‘If I find out you make any contact with a newspaper . . .’
‘Booth, truce, eh? Just for today.’
Ross was certain the soldier must be able to hear his heart thumping. It sounded like a bass drum to his own ears. He was very close to being deported. He had to play this carefully.
‘I want your word that you will not discuss or approach the estate until we decide what to do with you.’
‘Do with me? Look, I am not here for your damned estate, Booth.’
Booth wondered if he should tell him what he had in mind. A few
phone calls to check the legality and he could easily have him taken off and locked away on the island they had sequestered for that very purpose. There were no telephones there, no way of contacting a newspaper. ‘If you do try, I shall not hesitate to shoot you.’
‘You won’t have to go that far. I’ll promise not to come sniffing around. On one condition.’ Ross paused. ‘When it gets out what you’re doing in there, you tell me everything about it, for this book or another. The inside story. Once it is public domain. I’d give you full credit, of course.’
Booth hesitated and then shrugged. ‘If I get clearance.’ Ah, vanity thought Ross. He held out his hand and the other took it. Then he gave the lieutenant a shove in the shoulder and Booth staggered back, dropping his hat. Before he could recover, Ross was off, sprinting across the stones as best he could, heading for Miss Pillbody. Booth, who gave no quarter even to his seniors in the 200-yard dash at school, scooped up his cap and set off after him, his whoop drowning out the screeches of the alarmed gulls overhead.
Mrs Georgina Gregson stood and stared at the steamer trunk lying on her cot bed for a few minutes before opening it. She was enjoying the anticipation of being reunited with some old friends. She was hoping the flowery Russian peasant tunic she had purchased from Jollys was in there. And the blue crinoline skirt. Perhaps the striped afternoon dress. And some fresh undergarments – those she possessed were thin and scratchy, thanks to continuous washing and reuse since her detention.
After she had tormented herself enough, she unclipped the trunk’s catches and heaved the lid back. Inside, the clothing looked like a rat’s nest, all scrunched and intertwined, thrown in without any care or regard. She cursed whichever oaf had been sent to her lodgings to fetch her things. A man, that much was certain. She shuddered at the thought of some unwashed brute rifling her wardrobe and her drawers. Yes, definitely a man, she thought, as her eyes fell on a ball of material that turned out to be her ivory silk blouse. A woman would know that the entire caseful would have to be steamed or ironed before any of it could be worn.
She lifted out a pleated Fortuny tea gown, the hem weighted with dozens of glass beads. It had once been her mother’s and still smelled of the vanilla fragrance she favoured. Not that she had any need of a tea gown in her present surroundings. Mrs Gregson wouldn’t be attending any manner of social event in the near future. She had been plucked out of society, whisked away into a nether world ruled by despots and the Defence of the Realm Act.