by Robert Ryan
Watson wondered just what Beatrix Potter might think about helping to name the most secret project in the British Isles.
‘So, what do you make of him?’ asked Swinton. ‘Hitchcock?’
‘Sorry I’m late.’ A new arrival came in, breathless, a jug-eared young man with a gaunt, worried expression, dressed in crumpled civilian clothes. He had in his hands what looked to be a rag. From the scuffed toes of his boots, the grease-spiked hair and his reddened knuckles, Watson concluded the man was a mechanic of some description.
‘And I can’t stop. I just wanted to say hello to Major Watson. The name’s Cardew. I’m one of the engineers on the project.’
Something more than a mere mechanic then, Watson chided himself as he stood to shake the young chap’s hand. Cardew demurred.
‘Sorry, grease all over it. Came straight from the workshop. The other sponsons have arrived, you see,’ he said by way of explanation, the excitement in his voice palpable. ‘So we can start fitting them to the main bodies. I am afraid it is going to be a late night. I just wanted to say welcome and hope we can get to the bottom of this terrible business.’
‘As do I. But what’s a sponson?’ Watson asked, although he knew vaguely what the term referred to on a ship. But they were a long way from the sea.
Cardew looked enquiringly at Swinton, who said, ‘All in good time, Major.’
‘Yes. Well, back to work. I shall see you tomorrow?’
‘I hope so. Perhaps you can tell me what a sponson is then.’
‘Better than that. I’ll show you one.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ snapped Booth.
After Cardew had gone, Thwaites said: ‘He’s a keen chap. It takes hours to fit those damn things.’
Swinton was eager to get back to business. ‘You were giving your opinion about Hitchcock.’
Watson leaned back as his soup plate was cleared. ‘I don’t quite understand my role in this. As I asked Churchill before – physician or detective?’
‘Well, originally we wanted—’ began Thwaites, before Swinton glared him into silence.
‘I understand. You wanted Holmes, who then would have brought me on board. He for his powers of observation; me for my medical background in shell shock.’
‘Something like that,’ admitted Swinton. ‘I’m sorry, that’s not to demean your experience in deduction—’
Watson raised a hand to stop him. ‘No need to apologize. It is an interesting case but it is difficult to assess Hitchcock properly on that one meeting when he has uttered not a word. True, the malaise has elements of what we used to call shell shock, but has some peculiar traits of its own. I have a few ideas. Is there a piano in the house?’
‘Piano?’ asked Thwaites, thinking Watson was suggesting after-dinner entertainment. ‘Do you play?’
‘It’s not for me. According to his file, in his previous life it was a pastime of Hitchcock’s. It might help him. A non-verbal therapy.’
‘There’s one in the music room,’ said Solomon. ‘I have played it a little. Quite serviceable. Needs a tune, perhaps.’
‘And, if we can get him some spectacles tinted against the light, I want to take him for walks.’ So-called ‘browned’ lenses were commonly prescribed for syphilis sufferers, as light sensitivity was a symptom, so they weren’t difficult to source.
‘In the gardens only,’ suggested Booth. ‘Not the greater estate. Bit of a flap on beyond the walls. You are liable to get challenged rather robustly. Or worse.’
Watson nodded his agreement. ‘And he needs a woman’s company.’
Solomon burst out laughing. ‘God Almighty, he’ll have to join the queue.’
Levass flashed a quick grin. ‘I suspect that is not what the major means.’
Watson nodded his thanks. ‘Shell shock or whatever term you prefer to use is often perceived as a failure of masculinity. Women, after all, get the vapours and hysteria. Men just carry on. Until they don’t. I have had great success introducing women to the environment of the patient. Mothers, sisters, sweethearts . . .’
‘Out of the question,’ said Booth, with a querying look at Swinton, who nodded his agreement. ‘I can’t allow it on security grounds.’
‘But there are women here?’ Watson asked.
‘Housekeeper, a couple of maids,’ said Swinton.
‘And a nurse, I believe.’
Swinton nodded. ‘Indeed. You are well informed, Major.’ There was a hint of suspicion in his voice.
‘I thought I detected the whiff of ether in the hallway.’
Solomon, at least, smiled at the poor joke.
‘I also need to see the scene of, um, the crime, as soon as possible.’
‘We aren’t certain there has been a crime,’ said Booth. ‘Our rule is, despite what Cardew has promised, that as few outsiders as possible see what we are working on.’
Watson turned to Swinton, exasperated. ‘Then I am wasting my time.’
‘Why is that?’ asked Thwaites.
‘If this were a murder scene . . .’
He let that hang there for a moment. They would know that he was aware that Hitchcock had seven dead comrades.
‘It is no such thing,’ said Swinton eventually.
Watson took his time gathering his thoughts. ‘Seven men dead. One survives.’
‘As a loony,’ said Thwaites.
Watson let his distaste at the word show. ‘If you take things at face value.’
It took a moment for that to sink in. ‘Are you saying that Hitchcock engineered this whole catastrophe? And could be playacting?’ asked Swinton. ‘You told us he was shell-shocked.’
‘And I believe he is. But was that perhaps not a side effect of his undertaking? He was one of eight men in the same environment. Is that right?’
‘Yes,’ said Swinton cautiously. ‘The same confined space.’
‘Seven die, one doesn’t. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know where that is pointing.’
Really, Watson, you know I would never leap to such conclusions.
Watson smiled to himself at that familiar, if unreliable, voice in his head. His aim was not to jump to conclusions but to unsettle, to gain the upper hand. Yet he wasn’t being entirely disingenuous. It was possible that Hitchcock could be a murderer. It was equally possible that he inadvertently started a chain of events that killed seven men.
‘You think Hitchcock—’ began Thwaites.
‘I suppose nothing,’ Watson interrupted. ‘But if it were a murder scene, then I would ask to see the murder weapon. To examine it in detail. Something drove this man into catatonia. I believe it is a genuine condition. Not’ – he wagged a finger – ‘a form of malingering. But how did it come about? I need to know what and where this event took place. I need to see with my very own eyes. Churchill understood that.’ He detected a little shiver of displeasure around the table at the mention of the name.
The next course, a shrimp mousse garnished with oysters, was placed before him.
‘The others didn’t object to not seeing the actual site of the incident,’ said Booth.
‘What others?’
‘The unit’s MO, Captain Trenton, was one of the victims. So we rather reluctantly brought two outside medical men in to examine the bodies, and Hitchcock,’ said Swinton. ‘One civilian doctor from Norwich, one army. We didn’t let them beyond the house, of course.’
‘Their conclusions?’ Watson asked.
‘Bafflement,’ admitted Thwaites. ‘And so we turned to you.’
‘Well, Churchill did. Quite how he knew of our predicament I’ll never know,’ said Swinton, ‘but he said he had just the men for the job.’
Men. Churchill had meant Holmes and Watson. And now they had just the one. The lesser one, they no doubt thought, Watson concluded.
Tut-tut, Watson, we are two halves of the same kidney.
‘So you went along with him in this matter?’
‘It isn’t easy to argue Churchill down,’ said Swin
ton.
‘Quite,’ said Watson, without, he hoped, too much bitterness. ‘Nevertheless, I can’t proceed unless I have your permission to examine every aspect of the case, including the place where the men were struck down. Believe you me, Holmes would say the same thing.’
‘How much do you know about Puddleduck?’ asked Swinton. ‘Is Churchill telling everyone who walks through his door about it?’
‘Not at all. He’s closed up tighter than one of these oysters back when it had a shell. I know very little for certain. I have made informed guesses. But they are just that. Guesses.’ He took a sip of Chablis. The room swam slightly, but not from the alcohol. He was tired. He wanted to get to bed. He wondered how many courses before the inevitable toasts to the King and fallen comrades and the port and cigars. ‘But, I repeat, I need to see what killed seven men and drove one insane, no matter how hush-hush it is.’
‘Drove eight men insane to begin with,’ Thwaites corrected. ‘Gibbering wrecks. And one by one they died. Some within the hour, the MO in the group took almost half a day.’
‘You realize that you may well be confined to quarters if we reveal everything to you?’ said Booth. ‘Nobody, apart from Churchill and a handful of others, is allowed to be privy to this project and wander the streets.’
Levass swallowed a spoonful of shrimp mousse with an exaggerated gulp. ‘We are prisoners of our own making, Major. Very comfortable prisoners, but it could be months before the world knows of what we do. Until then . . .’
‘I’ll take that chance,’ said Watson.
Swinton and Booth exchanged glances once more. ‘Very well,’ said the colonel.
‘Perhaps I could show the major his, what did you call it, “scene of the crime”?’ asked Levass.
‘I’ll accompany you, of course’ said Booth quickly.
‘Thank you,’ said Watson. ‘Immediately after breakfast?’
‘As you wish,’ said Levass.
‘Just one thing,’ said Swinton. ‘There was no crime, Major Watson. This is an unfortunate accident. You’ll understand why when you see the conditions the men were placed under. I appreciate your reputation as a sleuth but—’
Watson raised a hand. ‘That reputation was not mine. I would never claim it for myself. I am here as a medical man.’
Swinton seemed to relax. ‘Very well. The sooner we get to the bottom of this case, the better.’
‘Where, exactly, is the machine that did this to them?’ Watson asked and pre-empted any questions about how he knew the nature of the device. ‘Yes, I know it is a machine of some kind, able to wage war in the trenches. Mere logic tells me that.’ And H. G. Wells.
Booth answered. ‘There is a proving ground in front of this house, beyond the trees. It remains where it came to a halt.’
‘And you will introduce me to this nurse of yours? I might need an assistant who has some medical knowledge. What’s her name?’ Watson asked.
‘She’s a bit of handful,’ said Thwaites. ‘We call her the Red Dragon. Not to her face, of course. Real name’s Mrs Gregson.’
It was gone midnight by the time Watson got to bed back at the lodge. His meagre valise had been unpacked and there was a jug of hot water and a mug of Horlicks awaiting him. He ran through the evening in his head. Booth had quizzed him on events in London and the assassination attempt. Swinton was interested in Churchill. Levass talked about shell shock and French wine and his time in Mexico among the remains of Aztec civilization. Solomon held forth on his dislike of Vorticism, but how the art movement had a practical application in camouflage. That, Watson realized, was why they had a distinguished Royal Academician in their midst – Solomon was to be the master of disguise for whatever they were developing to unleash on the Germans. It was quite a long way from executing portraits of the great and the good, which was why the ‘housepainter’ jibe had clearly stung.
Thwaites, on the other hand, was most keen to talk about the adventures of Mr Sherlock Holmes. When Watson agreed to some small talk on the matter, he again studied the expressions of the men around the table, to see if, perhaps, they knew something about Holmes’s whereabouts, but they were as impassive as professional bridge players.
Watson had had enough after twenty minutes and switched tack. ‘And what is your role in all this, if I might enquire?’ he asked Major Thwaites.
‘Me?’ Thwaites said. ‘Tactics. Battlefield tactics. With the new . . .’
‘The new weapon,’ said Levass. ‘Of which we are so proud.’ There was a slight slur to his words. ‘Aren’t we, gentlemen? Although perhaps not Hitchcock, eh? I doubt he’s too proud.’
‘I think that’s enough, Levass,’ said Swinton.
Levass turned to Watson. ‘You can cure him?’
Watson pushed his wine away. He suddenly felt very sober. ‘We ’ll see.’
That apparently satisfied the Frenchman. Levass’s presence was something of a puzzle. The French were allies, of course, but also notoriously loose-lipped. ‘It’s all classified information until the first glass of champagne’ went the old adage. The Frenchman also seemed to enjoy poking fun at what he called ‘perfidious Albion’, especially over its annexation of the Punjab and the theft, as he put it, of the Koh-I-Noor. He had returned to the subject several times, until Booth had snapped at him, quizzing him sardonically about his own country’s colonial record in Indochina, the Caribbean and Africa.
To trust a Frenchman with what Churchill called ‘the greatest secret of the war’ . . . well, he had to be rather a special kind of Frenchie. And the fact that he seemed drunk and snippy didn’t bode well. Watson didn’t doubt he’d find out more the next day.
Mrs Gregson’s presence at Elveden was perhaps the most surprising revelation. Strictly speaking, she wasn’t a nurse, she was a member of the Voluntary Aid Detachment, the VADs. But such niceties were often lost on soldiers. And she was a very competent medical woman, as he knew from their time together in Belgium.
Plus, he reminded himself, she loves and knows motor cycles. His patient had been in the Machine Gun Corps – as had the orderly who acted as gaoler – which used sidecars with machine guns on them. Was it her love of those machines that had got her involved?
Watson stripped off his uniform. The warm water on his face made him feel even sleepier. Whatever questions he had would be resolved after breakfast, when he would see Churchill’s Scourge of Malice in the flesh, or whatever material it was made of.
But he would be there with Booth, Levass and God alone knew how many others. Holmes would never have countenanced that.
He heard voices outside his door and stopped his splashing. He crossed over to listen, but they faded. Back at the washstand, they became clearer once more. They were coming from outside his window. And he was on the second floor.
He pulled back the curtains and yanked up the sash. At first there was only the sigh of the wind, but then he heard them, a number of speakers, talking low and urgently. He looked down at the ground below, but could see nothing in the darkness. There they were again, phantom words floating through the night.
There was the drum of a sudden shower, and he felt raindrops on his head. It increased in severity, pouring down onto lawns and shrubs with a sound like scattershot. The voices were lost to it. He pulled the window down and yawned. Ah well, he told himself again, all will be revealed tomorrow.
Watson placed the little pistol Coyle had given him on the night-stand and finished his ablutions, eager for the feel of the fresh cotton sheets.
He was just nodding off when he heard the soft tapping at the door and reached for the gun.
That was when the first explosion rattled the windows, throwing sticks of light across the walls and shaking the glass in its frame like chattering teeth.
TWENTY-ONE
Petty Officer Third Class Joachim Kuhn climbed into the observation craft of L.18, the Admiral Karl Rudolf Brommy, just as the enormous Zeppelin crossed the British coast. She was cruising above the clouds, and the c
aptain didn’t want to bring his precious machine down to within range of the searchlights or artillery. Yet he wanted to make sure they were heading for the correct target. Too many times he had dropped bombs guided only by the glow of city lights through thin, translucent clouds. Tonight, the clouds weren’t thin or translucent and, on this bombing mission, he was charged with being more accurate than usual. So, like a plumb-bob, the observation capsule – christened Effi by the men – would be winched down from the main ship to dangle below the cloud cover.
Kuhn opened the hatch in the floor of the Zeppelin’s forward control gondola and lowered himself through into the miniature craft slung beneath it. The capsule swayed as he let it take his full weight. As he steadied himself, one of his fellow officers tossed down a pack of Königin von Saba cigarettes. ‘Lucky bastard,’ he said.
An icy breeze of air was blasting through Effi, which had side windows, but no glass, and Kuhn belted his coat and pulled up his gloves. Lucky? He wasn’t so sure. But it would go on his record that he had volunteered. And then there were the Königin von Sabas.
Effi was shaped like a miniature ‘sausage’ observation balloon, with a bulbous nose and four tail fins. Inside, Kuhn had a wicker chair, bolted to the floor, and a table with a compass, charts, a square – so it wouldn’t roll away – flashlight, a flask of water and a telephone. There was also a bucket next to the table, next to a hatch in the floor. It could be a long, lonely night in the little craft.
He settled down into the chair. Around him the wind whistled, and the little baby craft vibrated in time with the Zeppelin’s engines. Kuhn laid the cigarettes and a box of matches in front of him. Once it was depolyed, Effi was the only place on a Zeppelin one could safely smoke without the risk of a lethal hydrogen explosion.
He checked the compass. Still heading west. Kuhn picked up the phone. ‘Captain, this is Kuhn in the observation capsule, testing communications.’
‘Receiving you. Thank you for volunteering, Kuhn.’