by Robert Ryan
Excellent, Watson, excellent.
Cardew’s only response was another shake of his head.
‘What was the concoction you used?’ asked Watson. ‘In the tank?’
‘Major, I fear your brain is definitely scrambled.’
‘I thought at first it might be the devil’s foot powder,’ continued Watson. ‘You, though, are probably too young to recall “The Adventure of the Devil’s Foot”? The so-called devil’s foot root? It is an extract of Physostigma venenosum, the calabar bean, although I held that detail back from my account in the Strand lest others be tempted to use the terrible drug. But, I reasoned, that is found only in Africa, and not South Africa, but chiefly along the banks of the Ubangi, which forms the border between French and Belgian Congo—’
‘I have never been to Africa!’ Cardew protested.
‘No. Nor has anyone here, as far as I am aware, not the central part of the continent, anyway.’ Thwaites’s experience didn’t count; he hadn’t travelled overland through the continent but by ship to and from Cape Town. ‘And with the Cornish sample destroyed, the only other example in this part of the world is in a laboratory in Buda. So I considered the matter further. Not the devil’s foot, then. Something European, perhaps. How did you hit upon the idea of using ergot? Was it the local rye fields, gone to seed, infested with the stuff ? And to find a way for the vapour to work amid all those competing fumes . . . part of me is impressed. But you are a man of science, a seeker of solutions, aren’t you?’
Cardew said nothing now, just gulped at his brandy.
‘Did you know at the beginning of your scheme that it causes vasoconstriction? Affecting the brain and the limbs, causing gangrene. That was why you had to dispose of the bodies, wasn’t it? The doctor was the last to die, so had the most advanced gangrene symptoms. And poor Hitchcock. At first I thought he was weeping at the piano because of the pain. I now think it was something worse for a musician – he couldn’t feel his fingers. The fingertips were losing their sensitivity. That is why he banged the keys. The gangrene was coming, so I suspect you pushed him along with a little more of your devilish concoction, hoping we wouldn’t examine him too carefully.’
‘Poppycock.’
‘Perhaps. Hitchcock, I can’t be sure of. But I did notice that the paraffin heater in his room had been on – I turned it off when I left him and ordered more blankets. It had also been wiped clean. Was that how you delivered it? No matter. Your quarters and workshop are being searched as we speak, looking for this foul poison you have created.’
‘I didn’t . . .’ Cardew gulped. ‘I wouldn’t. What you suggest is monstrous.’
‘And so is what is at stake. I have put myself in your shoes. We have one chance with this machine and you wanted to make sure it was the right one. What are eight deaths versus the millions out there? Eight men die every minute somewhere in this war. And I am sure you had other plans to stall the progress. But I ask you again, did you mean to kill the men in the tank? And what other schemes have you put in place?’
Cardew sucked in his cheeks and began to chew at one of them.
The door swung open and framed Swinton, and behind him two military policemen. ‘Well?’ Watson asked.
Swinton, who had taken the precaution of wearing gloves, held up a glass bottle, the size of a jam jar, half-filled with a black, oily liquid. ‘In a panel behind the bed in his quarters. Along with what appears to be a coded recipe for making it.’ He looked at Watson. ‘What is it?’
‘I suspect a suspension that uses ergot of rye. Claviceps purpurea, possibly, or another species. It infects various cereals and, if digested, causes ergotism – ignis sacer or St Anthony’s Fire. The symptoms are intense burning of the limbs, hallucinations, gangrene and death.’
‘Cardew—’ Swinton began, his voice trembling with rage.
‘Just a moment, Colonel.’ Watson turned his attention back to the young engineer. ‘I think we are about to hear all the details.’
‘Not from me,’ snarled the young man.
‘It is your best hope,’ said Watson.
‘You’ll never know the truth.’
‘Oh, I think we will,’ said Swinton, stepping aside to allow the military policemen into the room.
‘Not from these lips.’
In one clean movement Cardew swept up Watson’s neglected brandy and swallowed it in one. He stood, staring at the Major for a few seconds and then gave a little laugh and a cough. ‘The poison doesn’t . . . doesn’t have to be delivered as fumes, Major. It . . .’ – he took a step back – ‘. . . it can work dissolved in liquid. As you were meant to discover.’
Watson jumped from his chair and ran towards the man, intending to make him sick, but Cardew clamped his left hand over his mouth and scurried backwards. From his pocket he extracted the pistol he had confiscated from Watson in the tank.
‘Get back,’ he threatened through his fingers. ‘Or I kill the major.’
Watson raised his hands to show he was coming no further. ‘Look, Cardew, the tank will be deployed within weeks with you or without you. It’s too late to stop now. Churchill, Haig, the other desk-wallahs – they don’t care if a crew is killed or goes mad. They’ll just get another one. The dead men are an irrelevance. You are a clever lad. Don’t throw it all away.’ He risked a single pace forward. ‘We can plead temporary insanity. All those hours working with the machine, the stress of sleepless nights, the damned fumes . . . make yourself sick, now. The toxin can’t work that quickly. Good God man, you don’t want to die of madness and gangrene.’
Cardew’s features relaxed. He let his left hand drop and spoke clearly. ‘You know, you’re absolutely right.’ He put the gun to his forehead and pulled the trigger.
The report was almost as loud as Watson’s scream.
THIRTY-SIX
Miss Pillbody had no real idea where she was. She had arrived in Liverpool in time for afternoon tea at the surprisingly opulent Adelphi and had sat next to the dolphin, as instructed. A waiter had asked for her room number, she had given the correct response and received a note with her pot of tea instructing her to go to the basement of a shop called Blackler’s. There she had been bundled out by two workmen and loaded into the back of a delivery van for a short but bumpy ride. One of the men sat with her, rifling through her bag until he found the pistol and pocketed it without comment.
She was so tired, she almost didn’t care what happened to her. Only her Sie Wölfe training – the long marches on no sleep and little food, and the nights of mock interrogation – kept her going. And that training told her to pick her moments. When resources are low, marshal them carefully and strike when you have a good chance of succeeding, not merely to demonstrate courage or defiance. So when the van stopped and her escort produced a blindfold, she offered no resistance.
She was helped down from the van and shuffled through a door, up a flight of stairs and along a corridor. When the blindfold was removed she was in a rather shabby hotel room. Her bag was placed on the bed, and the two men departed. She heard the key turn in the lock.
The temptation was to lie down on the bed and sleep. It had been a long, fraught journey from Great Yarmouth, by car and then train. Then she caught sight of the colour of the pillows and thought better of putting her head on them. She examined the windows, but they were screwed or nailed shut. The grimy panes looked out onto an airshaft. All she could see were a number of similarly unwashed windows on the opposite wall.
She sighed and sat in the only chair, a rather upright and scuffed object placed next to a mismatched and equally careworn desk. She closed her eyes, trying to empty her mind of the last forty-eight hours. But there was one question that kept returning: had the dentist really been out to dispose of her? Were his instructions to remove any potential loose ends, as she had become? Or had her fevered imagination made her liable to over-react? She would probably never know the truth. What she did know, judging by the documents in the car she had stolen, was that the den
tist had been under observation. So, with the British on his tail, he was no great loss.
She must have nodded off, because when she opened her eyes again a man was entering the room. He had on a black frock coat, waistcoat and striped trousers and had a pair of pince-nez dangling round his beck. He had a beaky expression that reminded Miss Pillbody of a vulture. The hair was heavily oiled and he smelled of strong tobacco. He inclined his head towards her. ‘Good evening.’
‘Good evening,’ she replied.
He glanced at the bed and decided to remain standing. ‘I apologize for the manner of your arrival.’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘Indeed, for the place of your arrival. I’m sure you’re used to somewhat different surroundings, Miss . . .?’
She didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure who she was now. ‘I am here to report.’
‘Really? I think news has travelled ahead of you. Or at least snippets of it. You remind me of one of those hurricanes they have in the Caribbean.’ She could detect a faint accent now. This man wasn’t English. ‘Leaving a trail of destruction in her wake. An agent in Suffolk, a dentist in Great Yarmouth . . .’
‘A compromised dentist.’ And perhaps a dead British policeman as well, she thought, under the wheels of his own car. It was quite a tally she was clocking up. ‘And I did what I had to do. As an agent of Germany.’
‘Forgive me, but I have no way of knowing that. You could be an agent of the British Crown.’
‘And so could you.’
‘I am, my dear. A very senior agent of the Crown. I am the Chief Postal Censor for the north-west of England. I see all the sensitive material written in Liverpool, Manchester and beyond. And I act on those pieces of information that might be of benefit to Germany and the Kaiser.’
She laughed. If that was true, it was a remarkable placement. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Oh, because if you are who I think you are, then you might be useful to me. If not, you’ll leave this room in that bag of yours.’ He glanced down at it, and she shuddered.
A mournful horn sounded somewhere nearby and received an answer to its call. They were close to the river. Easy to dispose of a body, whole or otherwise.
‘I am an operative of the Nachrichten-Abteilung, German Naval Intelligence,’ she said. ‘My last assignment was to guide a Zeppelin over Thetford aerodrome. Unfortunately, another agent, operating in the area, was recognized as a spy and compromised my position. I was in Great Yarmouth with Delaney. When I left, I realized he was being observed by British agents or police.’
‘How did you escape?’
‘I . . .’
‘Careful now. I am not stupid. I have some facts to draw upon.’
This could have been a bluff, but she stuck as closely to the facts as she could. ‘I shot Delaney when I realized he was under observation by the British.’ It was only a small lie, a transposition of timing. ‘He would have been no further use and could have betrayed both me and you—’
The man put his hand up. ‘I am not judging. Probably very wise.’
‘I managed to lose the British agent and then stole his car.’
He looked impressed. ‘Most resourceful.’
‘Which I spent the night in, in a country lane. I then abandoned it and took several trains to Liverpool.’
The man tapped his lower lip with an index finger. ‘I am afraid I shall have to verify some of that. Can you give me the name of your handler at Naval Intelligence?’
She pursed her lips. What did he take her for? She had said too much already. ‘I can. But I won’t.’
He smirked. ‘Hersch has a weakness for femmes fatales.’
This man doesn’t know the half of it, she thought.
‘I shall check with him. Is there anything that would confirm your identity?’
They locked eyes for what seemed like many minutes before she said, ‘Tell him that he shouldn’t make love with Rudy in the room. It is very distracting.’
‘Rudy?’
‘His schnauzer. He barks at the most inopportune moments.’
The man nodded, vaguely affronted by such candour. What sort of training was seducing your agents? Or perhaps it was the other way round. ‘You really are quite a remarkable women. I shall try to get confirmation as soon as possible. In the meantime . . .’ He looked around and wrinkled his nose. ‘Try and make yourself comfortable. Is there anything I can bring you?’
She was distracted by something at the window that had caught her eye. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Can I bring you something?’
‘I haven’t eaten anything for quite some time.’
‘I’ll see if we can send something up.’
‘Thank you.’
As soon as he was gone, she got to work on the window.
Watson sat on a bench in the walled garden, letting the low evening sun warm his face. He just wished it could heat up his bones, which seemed permanently chilled. He ached all over. The strain of his few days at Elveden had taken its toll: the freezing water, the hellhole of a tank and the suicide of a young man right in front of him – a man who had intended to feed him a poison to drive him mad, and thus further confuse the situation, he reminded himself. Thank goodness he made sure the engineer had not been allowed unaccompanied access to the other two machines, or he might have poisoned those too.
Watson could hear the noise of the landships, blowing across from the trench system, their Daimler engines revving and protesting and sometimes juddering to a halt. Coughs and splutters marked desperate attempts to restart them. But it wasn’t his concern now. He was sure there would be no more madness among the crew, well, not of that sort. The terrible conditions would afflict those in the belly of that beast in other ways, though. He was still going to file that report on conditions inside the tanks from a medical perspective.
‘What are you thinking?’
He looked up at Mrs Gregson, who handed him a tall glass of something that looked like a urine sample. ‘What’s this?’
‘Medicine. For your nerves. Don’t ask questions.’
He sipped. It was a whisky with ginger. It made his insides glow. ‘Thank you, Nurse,’ he said.
‘May I?’
He shuffled along and she sat next to him. She placed a hand over his, as hot as an iron, it seemed to him. He hesitated for a moment before he put down his drink. A smile played over her lips and she squeezed.
‘What is it?’
‘I’m worried about you,’ said Mrs Gregson.
The sound of an explosion rolled towards them and Mrs Gregson looked startled.
‘It’s perfectly all right. Fairley is insisting they try to duplicate the conditions with a few big bangs.’ He watched a thin rope of smoke climb upwards, like some fakir’s trick. ‘Worried how?’
‘Have you looked in the mirror?’
He gave a small chuckle. ‘Best not, I think. Except for shaving.’
‘Are you eating?’
‘My appetite seems to have deserted me,’ he admitted. ‘But. Well . . .’ The sight of the young man’s blood and brains on his wall – he had moved bedrooms – came back to him every time he sat with a full plate before him. ‘It’s early days.’
‘When did you know it was Cardew?’
‘I didn’t. Not for certain. You might have noticed this, but I am not a great detective.’
Come now, Watson—
He ignored the imposter.
‘There was only ever room for one of those in the team. But I was certain it had to be someone on the technical side, someone who thought the tanks had to be delayed. I had the shoe imprints, but that was not conclusive. The wiping of the exhaust. But, to be frank, it was what the Americans call a hunch. Holmes always hated hunches. But it was the best I had.’
‘Will they work? The tanks over there? Will they shorten the war?’
He shrugged. ‘They are slow, noisy and unreliable, and an awful lot of expectation has been placed on them. In truth, I don’t know. But I am no longer as
dismissive as I once was. It might take just one decisive breakthrough to get this war moving again and out of the trenches. That alone would be worth it. Anything that breaks the stalemate will save lives.’
‘And what now? Swinton won’t let us just waltz out of here. Not with the unveiling of the machines so imminent.’
Watson coughed, and he heard something rattling in his tubes. So did Mrs Gregson, who squeezed his hand until the fit passed. ‘No, I suspect not. I thought I’d volunteer for quarantine at this place, Foulness.’
‘Please, no.’ He was aware of their hands as a single entity now and he had to admit he was enjoying the sensation. He reminded himself not to enjoy it too much. A man of his vintage . . . that way lay humiliation. Yet he found himself envious of her Desmond, of the intimacy they had enjoyed, no matter how fleeting. But the man must have been half his age. Watson extracted his hands from the nest of fingers and put it from his mind.
‘I have to go. Churchill told me I was welcome to join Holmes. As his doctor.’
‘Now Winston has no further use for you. Typical. Foulness is a dreadful spot, Major. Too damp for a man in your condition. Why on earth would you do that?’
Watson turned and looked at her, fixing his eyes on hers, so she would know he was being absolutely serious. As he spoke, machine guns chattered manically in the distance.
‘Because if Sherlock Holmes is there, I am going to get him out.’
And then he began to cough again, a raspy, hacking thing that reddened his face and scoured his throat to rawness, over and over until he feared it might never stop.
‘Well,’ she said, so softly he didn’t catch her words, ‘you’ll be needing a nurse then.’
The two men who had abducted her came up with a tray of food. She knew it was a pair even before they arrived, because of the footfalls on the stairs. She sat, hands folded in her lap, at the small desk, to the right of the door. There was a knock.
‘Come in,’ she said, raising her voice just enough to be heard.