by Robert Ryan
‘The what?’
‘The Broomway. It’s a path, out at sea on the sands.’
‘Tidal?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it goes where?’
‘Careful here,’ she said. ‘The road is very uneven. Look, your cottage is down there.’
He peered into the gloom and could see the silhouette of a thatched roof against the almost starless night sky.
‘Only ten minutes to curfew,’ came a voice from the darkness.
Watson could see the figure, a Home Service soldier, he assumed, sitting in a makeshift guard post at the end of the garden. ‘Don’t worry . . . Corporal Deal, isn’t it?’
She has better eyes than me, Watson thought.
‘Yes, miss.’
‘I’m just dropping off Major Watson here and I’ll be back along presently. Is that all right?’
‘Make it snappy, miss. The old man isn’t too happy at the moment. What with being a woman down, as it were.’
‘Really?’
‘Best ask your gentleman friend about that.’ He also sounded none too pleased.
As they walked on, Watson explained in more detail about the need to get Holmes off the island for medical tests. He didn’t mention the tanks or Levass, who had made it more urgent than ever that they escape. Someone had to get to France and warn them what they had in their midst. Even if that someone, heaven forbid, was Major John Watson.
‘How long have you been here?’ he asked.
‘A few weeks.’ She waited for the inevitable follow-up question. ‘Do you wish to know why I was exiled?’
‘Not if you don’t want to tell me.’
‘I have a brother . . . oh, it doesn’t matter. I was careless, that’s all. I fell foul of the GPO and the police came knocking one morning. I am, apparently, a risk to national security and the defence of the realm.’
‘Well, in a strange way I am pleased you are here. For Holmes’s sake. I feared I would find him rather the worse for wear.’
‘Oh, I doubt I have much to do with that. I get the feeling he doesn’t really care for women. The fact that I like observing and painting birds is far more important than my sex.’
‘I am not sure I can argue with that.’
‘Although the fact I can make a half-decent steak-and-kidney pie seems to have caught his attention, too.’
They both laughed at this. Holmes had always enjoyed his food. And, inadvertently, she had been feeding him the kind of sustenance that might help with his anaemia.
‘This is you, here. Do you want me to come in and light the fire?’
‘Miss Deane, do you cosset all the men on the island?’
She giggled. ‘Only the famous ones, Dr Watson. Good night.’
‘Good night. Oh, Miss Deane, one more thing. This Broomway. What else did Holmes say about it?’
‘That it goes to the mainland. And that it is the most lethal road in Britain.’
The combination of darkness and fog had been extremely kind to Miss Gregson. Nevertheless, she waited in her hiding place – a storage cupboard near the bow on the starboard side of the King of Burnham – until she was sure the boat had been secured for the night.
As she crept along the deck, peering through the darkness for any sailors still on board, she reflected on how well their ruse had worked. Dr Watson was only meant to have yelled, ‘Woman overboard!’ and thrown a life belt into the creek. But his frenzied removal of his jacket and his clamber onto the rail, apparently moments away from making a dive into the murky waters below, had convinced captain and crew that Mrs Gregson must really have leaped rather than return to Foulness. They had hauled him down, struggling. Watson’s subsequent wailing and gnashing of teeth had, to her ears, verged on the melodramatic, but it seemed to do the trick. No onboard search was made, and even at Foulness her escape bid was accepted at face value. All she had had to do was wait until the King returned to Burnham and bide her time.
There was a chain across the top of the gangway to the pier and she was careful not to rattle it as she unclipped it and stepped through, closing it behind her. There were voices onboard, the sound of glasses clinking and laughter, but as far as she could tell any crew was sensibly inside, rather than out in the fog.
She hurried onto dry land and headed for the quayside exit, which would take her out to the bottom of the high street. Up there, then along Station Road, and she should be in time to catch one of the last trains to Liverpool Street. And then—
‘Miss?’
The man loomed out of the mist and cut off her path, planting himself in front of the ornate gates that stood between her and freedom. He was in his fifties, clean shaven and in the uniform of one of the Home Service Defence units. The guard was holding an old Martini-Henry rifle of greater vintage than he. ‘What are you doing here, miss? It’s all out of bounds when the gates are locked.’
‘Mrs,’ she corrected, pointing back at the King of Burnham. ‘I just took my boy, Sam, his supper.’
‘You didn’t come through here.’
‘I did.’
The man narrowed his eyes. ‘I never sees you.’ He looked her up and down.
At least she wasn’t in any sort of prison uniform, but the coat she had been allowed was two sizes two large and the collar moth-eaten. She didn’t look her most elegant. She could almost be . . .
Mrs Gregson coarsened her voice. ‘All right, you have me. How much?’ She thrust out one hip.
‘How much for what?’
‘Your share of what I just earned with the tars, m’lovey.’ She stepped closer and the guard retreated a little. ‘I made some money with the sailors tonight. I suppose it’s only fair to share it about a little. Half a crown do the trick?’ She began to rummage in her bag.
‘Oi, none of that. I’d be no better than you if I take a whore’s money. I should take you over to the harbour master—’
‘And explain how you let me in to do some business while you turned a blind eye. All for half a crown?’
‘I never—’
Mrs Gregson hit him with her fullest, devilish smile. ‘Look, you are flustered already. I don’t think he’ll believe you, will he?’ She stepped in even closer and stroked his face.
‘Stop that!’ He raised his rifle, threatening to push her back. ‘I ain’t even got half a crown on me.’
‘You have now,’ she grinned. ‘Best check your pockets.’
‘You little minx. Get out of here,’ he snarled. ‘And don’t let me see you round here again, you tart.’
He fumbled a set of keys from his webbing and unlocked a small access gate, all but pushing her through.
‘Night,’ Mrs Gregson said, cheerily, before letting the mist swallow her. The thought of him searching every pocket of his tunic and trousers for a phantom half-crown put a skip in her step as she headed up the hill.
At the station she bought a second-class ticket to Liverpool Street and waited the seven minutes for the Great Eastern Railway service, which arrived trailing its own mini-smog, the sparks from the fire flitting off into the night like escaped glow-flies.
It was only after she had taken a seat in an empty compartment that she allowed herself a sigh of relief. Done. She had with her Desmond’s letters, describing all that was wrong with Gallipoli, letters she felt Churchill would pay handsomely to keep from the public.
There came the blast of a stationmaster’s whistle from down the platform and the train gave a jerk.
And all she would be asking Churchill for was the release and rehabilitation of Holmes and Watson. It was as good as in the bag.
With a rising sequence of chuffing, the loco took up the strain and the service began to move forward. Mrs Gregson closed her eyes, weariness threatening to snatch her away, when the train slowed and then halted. They had barely left the platform. Then there came the creak of wood and the squeal of metal couplings and they were on the move once more. But backwards this time. They were reversing into the station, where, as she lowe
red the window and peered out into the soup of smoke and fog, she could just make out the distinctive silhouettes of the waiting policemen.
The cottage smelled of damp and mildew, but once he had lit the lamps and got the fire going, Watson began to feel better-disposed towards it. Besides, he expected he wouldn’t be there for long. Not if Mrs Gregson had anything to do with it. Her plan was simple: to recruit Vernon Kell of MI5 to her cause, using the letter Watson had given her, and to buttonhole Churchill until he gave way on getting Holmes off the island. Not an easy task, but Mrs Gregson had realized she had one weapon for her campaign: Desmond’s letters to her, blaming the High Command for the strategic and tactical failures of Gallipoli and singling out Churchill in particular. They might just make the difference between censure and exoneration for the former Sea Lord. It was blackmail, a crime Holmes held to be particularly abhorrent, but in this case it was all for the greater good. And, Watson thought with some satisfaction, it was turning Churchill’s own weapon of choice against him.
Watson went upstairs to inspect the bed, stripped off the sheets and located new ones in the cupboard. Slightly musty, but they’d do. Back down in the kitchen he found supplies of Camp coffee, tea, mouse-nibbled biscuits and Bovril. He would need more than that. There was, according to Miss Deane, a small shop next to the George and Dragon. Sadly, the pub had been shut down for the duration.
He had just set about making coffee – it would have to be black – when he heard the rap at the door. He half expected Holmes, but it was Montgomery. Without asking if he could come in, the colonel shouldered his way past Watson, sweeping off his cap as he did so. He was tall enough to have to stoop in the low-ceilinged cottage.
‘Making yourself at home, Major?’ Montgomery asked.
‘As best I can. Coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Don’t let me stop you.’
Watson made a cup of the glutinous brown liquid of, mostly, chicory essence. He liked his hot, although there were those who swore it was best served cold.
‘What can I do for you, Colonel?’ he asked, after the first sip.
‘Just checking you have everything you need.’
‘Not quite.’
‘Oh?’
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes is not a well man. I suspect pernicious anaemia.’
Montgomery tutted his sympathy.
‘I would be grateful if you could arrange a transfer to a hospital.’
‘I have seen him striding about. He doesn’t seem ill to me.’
‘Mr Holmes has a most unusual constitution. But he is not a young man. We can slow down the effects with diet and blood transfusions. But I would like confirmation—’
‘I can’t let anyone off the island.’
‘Even on compassionate grounds?’
‘Security. You have heard of the Black Deep?’
‘No.’
‘Fifteen miles from here is a remarkably deep sea trench. Deep for this part of the world, at least. Once a day, specially built boats leave from East London and make their way out here. When the tide is exactly right, they open the valves in their holds and London’s sewage comes out as a thick sludge, turning the sea black.’
‘I can’t see exactly—’
‘Two days ago, one of the boats had a mechanical failure. It dropped anchor while the crew carried out emergency repairs. It is dangerous out there. Many a ship has broken its back on the sands. When it was ready to go, at dusk, it saw the most remarkable thing. A German submarine, U-48, surfaced in front of it. The British captain had the presence of mind to order full steam ahead and it rammed the boat before it could fully submerse. We don’t know if it sank it, but, judging by the damage to the sludge boat, significant contact was made. We believe that U-boat was sent to find out what is going on on this island. There are channels in the sands that a small boat can navigate. I suspect the U-boat was trying to land a raiding party. To be honest, nobody will be kept here indefinitely, I can say no more than that. Have some patience, Major. But while we suspect imminent enemy action, my orders are to keep this place locked down tight. No exceptions.’
‘It seems rather draconian.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Do you ever know the great secret that this island is meant to protect?’ asked Watson.
‘No. I don’t need to and I don’t wish to. It would be one more burden.’
‘But what if I told you there is a man who wants to make sure the whole project founders at birth?’ Watson swept his arm in a semicircle. ‘A man who wants all this subterfuge to be a waste of time?’
‘Go on.’
‘He is a Frenchman, yet far from an ally. You could stop him simply by sending a telegram.’
‘To whom?’
‘Churchill. Just say “Arrest Levass”. He’ll understand.’
Montgomery frowned at this. ‘On what grounds?’
‘On Mr Sherlock Holmes’s say-so.’
‘And that will be enough to put this Levass behind bars, will it? The word of a man that you yourself have admitted is not entirely well? It will secure an arrest?’
Watson could see that it might not. An accusation without hard evidence, a piece of conjecture by Holmes from a second-hand account. ‘Perhaps not. But it is worth a try. It will certainly pique his interest.’
‘I’ll think on it.’ In actual fact he had already made up his mind. Montgomery didn’t want Churchill back, sniffing around. The man made trouble wherever he went. And at that moment, he knew, Churchill was fighting for his political life and reputation, giving evidence to the Dardanelles Commission, trying to prove Gallipoli was not his fault alone. And the idea that one man – a Frenchman at that – could derail the British war effort was ridiculous. Montgomery suspected this Levass business was simply a ploy by Watson to get his friend off the island.
‘That’s all I ask.’ Watson didn’t press the point. He still had the ace of Mrs Gregson up his sleeve.
‘But I warn you, I am not inclined to grant you any wishes after today’s shenanigans.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I know you have already tried to make me look a fool.’
Watson said nothing, fearing what was to come.
Montgomery finally let a smirk play over his face. This is what he had come for: a gloat. ‘You see, we picked up your friend at the station, on board a train for London. Seems she made a guard at the docks suspicious and he reported her. Mrs Gregson is in the Workhouse under lock and key. And that’s where she’ll stay until charged under the Defence of the Realm Act.’
FORTY-ONE
Holmes and Watson discussed their options over some excellent devilled kidneys prepared for Holmes by Miss Deane. She confirmed that Mrs Gregson was being held, under guard, in a room on the top floor of the building known as the Workhouse.
‘What’s to be done?’ she asked.
Holmes pointed a forkful of kidneys in Watson’s direction. ‘Watson, your thoughts?’
‘We have to get off the island, get you to a hospital.’
‘Don’t you worry about me,’ said Holmes. ‘You have bigger fish to fry. You must warn the Heavy Branch about Levass.’
‘But surely it is too late for this man to stop the machines being deployed,’ said Miss Deane.
‘What if he sabotaged the landships enough that all sides think they are a failure, until he is ready to show the world his own, Gallic version?’ replied Watson.
‘But the French are our allies,’ said Miss Deane as she poured them all tea. ‘Surely he wouldn’t—’
‘Miss Deane, men – mostly men – often perpetrate the most terrible crimes on the flimsiest of pretexts,’ said Watson. ‘Levass believes he is right, and everyone else is wrong, and there is no telling what he might do.’
She sipped her tea. ‘I suppose you are right.’
‘I intend to see Montgomery this morning,’ said Holmes, ‘to try to convince him of the peril of the situation.’
‘I wish you luck,’ said Watson glum
ly. ‘A most intractable chap, he seems to me.’
‘I fear you are right, Watson. But the alternatives?’
There was a moment of contemplation, and the taking of more kidneys, around the table.
‘Holmes,’ said Watson eventually, ‘there is another option. This Broomway that Miss Deane mentioned. Perhaps I could—’
‘Ha! Do not even consider it, Watson. You know what locals call it? The Doomway. The most lethal road in the entire United Kingdom. I, for one, cannot think of another that has claimed more lives.’
‘How so?’
‘It is called the Broomway because the route was marked with bundles of twigs. Like sweeping brooms. Hazel, I believe. Well, most of those have long gone, replaced by wooden posts. Posts that are not easy to spot in a mist or a sea fog. And there are precious few landmarks to steer by. The glutinous Black Grounds that fringe the pathways have claimed even those familiar with the route: postmen, farmers, priests, horses and sheep. Why do you think they put so few patrols on the south side of the island? Nobody in their right mind would attempt to navigate it, especially not with this mist. And the tide. You have seen how flat the land is? The tide races in faster than even a young man can run. You would be food for crabs.’
‘You make it sound worse than no man’s land,’ said Watson with a shudder.
‘Apart from the fact there are no shells or snipers trying to do you harm, I believe it is, Watson. No, you would surely founder and die.’
‘I see.’
‘I, on the other hand, with my admirable sense of direction, can get you across.’
‘Holmes—’ he began.
‘Miss Deane, fetch me a piece of paper, if you will. And a writing implement. I believe there are some in the drawer in the kitchen. These kidneys, might I say, are the finest I have had in many a year.’
‘Did you hear about the submarine?’ Watson asked while she was gone.
‘No. Pray tell.’
Watson repeated what Montgomery had told him, about the sludge cruiser.
‘What was a German submarine doing here?’ asked Miss Deane, returning with the requested items.