The Dead Can Wait

by Robert Ryan

  ‘Up to no good, I assume,’ said Holmes, dismissing the tale from his mind. ‘Now, let me show you.’ He took the stub of a pencil and a sheet of lined paper. ‘The Poet Laureate, Robert Bridges, once wrote a monograph on the forgotten and ancient roads of Great Britain. Rather better than his later poetry, in my opinion. He traced the Broomway back to Roman times, I believe.’

  Holmes drew a rough shape on the paper. ‘This is Foulness. Approximately. And here, to the south-west, the mainland at Wakering Stairs. Now the path actually runs offshore from the island, some hundreds of yards. The trick is to find the solid paths, the causeways, which feed into it, like the tributaries of a stream. They come from here, here and here. These are in some ways the most lethal part of the journey, because people try to cut corners to get to the Broomway. But that is a fatal mistake – these are the tracks where people die when they stray. Go either side of that solid ground, which you can usually detect by the remains of ancient wattles, wooden boards, laid over the mud, and you are in the Black Grounds. And you won’t be coming out of that sinking mud.’ He gave a theatrical twirl of his hand, a gesture retrieved from long ago, and lowered his voice. ‘Not alive, Watson, not alive.’

  ‘But you couldn’t do that journey. It looks far too dangerous, Holmes. And you are not a well man.’

  Holmes dismissed this with another wave of his fingers. ‘I shall have you to lean on, Watson. And Mrs Gregson.’

  ‘Mrs Gregson is under lock and key,’ Watson reminded him. ‘And I don’t see why we need involve her in such a treacherous undertaking.’

  ‘Oh, I can get her out of that room, gentlemen,’ said Miss Deane. ‘There is an attic that runs the entire length of the building. It wouldn’t be hard to break through a patch of ceiling if someone could devise a distraction.’

  ‘A nice fire, perhaps,’ said Holmes with a wry smile, recalling, thought Watson, the ruse he had used in the story they called ‘A Scandal in Bohemia’.

  ‘Well, there is a kitchen,’ Miss Deane said.

  ‘Once unleashed, fire is difficult to control,’ said Watson. ‘We don’t want casualties.’

  ‘True. We must plan this carefully,’ said Holmes, his eyes blazing with excitement. Watson was inclined to take his pulse to make sure he wasn’t over-doing it, but he knew he mustn’t fuss. The sense of purpose burning within Holmes was both gratifying and infectious.

  ‘And when we get to Wakering Stairs?’ Watson asked. ‘What then?’

  ‘We find a motor car,’ said Holmes, as if Watson was being particularly dim. ‘And drive it to London. A few words with Kell at MI5 will put us in the clear, I’d wager. And then we send word to the tankmen in France that they have a viper in their midst.’

  ‘Steal a car?’

  ‘Borrow one, Watson, borrow one.’

  ‘But I have no idea how to borrow a car,’ admitted Watson.

  ‘No, but from what you tell me, your Mrs Gregson does. That is why she is vital to our plans. We need to spring her from her trap. A prison breakout, if you please.’

  They both turned to look at Miss Deane.

  She flushed slightly under their gaze, then took a deep breath. ‘Very well, I will help break her out, gentlemen. But on one condition.’

  ‘What is that?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘I can come with you.’

  ‘In which case,’ announced Holmes, ‘we will be needing four stout walking sticks, even stouter shoes, a brick or stone and a large spool of thread.’

  FORTY-TWO

  The stutter and then roar of the six tank engines cut through the silence of the dark woods as the four-man starter handles turned. Already the attuned ear could hear that one of them was running rough, its rhythm erratic and the exhaust note strained. So five will move forward from Yellow Dump, thought Levass, the great invention edging ever closer to the front line, albeit it in painfully small increments.

  He walked through to the edge of the once verdant, now ruined and splintered forest, where the machines sat, their drivers waiting for the Daimler engines to reach their operating temperature. The wilier mechanics would have lit a small paraffin fire under the gearbox or diff to help thin the oil and speed things along. They were all learning the little tricks and foibles of the machines. Another six months . . .

  ‘They need to be in place by dawn. Shouldn’t they get a move on?’ It was Colonel Cecil Frogatt-Lewis, newly installed commander of the Heavy Branch and a man who had little sympathy for the waywardness of complex mechanical devices. He and Levass were touring each of the muster sites of the tanks that had so far made it to the forward areas. The attrition rate had been appalling. And now, as the sick engine missed several beats and fell silent, it appeared they had lost another. Levass saw figures moving through the gloom, torches in hand, heading for the stricken ‘bus’. The mechanics would try to get to the bottom of the fault, but experience told him that repairs inevitably took several hours. And he had been adamant to Frogatt-Lewis that the tanks should not move in daylight hours and must remain camouflaged when stationary. He hadn’t come this far to let a clever German spotter realize what kind of new weapon they had.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ asked Frogatt-Lewis, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. ‘Flowers?’

  ‘Gas shells,’ said Levass. ‘It leaves a sickly sweet smell even after it has lost its potency.’

  ‘I see,’ Frogatt-Lewis replied, instinctively changing to shallow breathing.

  ‘Captain!’ Levass yelled.

  The commander of the small group of tanks, a weary-looking lad in his early twenties, with a grease-stained face, trotted out of the darkness and saluted. ‘Sir?

  Levass recognized the man from Elveden. He had driven Genevieve. ‘Halford, isn’t it?’

  ‘Captain Henry Halford, yes, sir.’ He had been promoted from lieutenant on arrival in France. The new rank still sounded strange to his ears.

  ‘You only have an hour until dawn,’ said Frogatt-Lewis, returning the salute. ‘You need to move up.’

  ‘One of the tanks—’ Halford began.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Levass.

  ‘Leave it?’

  ‘No time. Where are you moving to?’

  ‘Memetz Wood.’

  ‘That’s four miles away,’ said Levass.

  ‘So I believe,’ said Halford, with just a hint of insolence.

  ‘And you average less than three miles an hour.’

  The young man nodded. ‘If we push them any harder, the fuel consumption is enormous. It’s like pouring petrol into a hole in the ground. We stack the steering gear with spare tins, but as it is . . . it’s a worry.’

  ‘We are aware of that.’ Levass also knew that U-boats had sunk several tankers full of fuel destined for the greedy tanks. ‘Take any supplies off the crippled tank and distribute between the remaining five. We’ll get you all the fuel you need up to Memetz.’

  ‘Sir. Thank you.’

  ‘And one other thing,’ asked Levass. ‘You’ve been to the front?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘I have, recently, for the first time. I thought I was prepared. I had heard all the stories. In half a mile the landscape will change. You think this wood has had shell damage? Wait until you see what artillery has done up ahead. There will be craters like you have never experienced. And there will be bodies. You’ll have to go over them. Are you prepared for that? You won’t know if they were friend or foe, men or horses. Death has mixed up their bones like it was making a soup.’

  Halford blanched a little. ‘We’ll do our job, sir.’

  They heard the low rumble of guns, even above the tank engines, and Levass caught a glow on the horizon a false dawn of shellfire.

  ‘Good luck, Captain. What’s your tank called?’

  ‘G for Glory, sir.’

  Frogatt-Lewis grunted. ‘Well named. It will be a glorious dawn.’

  Levass couldn’t resist a snort.

  ‘And, son . . .’ added Frogatt-Lewis.

  �
��Sir?’

  ‘Wipe some of that muck off your face, will you? And that helmet is all very well when you are engaging the enemy, but I expect a cap when outside the tank.’

  This, Levass knew, was nonsense. Any time you drove a tank there was a danger of skull hitting bulkhead. Swapping caps every time one de-tanked was just impractical. ‘Understood?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Off you go.’ When the lad had left, Frogatt-Lewis turned to Levass. ‘Did you have to put the wind up him quite so much?’

  Levass said nothing. The ‘wind’ was but a gentle blowing on the skin compared to the hurricane of horror that awaited him. He remembered that troublesome Major Watson being shocked that none of them at Thetford had seen real trenches, genuine no man’s land. He understood now. No second-hand description could prepare you for the sight and smell of the real thing.

  Within fifteen minutes the first of the tanks, led out by a warrant officer holding a lantern aloft, jerked out of line and began its tortuous progress towards the shelter of the next wood. The black-and-white Cubist-style paintwork really did disrupt the vision, and, as intended, it was hard to make out where the machine ended and night began. However, the square, silver cans of extra fuel glowed dully at the rear of the machine, remaining faintly visible as the tank turned into the textureless blackness of the sunken road that led north-west, to battle. They needed to be painted in a dull finish.

  ‘Driblets,’ muttered Levass.

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘It’s what Haig calls it. Use the tanks in driblets.’ He couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice. ‘In three months we will have eight hundred French caterpillars. In four months there will be a thousand of those. A thousand Mark Ones. Imagine!’

  ‘Careful, Levass. I may not know much about tanks, but I know Haig, Rawlinson and Butler. Brough went because he disparaged the plan of a few tanks and plenty of infantry. Isn’t that so?’

  Levass sighed, aware that his views could get him sent back to Paris. And that wouldn’t do. ‘Just thinking out loud. I feel sorry for the men. Untried machines, untrained crew, not enough tanks, not enough time, not enough petrol, not enough range. And Haig expects a miracle.’

  ‘The Prince of Wales told me he doesn’t expect much from them,’ name-dropped Frogatt-Lewis. The prince had indeed been to see the tanks perform, crushing gun carts and knocking over trees in the tame-bear shows they put on at Yvranch.

  ‘The Prince of Wales is not running this show,’ said Levass. Which was just as well as the young man didn’t know the meaning of the words ‘secrecy’ and ‘discretion’ – the very night of the demonstration he was sending his father drawings and specifications through the regular post. Luckily they had been intercepted and carried across by Top Secret pouch. Anybody else would have ended up on Foulness.

  ‘And that promise you just made. How are you going to guarantee them fuel, Levass?’ Frogatt-Lewis asked. ‘I’ve been badgering GHQ about it these past few days. We have to take our place in the priorities, apparently.’

  ‘We’ll use French fuel. There are dumps at Maricourt and Albert. I can press on the Bureau Central Interallié to organize French drivers and lorries to bring it forward. If you wish, I can organize its distribution to each company.’

  ‘Really?’

  Levass nodded. ‘The battle here was to give us French some breathing space. The least we can do is give you some petrol.’

  They waited until the last of the dazzle-painted tanks had pulled away and turned into the lane that would take them to Memetz Wood, where they would be parked among whatever was left of the trees and re-netted, leaving only the forlorn crippled machine, abandoned like the little boy in The Pied Piper of Hamelin. They could hear the ringing of tools on machinery as the mechanics got to work stripping down the uncooperative engine.

  ‘Where next?’ asked Frogatt-Lewis.

  ‘La Briqueterie near Trones Wood,’ said Levass. ‘C Company are bombing up.’ This was one of the best of the Heavy Branch groups, men who had been trained from the very beginning at Thetford. ‘Then to Rawlinson at Heilly, to explain our tactics.’ Sir Henry Rawlinson was the Fourth Army commander and Heilly was his new forward HQ. He was demanding to know how the tanks would be used on the day and what they meant for his infantry. It was a good question.

  ‘Very well, let’s see how they are getting along at Trones Wood. Should get to Heilly in time for breakfast, eh? One thing Rawlinson doesn’t skimp on.’

  ‘Unlike his tanks.’

  ‘Levass! Enough. Driblets or not, we do whatever GHQ wants. It’ll be their heads, not ours.’

  Levass smiled as Frogatt-Smith headed for the staff car. Now he had control of the fuel supply, he could do with it as he wished. Heads might roll, but the tank might just live to fight another day. In its thousands.

  FORTY-THREE

  Dawn was just a vague blush of a promise when the four pilgrims set off for the mainland. Getting Mrs Gregson out through the ceiling had been far easier than anticipated, once Miss Deane had left a half-bottle of Holmes’s brandy where the guard couldn’t help but notice it. His snores kept most of the women in the dormitories of the Workhouse awake all night, although by the early hours they had softened to a mere low rumble, with the occasional rising snuffle.

  Mrs Gregson and Miss Deane slipped out into the night, crossing the fields and the plank bridges over the ditches. With the moon playing peek-a-boo with the clouds and only the stars to guide them, it was a treacherous crossing. At one point Mrs Gregson’s foot slipped into a slimy ribbon of water. She felt it slop over the top of her Glastonburys.

  ‘Oh, damn!’

  ‘Ssshhhh,’ said Miss Deane, at which point her sole, too, slipped on the rotten board and she went ankle-deep into mud.

  ‘Oh, double damn!’

  ‘Shhusshh,’ hissed Mrs Gregson, and the pair spent a few minutes snorting away suppressed giggles.

  Having freed themselves and waited to ensure their noisy submersion had not attracted anybody, they squelched on.

  ‘I have some spare stockings you can have,’ said Miss Deane. ‘The boot will dry out soon enough.’

  ‘I think I’ve picked up a fish. Something is moving in there.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Miss Deane.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. It’s probably a frog.’

  Mrs Gregson gave a small squeal and clamped her hand over mouth. The pair hurried on. When they reached Holmes’s signal cottage, an uncharacteristically cross Watson was waiting. ‘We could probably have hired the band of the Coldstream Guards to come across with you. It would have been less noisy.’

  This only made them laugh more.

  Watson closed the door behind them and, while they stripped off wet shoes and stockings, he fed them brandy.

  ‘I’m going to get some dry socks from my room,’ said Miss Deane. ‘I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.’

  ‘Don’t be long,’ warned Watson.

  When he returned from seeing Miss Deane out of the front door, Mrs Gregson hugged Watson tightly, which caused Holmes some amusement.

  ‘I’m sorry I got caught,’ she said. ‘I should have been more careful.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Watson. ‘We knew it was a risky undertaking.’

  ‘Keep your voices down,’ said Holmes with a hiss. ‘Have you quite finished with him?’

  Mrs Gregson nodded. ‘For now.’ She held out her hand. ‘Mr Holmes, so very pleased to meet you properly at last. Georgina Gregson.’

  He took her hand. ‘The pleasure is mine. Watson speaks highly of you.’ There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘Very highly. Ah’ – he released his grip on her fingers – ‘I see you are naturally or instinctively left handed,’ he said. ‘But you use the right for most things, except . . . the violin?’

  ‘The cello,’ she admitted. ‘But I haven’t played in years. Not since before the war. How . . .?’

  Holmes glanced at Watson with a little smirk of triumph. ‘The
thumb musculature, Watson. It stays very distinctive in one who has played since they were a child. Now, drink this.’ Holmes offered her a tumbler of brandy. ‘Miss Deane has made up some food for us. I have it in my knapsack. Do you really need that bag?’

  Mrs Gregson was busy examining Holmes’s wall of bird sightings. ‘What?’ She looked down at the tapestry carpetbag she had brought. ‘Sorry, yes. I can manage. Who did this painting?’

  ‘Miss Deane. Really, Mrs Gregson, we aren’t here to admire the art,’ snapped Holmes impatiently. ‘Here.’

  Mrs Gregson took the brandy from him and drank it down, suppressing a cough as it seared its path to her stomach. ‘How long is this crossing?’

  ‘From where we join it,’ Holmes replied, ‘it is just over three miles. In bright daylight, perhaps an hour or an hour and a half, shore to shore. But we have to cross the island to the starting causeway first. And we can’t use the roads. And it will not be fully light for the first part of the journey. Three hours at least.’

  Watson looked at his wristwatch. That meant it would be around breakfast time before they reached the mainland. Probably about the time that the balloon would go up about their disappearance. There was one thing that might work in their favour. Montgomery might think nobody would be crazed enough to try to navigate the Broomway. ‘It will be tight,’ was all he said.

  Mrs Gregson suppressed a yawn. ‘Then we had better get started.’

  A movement behind her indicated Miss Deane had returned. She handed a pair of thick woollen socks to Mrs Gregson. ‘Best I could manage.’

  ‘They’ll do. Nice geese,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ Mrs Gregson said, as she rolled on the socks, ‘but you are coming because . . .?’

  ‘Because it was the price of your freedom, Mrs Gregson. And because without Mr Sherlock Holmes, Foulness will become even more unbearable.’

  There was a tartness to the reply, but Holmes ignored it. They were all on edge. ‘We each need to select a walking stick,’ he said, pointing at the ones he had collected. ‘Ladies first, I believe.’