by Robert Ryan
‘Sir!’ he shouted when the mounted officer was within hailing distance. ‘I’ll have to ask you to stop there. This facility is out of bounds to all but authorized personnel.’
The officer made no sign of acknowledgement. He pulled the horse to a halt, dismounted, and tied his mount to a makeshift hitching post, stroking the face and saying something softly in its ear. He turned, flicked the rain from his cape and approached Lewis.
‘Corporal. I wonder if I might see your commanding officer?’
‘Sorry, Major,’ he said in a Lanky accent not so broad as it had once been. ‘The unit’s bin moved to the front. Just a couple of us left to guard the site.’ He glanced up at Smillings. ‘Four privates, a lance corporal an’ me.’
‘Which makes you the senior person here,’ Watson said brightly.
‘I don’t know about that,’ Lewis said cautiously. He’d never liked too much responsibility. Never wanted to proceed as far as sergeant. He was happy where he was, anonymous enough, but not sitting at the bottom of the heap.
‘I assume all the, um, special armaments have been moved up as well?’
Lewis put an index finger under his collar, releasing another trickle of icy water. ‘I am not allowed to discuss such things, sir.’
Watson hesitated. He knew that his sponsor was a double-edged sword. The Hero of Sidney Street; the Butcher of Gallipoli. Which would the corporal recognize? ‘I have here a letter,’ he said at last, extracting it from his pocket and displaying it with a flourish. ‘Which gives me permission to inspect these and any other grounds where I believe there to be a medical issue.’
‘Medical?’
‘The material we are dealing with is designed to hurt, maim and kill. I need to ensure they only hurt, main and kill the enemy.’
‘Ain’t heard of no accidents here. Besides, there’s only—’ He caught himself.
‘Corporal. If I have to ride all the way back to Colonel Churchill to tell him that I have been obstructed—’
‘There’s only one small dump left. Everything else has gone for’ard.’
‘May I see?’
Watson held up the letter again as a reminder of his authority. Lewis read it once more. ‘. . . are required to offer all consideration and assistance in all matters pertaining to . . .’
It wasn’t so much a request as an instruction. Even the signature, aggressively scrawled across the lower half of the page, had a bullying tone. Was this, Lewis wondered, the moment when his luck ran out? A decision either way could have fearful ramifications.
‘Come with me, sir,’ Lewis said eventually, turning to unlatch the gate with heavy steps and an even heavier heart.
Burnt-Out Lodge had been chosen, Lewis explained, because, although the upper building had been severely damaged, there were extensive cellars that were intact. It was below ground that the ‘special armaments’ were stored. It was, he explained, a wise precaution to guard against air raids, which might cause casualties over a wide area if a dump were hit.
Lewis led Watson down mossy stone steps to double steel doors that had replaced the original wooden ones. These were kept closed with a bolt that was provided with a hasp for a lock, although none was fitted.
‘Do we need any sort of protection?’ Watson asked, as Lewis swung the door back. ‘Against the gas?’
Lewis flinched at the three-letter word. ‘Not really. You get the odd sniff now and then, stingy eyes, mebbe, but nothing too bad.’ He reached in and flicked a switch for the electric lights. There was a low hum and several false starts before light flooded the place. He pointed to a rack on the wall, lined with hypo helmets and emergency packs of gauze soaked in anti-gas chemicals. ‘Anything happens, you just grab one of those quick.’
Watson stepped into the subterranean space, its vaulted ceiling supported by sugar-twist pillars. Beneath his feet was an uneven, stone-flagged floor. It was cold, damp and mostly empty, save for a small hillock of something at one side, covered with a tarpaulin.
‘May I?’ asked Watson.
‘Aye. But be careful how you lift it.’
Watson did as instructed, removed the stones that weighted down the edges of the covering and gingerly rolled it back. Underneath was a series of canisters, each shaped like a steel cigar, with a valve arrangement at one end. Each of them had a lengthy rubber tube, coiled like a tendril, emerging from the neck, just above the valve wheel. The cylinders were marked with a skull and cross bones on the side, stencilled in white, with a prominent red star beneath it. Watson felt something grab at his throat even as he looked at them. ‘Is this the only dump?’
‘Only one with anything left, I reckon.’
‘Where were the others?’
‘Wherever there was a decent cellar. Dotted about, they were. But emptied now.’
‘Then why are these still here?’ Watson asked Lewis, pulling the cover back over the pile.
‘Old stock.’
‘It loses potency?’ A blank expression greeted him. Watson rephrased. ‘Does it become less effective over time?’’
Lewis unslung his rifle. He’d already compromised himself; he reckoned he could do no more harm. ‘With these you build a trench, bury the cylinder in sandbags, run the tube up onto no man’s land, wait till wind blows in t’right direction and open t’valves. And then, run. ’Cause if that wind changes . . . The new stocks, them’s not cylinders at all, but they call ’em projectiles. Well, designed to be fired at enemy from some sort of trench mortar. So at least ye know it’s goin’ to right side of lines.’
He gave a laugh. Watson didn’t feel able to join in. The whole concept of chemical warfare was anathema to him.
‘What’s in these exactly?’
‘Chlorine.’
‘And the new ones?’
Lewis shrugged, as if he didn’t quite grasp what he was being asked.
‘What type of marking do the new projectiles have? The same red star?’
‘Reckon.’
‘Have you ever had any cylinders here with different markings? Symbols or letters or colours?’ Watson knew from laboratory work that there were internationally accepted codes that denoted various gases.
‘Not so I’ve seen, sir.’
Chlorine was a horrible vapour, an irritant that burned the eyes and stripped out the lung lining, causing victims to drown in the leaking fluid. But it didn’t turn people blue nor bring on Risus sardonicus. Whatever hideous new methods of poisoning were being deployed at Burnt-Out Lodge, they weren’t the source of the poison that killed Edward Hornby, Geoffrey Shipobottom and almost did for Robinson de Griffon.
FORTY-FIVE
Night was setting in as Watson reached the barn at Suffolk Farm. The lorry parks he passed were alive with lights and idling engines; the munitions trucks rattled along the narrow-gauge tramways that crisscrossed the countryside, and everywhere men were on the march. The crunch of hobnails would have filled the air but for the blasts of the guns that had started up, their muzzle flashes scorching the base of the low clouds.
Suffolk Farm was deserted, the only sign of habitation the detritus left behind by the Pals – bully beef cans, piles of carelessly thrown tea leaves, rain-sodden newspapers and magazines, a few broken and useless piece of equipment – and a brief sighting of Cecil, who raced a few circuits around the yard before sprinting off.
‘Hello?’ Watson shouted. There was normally a farmer around, the man who would have let out his property (five francs for an officer, one for a regular soldier), a Madame and some kids. This one appeared deserted. ‘Anybody there?’
Watson dismounted, reached down and picked up several large, dangerously sharp shards of earthenware that were littering the yard. They had once been part of a container marked SRD, the mysterious organization – Supply Reserve Depot or Special Rations Department, depending on whom you believed – that managed to deliver rum to every corner of the conflict. It was the remains of one of the jugs that the tots arrived in. He tossed the pieces onto the big
rubbish pile adjacent to the stone horse trough. Another unit would doubtless be in the next day, complain about the state the billet had been left in, clean it up and then, as was the way of the world, leave it similarly strewn with detritus when they abandoned it. Lord Lockie pulled him over to the trough near the midden of garbage, bent his head and drank.
The bay gelding had done exceptionally well, riding dozens of miles without any complaint, and appeared to have more to give. Watson, on the other hand, was almost spent. He felt somewhat deflated, his bones excessively heavy. The sudden elation he had felt when he discovered the coded message in the magazine had been deflated by fatigue and a gnawing sense of failure. He could not help feel that, had Holmes been with him, he would have seen wide avenues to explore where Watson only saw culs-de-sac, discovered connections when all Watson could sense was a scatter-pattern of unrelated incidents, spread like buckshot across the fabric of the case. He was, he concluded, only half a detective. Perhaps less.
But, he reminded himself, half a Holmes was better than none. He had met successful policemen at Scotland Yard who were a fraction of that. But so far he had established one fact: Caspar Myles was a far more decent man than he suspected. Though perhaps hotheaded and clumsy around women, he was no molester. Quite the opposite. Which posed the question: where had he taken Staff Nurse Jennings?
No, it didn’t, he reminded himself. It wasn’t any of his business. His sole concern, he told himself, had been for Staff Nurse Jennings’s safety. If she was safe, even if she was perhaps behaving foolishly, then he really should close the matter.
Is that all you are worried about? Her safety?
He wasn’t going to justify that with a reply, he decided.
But you like her.
Of course I—
Ha. His conscious was trying to tell him his concern for the girl was distracting him away from the real matter in hand. Of course I like her. He had always enjoyed the company of intelligent, independent women. He even appreciated Mrs Gregson, although there was a wild streak in there that any man of his generation would find unsettling. It was fine when it was harnessed for good, such as the retrieving of the burial records of Hornby, but he suspected—
And speaking of Hornby. And Shipobottom. And de Griffon.
Yes, yes, enough of women. Back to murder. So, he was now as certain as he could be that gas had not played a role in this case, unless Churchill found otherwise from the Wiltshire death. Had he been right about that? It was possible he had maligned British scientists.
Watson pulled open the door to the nearest stone barn and lit one of the lanterns in the doorway. He wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell of ammonia and worse. Some of the men had decided to use at least one of the stalls as a latrine. These were people, he reminded himself, who often made do with earth closets at home. A pile of clean straw might seem rather tempting to them. They could have used some chloride of lime, however, to soften the stink.
He took the light and walked Lord Lockie to a stall at the far end, away from the odiferous area. Hanging up the lantern, he began to untack, starting with the nose lash to release bridle. He didn’t bother with a rope harness; Lord Lockie was glad to be home and wasn’t going to give him any trouble.
As he unbuckled the girth, he thought about how marvellous it would feel to be going back to Baker Street. To a steaming cocoa from Mrs Hudson. A hot bath and soaking to the sound of a violin seeping through the closed door. A good whisky waiting on a side-table. One of their landlady’s fine pies for supper. Perhaps an unexpected knock at the door . . .
Stop torturing yourself, Watson admonished. There are a million men crouched in trenches all across Europe, pining for home comforts and old friends. You have considerably less right to them than they. He was an old man sliding into the past rather than facing his inevitable future. He had seen it happen to many of his patients, that yearning for a golden age that had never really existed, at least not in the prelapsian version that memory presented. It was true in this case. He had always exaggerated Holmes’s ability on the violin. It could be maddeningly caterwauling at times. The pies, mind, really were delicious.
Watson chuckled to himself as he heaved off the saddle and its pad, and placed it on the stall divider. Then he draped a fresh mantle over the horse’s back. Lord Lockie gave a little shudder of pleasure at the touch of the cool blanket and Watson stepped back as the animal emptied his capacious bladder. Watson fetched oats and water for the horse while he waited for the stream to weaken. He had just started to search for some brushes, when he heard the barn door slam in the wind. At least, he thought it was the wind. But it was a clever breeze that could lift up a beam of wood and re-bar the door from the outside.
‘Hello?’ he shouted, his voice strangely deadened by the stone and wood that surrounded him. The flat, empty timbre of the word made his heart beat a little faster. It sounded like it had come from another place, the dream world he had just been indulging in.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked. ‘Lewis? Is that you?’ Why would it be Corporal Lewis? Because he had asked where he was going next and Watson had told him. Using footpaths, Burnt-Out Lodge was only a short walk across two fields.
Watson took a step towards the now-closed double doors when he saw something snake underneath them, whiplashing as it came. It was a hose. Perhaps, he thought, the stable was to be sluiced. Then it gave a twitch and a jolt, as if given an electric shock. A shushing noise issued from the open end, followed by a foul white-green cloud that blossomed rapidly, like the bloom of a flower speeded up by a cine camera. Watson instinctively took a step back and put a hand to his mouth. It was the hiss of chlorine gas.
FORTY-SIX
‘See?’ Robinson de Griffon cried triumphantly. ‘See this?’
He was pacing up and down the tent at double speed, his arms pumping, legs straight out and stiff. Cecil followed him, snapping at his heels.
‘And this!’
The captain began to hop, alternating one leg with another, pyjama bottoms flapping. He looked so ludicrous that Mrs Gregson had to laugh. ‘Can you stop now? One of us will burst an organ.’
He collapsed onto the bed, a smile on his face, his chest heaving. ‘I am well enough to be discharged,’ he said at last.
‘Major Watson ought to have the last say in that,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘And I have to go and serve tea. Would you like some? As long as you don’t tell Sister its provenance.’
‘Mrs Gregson, have a heart. I can’t rely on Major Watson. Lord knows where he is off gallivanting to now.’
She had to agree. He had come in with Cecil under his arm, his eyes wild with excitement, almost feverish, she would have said. He had asked Captain de Griffon a few questions about poison gas, and then declared his intention to visit Burnt-Out Lodge. He had also mentioned something about Winston Churchill and sending Miss Pippery off with a telegram. He had been babbling, as if a whole clutch of sentences were trying to get out of his mouth at once. Mrs Gregson wondered if his brain had scrambled into dementia or, rather unkindly, if he had been at the morphia. The calm, reassuring gentleman doctor she knew seemed to have deserted, leaving a voluble Mr Hyde in his place.
‘Look, my whole company has pulled out,’ said de Griffon, in measured tones. ‘All gone up to the front for another stint. I really need to be with them. There are young, frightened men in their ranks who, strange as it may sound, look to me for guidance. I’m not a professional soldier. Not that long ago I was an idiot subaltern. But my job is to lead the men by showing them the correct way to behave, both in and out of combat. If they think their officer is shirking—’
‘Nobody can think that,’ she objected. ‘Not after what you have been through.’
He shook his head ruefully. ‘Mrs Gregson, I wouldn’t be the first officer to find a creative way out of this madness. But upon my return to England, if God spares me, I will take up my role as Lord Stanwood.’
‘You are Lord Stanwood?’
‘Both my fat
her and brother are dead. My mother lives in that great house all alone but for a cook, a single maid, and Harry the chauffeur. Who is not the man he was. My job will be to return Flitcham to the house it was before my father took ill, and to make sure the mills are ready for the peacetime economy. A great many of the lads in my unit will be my employees. They’ll want their jobs back. Imagine if they lose all respect for me, for the family name. It’s a recipe for disaster. One thing that is going to be very difficult when all this is over is getting back to normal, to bring back the old order. Dereliction of duty by me won’t help.’ He pushed back his hair from his forehead and Mrs Gregson thought he was really quite attractive when he was agitated.
‘I didn’t realize. That you’d lost . . . that you were now the head of the family.’
‘Head of the wicked de Griffons.’
‘I didn’t say that . . .’
‘I think you did. But I promise. After the war, no more wickedness. I know I said I wanted the old order back, but it will never be quite the same. Good Lord, how many lords have shared a trench or a shellhole with their men, watched them die, carried them from . . . ? What I mean is, I can’t see them as faceless pawns on a board after this. Ever. Nor will I ever think of women in quite the same way.’
’I’m pleased to hear it, Lord Stanwood.’
‘Good Lord, no, not here. That’s for the future. Robinson, please.’
‘I think that might have to wait a while longer, too,’ boomed Sister Spence. She had slid in behind them, unseen and unheard. ‘I thought I told you not to fraternize with the officers, Mrs Gregson.’
‘Sister, this is all my fault. I sent for Mrs Gregson. I needed to know how Major Watson’s investigation was proceeding. Please, if you are going to shout at anyone, shout at me.’
Sister Spence tutted at the thought. ‘I knew having VADs would turn the place upside down. What with Field Marshal Haig on the way—’