by Robert Ryan
‘Young Lothar looks pretty skilled at camouflage to me.’
‘Ah,’ said Lux. ‘But there is one thing he is missing. What’s that, Breuchtal?’
‘I haven’t killed enough Tommies, sir. Unlike the Unteroffizier.’ Lux raised his eyebrows at Bloch. ‘See?
‘No, sir. I don’t,’ he confessed.
‘No tutor can hope to have respect unless he has been out there and lived through what he is teaching. Manfred here has clearly paid his dues. You too, almost. You would move here as a Feldwebel, with potential to move up to Vizefeldwebel, and perhaps Degenfähnrich.’
That was effectively a cadet officer. Play his cards right and he could rise to a field commission. To go home, having finished the war as a Leutnant would be quite something for a country boy. That would impress Hilde’s father. One thing puzzled him. ‘What do you mean by “almost” paid my dues, sir?’
‘Lothar is to take over your sector. And your spotter. Schaeffer, isn’t it? But I’d like you to break him in. Show him the ropes. Just for a week or so. You know every crater and tree stump out there.’
The import of what he was saying finally hit home and for a second Bloch felt the world shift below his feet. No more trenches, no more mud-filled depressions, no more shunning by his fellow troops, no more days in concrete bunkers without daylight, no more shooting unwary officers through the head. Lux was offering him warmth, safety, status and prospects.
‘It would be a pleasure to teach him what little I know. And to take a position here.’
The three men beamed at him.
‘Wonderful. We will do great things here, Bloch. Just one more tour out there,’ said Lux, directing him back towards the huts. ‘And you’re home and dry.’
FORTY-NINE
The first inkling that something was amiss was when Mrs Gregson saw the monster in the headlamp of the motor cycle. As they entered the farm courtyard, the creature staggered out of the twilight and into the beam, and then ducked away. She was so shocked at the apparition that the front wheel of the bike wobbled, and she felt they must go over.
‘Stop!’ cried de Griffon from over her shoulder, and she managed to skid the bike to a halt on the cobbles. The captain was off in one quick hop, grabbed her by the shoulders and flung her to the hard ground. The bike crashed down beside her and stalled.
‘Stay still,’ he instructed. ‘Keep your head covered.’
She did as she was told, using her arms as a shield, trying to recall what she had seen of the being. A hideously featureless face, apart from two prominent, bulbous eyes and a kind of trunk where the nose and mouth should have been.
‘Stop right there!’ she heard de Griffon yell from behind. ‘You there.’
There came an incoherent reply.
‘Don’t be a fool, man. Put down the rifle.’
Another muffled sound was followed by two sharp reports from de Griffon’s revolver that made her start. There was a third shot, and a sound like a sack of coal or potatoes being dropped.
‘It’s all right,’ de Griffon said. ‘Oh, my good God. Hold on, stay there. Please.’
The alarm – no, sheer panic – in his voice made her jump to her feet. She wasn’t going to lie there whimpering.
The captain was illuminated by the fading, tallow beam of the motor cycle. To his right was a prostrate form; the creature, she assumed, rifle at his side, arms spread akimbo. She was too distant to see any wounds, but was in no doubt that de Griffon had shot him. The captain was bent over a gas cylinder that lay in front of one of the barns, frantically turning a small hand wheel.
‘Stay back, Georgina!’ he shouted and began to cough. ‘For God’s sake, stay away.’
She could smell petrol. The tank of the fallen bike was leaking through the cap and she heaved it up, training the headlamp on de Griffon as he rolled the cylinder away, bringing a length of tubing with it. Mrs Gregson pulled the motor cycle onto its stand and ran across the cobbles towards the barn, but as she drew level with the farm’s well, de Griffon again waved frantically and warned her to stay put.
He lifted the bar across the double doors, flung them back and retreated as fast as he could from the billowing cloud that rolled out.
‘It’s gas!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Cover your mouth—’
His words were knocked clear out of him. Head thrown back in pain, trailing streamers of green fumes like a horse from hell, Lord Lockie burst from the folds of smoke and barrelled into de Griffon. The captain tried to keep his balance, but his feet went from under him and he slithered along the cobbles.
‘The major!’ she shouted. ‘Dr Wat—’
De Griffon began to cough and heave, and even at that remove, Mrs Gregson felt the first stinging attacks by the vile substance burning her nose and eyes. She pulled the collar of her coat to her mouth to create a barrier.
De Griffon was up again now, clawing frantically at the face of the dead man, when another living thing emerged from the gas rolling out of the barn. He was staggering, and holding a cloth pressed flat against his entire face. He careered around blindly, one arm outstretched, and appeared to crash into the horse trough, but at that point he threw away the handkerchief and plunged his head into the water, submerging it to his shoulders.
De Griffon was before her, holding up something that smelled disgusting. ‘Put this on. Now!’
It was a gas mask. One of the new respirators she had heard about but not seen. That was what the creature had been. A man in a respirator. She slipped the suffocating rubber and canvas contraption over her head. It was damp with a dead man’s breath, the mica eyepieces were fogged up and one was cracked. But at least the gas wasn’t scratching at her throat now.
‘Get the major clear,’ de Griffon instructed. ‘Out of the farm. On the bike.’
‘Wha’boutoo?’ Her words came as if she was underwater.
‘What?’
She tried to enunciate more clearly. ‘What about you?’
‘I have something to do. I’ll be all right, now go.’
Mrs Gregson walked back over to the parked bike, straddled it and, to her relief, it rumbled into life on the second kick. She opened the throttle just enough to take her alongside Major Watson. He put his dripping head on her shoulder, his chest heaving.
‘Can you get on?’
A nod was all the wheezing doctor could summon, but he managed to throw a leg over the pillion.
They both watched, frozen, as de Griffon walked over to Lord Lockie. The horse’s legs had buckled from under him, his breath was coming hard and the flanks were glistening with sweat. As he approached, Lockie shook his head and gave a pitiful neigh. Then, with a ground-shaking impact that felt like it reverberated for several seconds, he keeled over. The hoofs began to paw the air, as if he were still trying to race away from this terrible place. A piercing whine escaped from foam-flecked lips.
De Griffon stood watching for a second, but even that was a cruel hesitation. He knew what he had to do. He stepped forward, raised the revolver, took careful, merciful aim, and pulled the trigger. Lord Lockie gave one almighty thrash and lay still.
As the motor bike growled and popped out of the farm gate, Cecil ran past it, his little legs pumping, tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.
De Griffon picked up the dog and put his cheek to its muzzle, walking away as quickly as he could, his eyes streaming with tears that weren’t entirely due to the chlorine still swirling around the farmyard.
FIFTY
Mrs Cartwright stepped out of the motor taxi and turned back to her son. ‘You stay there, boy. All right?’
She knew the driver had instructions to wait and take her back home. The extravagance of it was unbelievable. She couldn’t imagine how much this round trip was costing. Still, it had piqued her curiosity.
The cottage before her was decidedly modest. It was not at all the home that she had imagined, the house of a man who could lavish pounds on taxi fares. There was smoke coming from the chi
mney, the glow of light in the window, even though it wasn’t yet dark. But they could be gloomy, these old places. The door, she noted, could do with a lick of paint and nobody had blacked the doorstep in months.
She glanced back at Bert, who waved her on. She raised the knocker and let it drop and almost instantly came an imperious command. ‘Enter!’
The door was unlocked. She stepped into a room that smelled of tobacco, woodsmoke and mildew. It was piled high with boxes. There was a fire in the hearth, but her eyes were drawn to the chimneybreast where multiple pieces of paper had been thumb-tacked into the rough plaster. In some cases lengths of cotton had been stretched between the pieces of paper. Most of them had but one thing written on them. A person’s name.
‘Ah, Mrs Cartwright. How kind of you to come. Forgive me for not getting up.’
He was lying on a slightly raised wooden platform on the floor, just in front of the sofa. He was dressed in a red smoking jacket and loose-fitting trousers, with oriental-patterned slippers on his feet. Next to him was the paraphernalia for his pipe, a bottle of whisky, a bottle of tablets, several notebooks, a jar of pencils and several mounds of shavings where they had been sharpened. There was also a tottering stack of books that looked ready to collapse at any moment. ’I have to do this for several hours a day, so the doctor says. I have damaged my back, Mrs Cartwright. At a most inconvenient time.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ she said, looking around at the stacks of boxes that held yet more books and magazines. It was likely where the smell of mildew was coming from.
‘Please make yourself at home. Did young Fredericks find you all right?’
‘Young Fredericks’, the cab driver, was sixty if he was a day. But that was younger than the man lying prone in front of her. He was clearly in some pain, as his features were drawn and every so often he winced. ‘I would offer you some tea or coffee, but . . .’
‘Shall I make some?’
‘Would you mind? My girl has been today, but that was some time ago. It’s all laid out.’
As she busied herself in the kitchen, which was simply one end of the main room, a step down, she said: ‘My Bert has told me about you, sir.’
‘And he has told me about you and your sterling work in the munitions factory.’
‘Has he?’
‘He has. Your Bert is a smart boy, you know. And better, keen as mustard. You must be very proud.’
She nodded. ‘I hope all this is over before he is of an age to serve.’ She hesitated. ‘Does that sound terribly unpatriotic?’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Not at all. Now, Bert has already been of assistance to me.’
‘With the Zeppelin? Full of it he was.’
‘The Zeppelin, indeed. Well, Mrs Cartwright, not to put too fine a point on it, I need him now. I need his wit, his passion and most of all I need his youth,’
Mrs Cartwright stopped what she was doing and walked back over to where he lay, so she could look him in the eye. ‘And what exactly do you mean by that, sir?’
She was no woman of the world, she knew, but she had heard of things that went on in London with young lads. And this man was a Londoner.
‘I mean, I need a strong back. Someone who can fetch my books from that shelf up there. Answer the telephone without taking an age to cross the room.’
She looked around the room. There was no telephone.
‘Which will be installed presently.’ He had pulled strings at Mycroft’s former department, trading shamelessly on old connections and the now-faint echoes of his success in the Von Bork case. It had worked. The Post Office’s six-month or longer wait for connection to an exchange had magically disappeared. The cost, however, remained astronomically high.
‘And someone,’ Holmes continued, ‘who can help me with that wall.’ He caught her confused expression. ‘It is a visualization of my methods. I find it helps these days. I need to add items to it ten, fifteen times an hour, often more. Even when I am up and about, it takes me some considerable time each day. Bert can read and write, I assume?’
‘Like a dream. He’ll be good enough for the Civil Service exam, mark my words. But—’
‘I am a detective, Mrs Cartwright. A retired detective who has been given the opportunity for one last hurrah. I shall be honest, I am used to having a companion, a sounding board. I find I miss that. Then there were my Irregulars. Also no longer available. Being a solitary detective is a lonely path, Mrs Cartwright. Of course, I will pay for his services.’
‘I haven’t said yes as yet,’ she retorted.
‘No. True. We can discuss that over the tea now the kettle has boiled. I can get references if you wish. From the police. There must be someone at Scotland Yard who remembers me. Sometimes Bert might have to stay over – there is a boxroom I can have made comfortable – or even travel. At other times, Fredericks can pick him up and deliver him home.’
Mrs Cartwright had returned to the kitchen to make the tea. ‘He’s at school,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Ah. I can assure you, Mrs Cartwright, he will receive an education with me no school in the land can hope to match. But I will speak to his headmaster and ensure I cover any areas he might miss. But I hope to keep his absences to a minimum. I think after school and weekends might suffice.’
‘If I were to agree, when would you want him to start as your apprentice?’
Apprentice? Nobody had mentioned that word. But it would do as well as any other description. Bert Cartwright, Detective’s Apprentice. It had a ring to it. ‘Why right away, Mrs Cartwright. Right away. This very evening.’ He lowered his voice, revelling in the drama of the moment. ‘I believe there are lives at stake even as we speak.’
FIFTY-ONE
The sentry at the gate of the East Anglian CCS watched the single headlamp heading down the rutted lane towards him with rising alarm. Was it an ambulance with one light out? If so it was travelling at a real lickspittle. Judging from the way the beam was bouncing, the lad behind the wheel wasn’t slowing for potholes, nor keeping to the duckboards that had been laid. Then he heard the thin note of the engine. It was a motor cycle. Which made the speed even more reckless. Could really damage something, haring along like that.
As the noise and the yellow orb grew, he unslung his rifle. He had to keep up the formalities. He placed it at hip height, assumed an aggressive, bayonet-thrust position and set his jaw. It remained set until the moment he realized the bike didn’t intend to stop.
He nimbly hopped aside and caught a glimpse of the rider, face set in a grimace, a mass of curls streaming from her head, and the lolling figure behind on the pillion. It was Mrs Gregson. Everyone knew her and that red hair, and her strange motorcycling clothes.
‘Stop! Who goes there?’ he shouted ineffectually at the taillight. From the pocket of his greatcoat he took out the official CCS whistle – designed to alert staff of an ambulance convoy and gave three long blasts. Then he hesitated. Should he run after the bike rider and remonstrate or stay at his post? He had never heard of anyone being shot for not running after a mad motor-cyclist. He had, however, heard tell of those who had been shot for deserting their sentry duty. He blew three more times on the whistle. That should cover his back.
Mrs Gregson drove straight to the transfusion tent, where she knew an oxygen cylinder was still set up from the treatment of de Griffon. She killed the bike engine and kicked down the stand.
‘Major, just stay still,’ she said, as she dismounted. She tried to prop him up, but he flopped, as if deboned. ‘Major, can you hear—’
‘Mrs Gregson . . . oh, for goodness’ sake. Is it you alone? Not a convoy?’
Sister Spence, judging by the dressing gown tied tightly around her and her brushed hair, had been preparing for bed. Mrs Gregson could see other figures moving towards them, some dressing as they came.
‘Just me, Sister. Major Watson has been gassed.’
‘Gassed? But how? Why? By whom?’
All very good quest
ions. None of which she could answer. ‘Can you give me a hand?’
Watson was leaning against her, his full weight pressing on her chest. Sister Spence came around the bike and took one of his arms, but as she did so he twisted and almost fell. Then he began to retch.
‘Hold on, Sister.’
Mrs Gregson crouched down and came up beneath Watson as he pitched forward, her shoulder meeting his waist. He jackknifed across her, steadied by Sister Spence.
‘There’ll be a stretcher in a minute.’
‘We might not have a minute.’ She straightened up, staggered a little and felt Sister Spence’s support. She carried him into the transfusion tent, each step wobblier than the last and pitched him onto the nearest bed.
‘Heavier than he looks,’ she said, one arm on the bedspread.
‘What kind of gas?’
‘Chlorine. He’ll need oxygen. Over there.’
For a second Mrs Gregson thought Sister Spence was going to object to being ordered around, but she gave a curt nod and went to fetch the trolley.
‘Oh my goodness!’ Miss Pippery, unable to decide who looked more shocking, Watson or her friend. ‘George, are you all right?’ Her eyes went down to Watson. ‘Is—’
‘Alice,’ Mrs Gregson said calmly, ‘his eyes need irrigating. And his mouth. It’s poison gas.’
Mrs Gregson watched approvingly as she, too, snapped into action. Other medical staff arrived, including Major Torrance, and soon Watson was being attended to by half a dozen willing hands, including Nurse Jennings.
‘How can I help?’ she asked as she entered the tent.
‘What are you doing here?’ Mrs Gregson replied.
‘I work here.’
‘Not for the past few days.’
Jennings prickled. ‘Twenty-four hours, I think you’ll find.’
‘He’s been worried sick.’
‘Who has?’
The nurse’s eyes flicked towards the bed holding Major Watson.