by Robert Ryan
‘We shall have to see where Mrs Gregson was born or brought up, to see if she has links with either area. There might be more on her trial in The Times.’ He indicated a stack of boxes hitherto untouched by Bert. ‘Which we have back until 1905. But there is something we should look at closely now, Bert, before we call it a night.’
‘What’s that?’
Mr Holmes pointed to the top shelf of the bookcase behind him. ‘The red volume, please, Bert.’
Bert clambered up the bookcase and fetched the tome the old man had indicated. He read the gold-lettering on the spine and said it out loud, ‘Who’s Who?’
‘The very same.’
Ten minutes later he asked for a run of The Times, covering dates almost a year previously. Having located what he wanted, he asked Bert to fetch his Bradshaw railway timetable.
It was, he said, bad back or no, about time they made a ‘house call’, whatever that was.
FIFTY-FIVE
When Watson emerged from his drug-induced exile, it was as if he had been launched from the seabed like a projectile. One minute he was admiring the luminescent blobs floating around him, giant versions of the tadpoles that swam across his retinae in bright sunlight, the next he was propelled from this warm, enervating soup into a harsh reality. It was like a bucket of cold water to the face and, for a few seconds, he kicked against it.
‘Major Watson, calm yourself.’
‘Can’t speak, can’t speak,’ he gasped.
‘Hold on, let me take this off.’
He sucked at the air while his tumbled senses realigned themselves. Slowly, his brain began to tick off a checklist, as if going through an inventory of goods.
He was in the transfusion tent. Electric lights had been installed, hence the brightness. He had been wearing an oxygen mask. That really was Staff Nurse Jennings. His throat was terribly parched.
‘Can I have some water?’ he croaked.
‘Of course.’ Staff Nurse Jennings slid a hand under his head and tilted it while she put the glass to his lips. It tasted marvellous, like fine Islay or cognac. But he knew that was always a reaction to finding yourself, against all better judgements, alive. For a few precious moments the nervous system was capable of heightened responses, as if under the influence of some opiate, before they calmed down, back to normality. This was probably why his neck was tingling to Staff Nurse Jennings’s touch.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
She spoke softly, as if to a child. ‘Me? I work here, Major. At the Casualty Clearing Station.’
‘I know that. But you’d gone. With Myles . . .’
Staff Nurse Jennings laughed. Why was everyone trying to pair her off with Myles? ‘I’m sorry, Major Watson. The sedatives haven’t worn off.’
‘Dinner! You wanted me to accompany you . . .’
‘Dinner?’ She furrowed her brow, before she realized what he was referring to. ‘Oh, yes. That’s right. But then I had news that my brother was in Boulogne. He was at a hospital there, awaiting transport. Sister Spence kindly let me go to him, but on condition I didn’t shout about it. I don’t think she wanted anyone to think she’d gone soft.’
Brother. Yes, Sister Spence would feel sympathy for a nurse with an injured brother. Had she not lost her own to a ‘relapse’? But he could see she might not want others to know she had a tender spot in her iron soul.
‘But what of Myles?’
‘I have no idea. Is that why Mrs Gregson was questioning me about him? On your behalf?’ She sounded extremely annoyed.
‘Not at my behest. Mrs Gregson is her own woman.’
‘You can say that again,’ she said. She bit her lip, as if she wanted to add more.
‘And, forgive me, about Caspar Myles . . . ?’
Jennings shrugged. ‘There was talk of him going back to his unit.’
‘He hasn’t.’
‘Oh.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘But by all accounts he did clear out without a by-your-leave to Major Torrance. Who is none too pleased with him. More water?’
‘Thank you.’
After another sip, Watson lay back on the pillow and licked his lips. ‘Do you knit, Staff Nurse Jennings?’
‘Knit? Yes. But not for a while. Not much time for it over here. Why, what do you need?’
He waved the subject away. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Since just before I returned. The best part of three days. You missed Field Marshal Haig. Mind you, most of us did.’ What a storm in a teacup that turned out to be. Although it was a storm captured by cine cameras for the newsreels.
‘Three days!’ Watson threw back his blankets.
‘Stop that! You are lucky to be here at all,’ interrupted Miss Pippery. ‘George carried you in over her shoulder and virtually demanded the entire CCS stop what it was doing and tend to you.’
‘I must thank her,’ said Watson.
‘She’s not here,’ said Jennings. ‘Gone back to take up other duties at Bailleul.’
Watson frowned. There was a reason she had not wanted to go back there. Something about having burned her bridges. ‘And Captain de Griffon?’
‘With his men once more.’
‘I need to . . .’ He could feel a fatigue building. ‘I need to find out something. There was a man there. The one who locked me in the barn . . . set off the gas . . . the dead man.’
‘Yes, well, I think you had better ask the Military Police about that,’ said Staff Nurse Jennings. ‘They have been here once, asking questions, but asked to be notified when you were strong enough to answer any. Are you?’ Watson nodded. ‘In that case I shall send a message to the Military Police barracks at Camar. Tell them Major Watson will be well enough to answer questions later on today.’
‘Very well,’ said Miss Pippery. ‘To whom shall I address it?’
Jennings hesitated. ‘I suppose you’d better contact Lieutenant Gregson.’
‘Gregson?’ Watson asked. It was a common enough name, but even so. ‘Any relation to Mrs Gregson?’
Jennings shrugged, but in a way that suggested she knew more than she was letting on. ‘I think you’d better ask her that, Major.’
MONDAY–TUESDAY
FIFTY-SIX
Lady Stanwood stood in a first-floor window and studied the driveway of Flitcham, impatient for the stranger’s arrival. The grounds she inspected looked far better than they had at the time of her husband’s passing. True, the death of old Tommy Turner had been a blow. Some said the old gardener should never have come back, once all the groundstaff had volunteered en masse to serve. That being out in the cold and wet with his gang of novices had taken him off. Lady Stanwood believed it had been the loss of his two grandsons within three days of each other at Ypres that had accelerated his end.
Oh, how she wanted this war to end. Then she could get on with her plans. As it was, she felt frozen into inertia by it. Like, she supposed, every other mother in the land, dreading that little red demon on the crimson bicycle, with his sackful of sorrows. Surely it couldn’t go on much longer?
Yet conscription had been announced, which suggested that there was some way to go yet before they defeated Germany. And now there was a request for her to hand over parts of the hall to the Canadians for the rehabilitation of the wounded. She could see no reason to refuse. The place was too large for her now, especially with a denuded staff.
The Albion turned tentatively into the driveway, brushing close to the gatehouse, and began making a stately, albeit somewhat jerky, progress between the limes. It was, she hoped, carrying providence. She moved back from the window, not wanting to be seen by her visitor.
The voice on the telephone had been tremulous, suggesting an older man. But the words had carried the force of youth. He had read the obituary of her husband in The Times, he had spoken to Dr Kibble – whom he stressed was the soul of discretion – and this man was convinced that Lord Stanwood had died what he called an ‘unnatural’ death.
She caught sigh
t of herself in one of the gilded mirrors. Time and worry had blurred her features. The years of fretting over poor Bimmy, as she called her husband, slipping away into a terrifying dementia. And now the constant, gnawing concern over Robinson, the new Lord Stanwood. Would he ever get to take his seat in the Lords? Would he ever be half the man his father was?
An ‘unnatural’ death. It was certainly that. Which was why she had agreed to see this man.
She watched the chauffeur get out and limp round to open the rear door. The road accident that had broken Legge’s limbs and scarred his face had been a godsend. Nobody would ask about why he wasn’t serving now. It had saved his life. She waited for the newcomer to emerge from the vehicle. It was a shock when the person who emerged turned out to be a boy.
But no, there was another figure, struggling to get out. First came a stout walking stick, followed by the long, spindly fingers of the free hand, which the boy took. The man shuffled to the edge of the seat and, with assistance from Legge, struggled upright.
He stood for a few moments, the effort having taken something from him.
He was even older than she had imagined on the telephone. Stooped and frail. Who at that age gallivanted about the country in taxicabs and on trains? However, it suggested to her that whatever this man had to say, he believed it important. Why else put himself to what was clearly a great deal of trouble?
Lady Stanwood watched as he positioned himself between the boy and his stick and began a slow but stately progress towards the hall. It was his back that troubled him, she could tell from the tiny steps he took. After a few yards he stopped and used his walking stick to point at the oleanders. Legge nodded the answer to his question, whatever it was.
The man bent down, cautiously, and whispered something in the lad’s ear, then the strange entourage continued on its way towards the house. She had arranged for Mrs Talbot and Mr Steen the butler to greet him. She herself would be in the library when he entered. Time to take position.
She had misgivings now. Had she done the right thing? Bimmy’s death had been terrible to behold, but nothing this ancient crock could say would bring him back now. She would listen politely and send him on his way. After all, her primary concern – her only concern now – was to make sure Robinson de Griffon, Lord Stanwood, survived this war to enjoy his inheritance.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Ernst Bloch heard the rasp of the Mercedes engines and looked up at the sky. A flight of Albatros two-seaters burst out from behind the trees, almost low enough to do some impromptu pollarding with their undercarriages. They had taken off from the airfield to the east of the sniper camp. As they wobbled overhead, wings dipping in the crosswind, he could see the racks of hand-bombs sitting on the fuselage next to the observer. They were on a combined spotting and bombing mission over enemy lines.
Once they had spiralled into a climb to gain altitude, he went back to the trestle table in front of him, on which was laid a captured British SMLE rifle attached to a peculiar contraption. It was known as a periscope rifle. Such was the accuracy of Bloch and his counterparts, it appeared the British had been forced to adopt this remote firing device.
The rifle was more or less standard. Not as accurate as the Mauser, but with a very good action that made for a rate of fire the German weapon could not match. However, it had been modified with a long brass tube housing the telescopic sights, which fed into a prismatic device. That formed into a box periscope, with, some 50 centimetres below the rifle, the eyepiece. It meant that a Tommy could poke the gun over the parapet and line up a target without showing himself. There was even a lever device for pulling the trigger remotely.
Lux had asked him to evaluate the weapon. He had seen similar devices from Kahles. This model, the inscription told him, was made by E. R. Watts and Son of Camberwell Road, London.
Well, he would tell Lux, he wouldn’t order any sights from Mr Watts. The system was ingenious, but calibrating it for accurate fire would be a nightmare. It was hard enough to make sure a standard telescopic sight was properly set up. This was too complex for anything other than random fire in the general direction of the enemy. Still, he thought, he could give it to young Lothar Breuchtal to try on the range. A whole day of tests. Don’t come back until you have hit six bulls in a row. That would keep him out of his hair.
Bloch lit a cigarette and stared up at the circling specks of the biplanes. They formed up into three separate wings and moved off to the west.
Lothar was getting under his skin. He was like a young puppy, or perhaps a cousin that idolizes his older relative. There was no escape from him. Bloch might even be on the latrine and Lothar would come and plonk himself down next to him and start with the questions. What sights did he prefer? Goerz or Kahles? And why? How important was crosswind? How often should you recalibrate a scope? What were the British trench loopholes made of? How did he rate the penetrating power of the Krupp ammunition versus the S.m.K.?
On and on it went. Much as he had enjoyed helping devise the school curriculum with Loewenhardt, he couldn’t wait for no man’s land, where the rule was enforced silence. Perhaps Lothar would explode like a landmine with the effort of staying quiet. They would find out soon enough.
He could see the lad coming towards him now, one hand held on his cap to stop it blowing away, the other holding a piece of paper, a smile on his face.
Bloch puffed on the cigarette and kept his features neutral.
‘Unteroffizier Bloch!’
He remained impassive in the face of the grinning ball of enthusiasm heading his way.
The boy stopped before him, breathless and flushed.
‘Orders from Lux. The British have just moved in an untried unit to the front line in our sector.’
‘Our’ sector. He liked that. Kid hadn’t even seen it yet.
‘What are they called?’
‘Part of . . .’ he looked at the paper, ‘. . . the Lancashire Fusiliers. The Leigh Friends.’
Bloch nodded, dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out. ‘Chums’ was a more accurate translation. Well, he thought, whatever they called themselves, they wouldn’t be chums for much longer. Not living ones, anyway.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Watson had just read the telegram from Egypt and was digesting the contents when Lieutenant Tobias Gregson arrived. The major had been anticipating this all morning. Staff Nurse Jennings had suggested that the man must be a relation of Mrs Gregson, but Watson had assured her this was unlikely, once he had discovered the man’s Christian name. He knew Tobias Gregson of old. He must be almost the same age as Watson, certainly no more than ten years younger – what a gap in age and experience that had seemed at the time.
Miss Pippery ushered the policeman into the transfusion tent where, in the absence of any major offensives or hate bombardments, Watson was still the only patient. ‘Major Watson, sir,’ Gregson said, as he took off his red cap.
Watson was confounded. The man was thirty years junior to the chap he had expected. He had a young, unlined face and a handsome black moustache. His eyes were bright and unclouded, with dark hair swept back from the beginnings of a widow’s peak. This was certainly not the Tobias Gregson he had once known.
‘Lieutenant Tobias Gregson of the Military Foot Police, Investigations Division. Are you all right, sir?’ He glanced at the VAD. ‘I can come back.’
‘No, no. Miss Pippery, some water, please.’ He took the glass and gulped. ‘And tea? Lieutenant?’
‘Splendid, yes.’ He waited until they were alone. ‘How are you, sir?’
‘Well,’ said Watson. ‘They tell me every day from now on I should treat as bonus. I’ve won the tontine. Lucky to be alive.’
‘We are all pleased you are, Major.’ He unbuttoned his top pocket and took out a notebook. He adopted a more formal tone. ‘I am here to investigate the exact circumstances that led to the death of a soldier at Suffolk Farm.’
‘Which soldier?’
‘And also, I am afraid, t
o evaluate your role in the proceedings.’
‘Why afraid?’
Lieutenant Gregson sighed. ‘My superiors feel that you should have involved the RMP earlier, sir.’
‘Do they? And been laughed at?’
The policeman shook his head in a grave manner. ‘We take this very seriously.’
‘Only now there has been a casualty you can’t blame on blood transfusion.’
He looked puzzled. ‘You’ve lost me there, sir.’
‘Pull up that chair, Lieutenant.’ The policeman did so and Watson gave a quick recap of the deaths of Hornby and Shipobottom, and the near-demise of de Griffon.
‘I see,’ he said in a manner that suggested he had no such insight.
‘And had I suggested that in the midst of the carnage of the Western Front, someone was taking the time to murder fellow soldiers, I would have been given short shrift. I get the distinct impression you MPs are more concerned with AWOLs, desertions and traffic control than actual crime.’
Gregson looked offended by the slur. ‘That’s primarily the mounted division. At the beginning of 1915 twenty of us were seconded from Scotland Yard—’
‘You’re from the Yard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Now he was really confused. ‘I knew a Tobias Gregson. Of the Yard.’
‘I know, sir. He told me all about you. My father.’
‘Really?’ He couldn’t help feeling a warm glow at such a connection to his old life. ‘Holmes always said he was the best of the Scotland Yarders.’
Gregson nodded, then added with a twinkle, ‘He also said that wasn’t actually saying all that much.’
Watson, who had been the real author of that comment, said, ‘Nonsense. We always liked him. How is he?’
‘He passed away just before war broke out.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes. Although in a way, a blessing. He would have hated,’ Gregson waved his notebook around the ward, ‘all this. All this noble sacrifice, as they call it. He would even hate me being here. But I must get back to the matter in hand.’