‘That Captain Whitfield’s a hero? Boscombe here was in the tunnels with him.’
‘But yes, it is true. I wanted to see you, Monsieur Boscombe. Your kit has arrived.’ Her accent gave her voice a delicious tang. ‘I saw to it myself. One of the orderlies will bring it up for you.’ She reverted to the topic of the moment. ‘The brave Captain, he is recovering I am glad to say.’ She must have sensed my scepticism, for she became quite delightfully French. ‘We all owe him – oh, so much! If the Boche had come down those tunnels then the British would be thrown back to the sea and it would all have been over.’
‘They probably wouldn’t have made it,’ I said. ‘After all, we don’t know the tunnels went to the chateau.’
‘But they do, Monsieur Boscombe,’ she said earnestly. ‘Remember, it was my home. I had no idea where the tunnels went to, but Papa told me they stretched for miles. We used them to store wine but that is not why they were built. It was the war of Louis the Fourteenth, you understand? When your Marlborough was fighting here and we French and English were on different sides. The great Sebastien Vauban, the most famous engineer of his day, stayed at the chateau and planned the fortifications. My brother, he liked to explore them, but me?’ She gave a dazzling smile and a shrug. ‘I do not like the dark. They are all blocked off now, with the bombs the Boche threw. It is better, yes? You were lucky to get out, Lieutenant Boscombe.’
‘I was pretty unlucky to be down there in the first place,’ I said. ‘I could have sworn we didn’t make a sound and yet they were waiting for us. I know this Front’s lousy with spies. I’m willing to bet we were dropped in it.’
‘Dropped in it?’ she enquired.
‘Betrayed,’ I said, translating.
She glanced round the ward quickly, as if to avoid being overheard. ‘But yes, there is much in what you say. I heard . . . but no. It was private talk. But I can tell you this, Monsieur Boscombe, that before too long some of your officials will want to talk to you, to find out what you know.’ And that was my first hint that things really weren’t all they seemed. I asked her for more details, but she refused to say anything. ‘Just get better, Monsieur, and before long you will be fighting again. And you will come to another of my parties, yes?’
‘Wow,’ said Grant as she walked away ‘She even smells like a woman. What was all that hush-hush stuff about spies?’
‘God knows,’ I said, picking up my magazine again. I’d had enough of Grant. I remember there was a cartoon on the inside cover showing an RFC officer with a girl on each arm, lamenting that the war was interfering with Ascot. That was the life for me. Six months at home . . .
‘But who’s the spy, if there is a spy?’ persisted Grant.
‘Oh, wait till you read it in the papers,’ I snapped, annoyed at having my daydream broken into. I suppose he did read it, later on, and so did the rest of the world. That was one story they couldn’t keep quiet.
Chapter Six
Haldean drew his cup towards him and drank his tea, pulling a face as he realized it was cold. On the desk in front of him lay Boscombe’s manuscript, various official and leather-bound books and a few sheets of notepaper. He glanced at his watch. He’d have to go. It was nearly seven o’clock and he didn’t want to keep Ashley waiting. It had been a long session but he had the information he was looking for.
He ran his finger down his notes. Petrie, Robert Stephen. Royal Sussex from May 1915. Prisoner of war from 23rd August 1916, repatriated and given an Honourable Discharge January 1919. Morton, Reginald John. Second-Fourth Prince Edward’s Rifles from May 1917 to the Armistice. Boscombe, Jeremy Andrew. Royal Sussex from January 1916 until September 1916. Transferred to the Royal Flying Corps from September 1916 to June 1918 and subsequently invalided home. He boxed the papers together with his other extracts from service records and glanced at his account of Augier Ridge. Bingo had been right; there was something very shady indeed about it. Boscombe had told the truth after all . . .
The Spyker nosed its way out of London and passed through the last ribbons of houses until the town admitted defeat and became real country once more. Ashley sat contentedly in the passenger seat. On the seat behind him, carefully wrapped in brown paper and sealed with wax, were two records, ‘Pick Me Up And Lay Me Down In Dear Old Dixieland’ and ‘Blowing Bubbles All Day Long’, which were, as he had just finished telling Haldean, his daughter’s birthday present. Add to that a jazz-patterned silk scarf for Elsie, a fund of stories about the peculiar doings of artists – some not for Elsie’s ears – and the feeling of some solid progress in the Boscombe and Morton case, and Ashley felt that the day had been very well spent. ‘And what’s more, I think your pal, Mr Rackham, had the right idea when he said we had a couple of thieves on our hands. Hotel robberies will be the size of it unless I’m much mistaken.’
‘Perhaps.’ Haldean was hesitant. He had some ideas of his own, very definite ideas, but what he didn’t want to do was present them to Ashley as a completed theory. For one thing Ashley might not agree and for another he was wary of muscling in on what was, strictly speaking, not only none of his business but Ashley’s professional life. ‘It could be theft, old thing,’ he said, easing the car into fourth gear, ‘but if theft is at the bottom of it, what were Boscombe and Morton doing in Breedenbrook?’
‘I . . .’ Ashley frowned. ‘Blowed if I know.’
‘Let me put it another way,’ said Haldean, slowing down as they approached a corner. ‘What are some of the various illicit ways of making money? Because we know they had money, quite a bit of it, and they weren’t hard-working, sober and honest.’
Ashley scratched his chin. ‘Gambling could account for some of it, I suppose. That was Morton’s previous form, but like you, I thought that was just a story to keep Miss Sheldon from being too inquisitive. Theft, of course. That’s certain, because of Miss Rivers’ necklace. Then there’s dope-running, although there was nothing to suggest it. Fraud’s a possibility with Morton’s record, but, again, there’s no evidence pointing that way. There’s always forgery, but that doesn’t seem to fit the bill either.’
Haldean nodded. ‘And all those things, with the possible exception of theft, can be done far more profitably in London.’ He gave Ashley a quick glance. Here goes. ‘Can I add another one to your list? Blackmail.’
‘Blackmail?’ repeated Ashley, and paused as the thought took hold. ‘Blackmail.’
At least he hadn’t dismissed the idea. So far, so good. ‘Just think how much it explains,’ said Haldean, keeping his eyes on the road. He wanted to make Ashley understand why he was so sure he was on the right lines. ‘I told you Boscombe was a beggar for finding a man’s weak spot and leaning on it. When I knew him he did it out of sheer devilment, but he wasn’t above getting an unfair advantage that way. He’d squirrel away personal details and produce them weeks later when it suited him. He was a moral blackmailer, if you’ll let me put it that way. I think there’s a fair chance he turned into the full-blown article.’
‘Blackmail,’ repeated Ashley once more. ‘D’you know, Haldean, you might have something there. It’s certainly a very powerful motive for murder.’
Haldean gave a silent breath of relief. ‘Isn’t it, though?’ Now the ground of the argument was captured, he had to consolidate it. He had to turn a breakthrough into a breakout, as they used to say in the war, and take Ashley with him. ‘I can imagine Boscombe really putting the screws on, demanding more and more. He was living the life of Riley and it wasn’t cheap. I think he applied for a pay rise.’
‘Who to?’ demanded Ashley.
Haldean grinned. ‘Now you’re asking.’ That was the question, wasn’t it? ‘Let’s call him A. N. Other.’
Ashley looked doubtful. ‘It doesn’t explain the theft of Miss Rivers’ pendant though, does it?’
‘Well, not as such, no,’ said Haldean impatiently, ‘but I don’t suppose Boscombe limited himself to one sort of crime. I mean, he wouldn’t, would he? If he’s capable of blackmail
he’s capable of theft and a good few other things as well, I imagine.’
‘Fair enough. But look here, if Boscombe was murdered because he was a blackmailer – and I suppose that goes for Morton as well – then whoever they were blackmailing must live in Breedenbrook.’
‘Perhaps.’ That was one way of looking at it, but it wasn’t the direction Haldean wanted to go. Not yet. ‘At any rate,’ he temporized, ‘Boscombe knew his victim was going to be at the fête, and, as he was murdered there, we can assume without straining things that A. N. Other, the blackmailee and murderer, turned up. Again, it explains a dickens of a lot.’
‘So all we have to do is find out who Boscombe and Morton were blackmailing,’ said Ashley thoughtfully.
Haldean laughed. Yes, that was all. ‘I like the optimism in that sentence. That’s the size of it. Any guesses as to who it could be?’ And that was a genuine question. He wanted to hear Ashley’s reasoning.
Ashley paused, arranging his ideas. ‘It’d have to be someone well off,’ he said eventually. ‘Anyone with an alibi for Boscombe’s murder is out of it, of course. Morton’s murder is a lot more open to question, but we can exclude a whole raft of people from Boscombe’s.’ He looked at Haldean shrewdly. ‘You’ve been thinking about this. Come on. Let’s have your ideas.’
Haldean took a deep breath. This was where he’d been heading. He very much wanted to try out his theory on Ashley. He thought it added up, but he knew there was a big difference between a theory which existed in the privacy of his own thoughts and a theory which had been exposed to the cold light of criticism. ‘I think it goes back to the war,’ he said quietly.
‘So that’s why you went to the War Office. I see.’
‘Ker-rect.’ Haldean slowed down so the car was running at a steady thirty-five. Now for it. ‘I was concentrating on the Augier Ridge affair. Boscombe had written so lovingly and in such detail about it that I thought, if he’d found out anything, it would be about that. There were notes for subsequent chapters but they were only sketches. Now what actually happened at Augier Ridge was this. The ridge was held by the Germans and attacked by us, us including the Royal Sussex. We got nowhere and suffered some pretty fierce casualties over a period of three or so weeks. Then, during a rest period behind the lines, a tunnel was discovered by our friend Boscombe. It led from an old farm in the direction of the ridge. If, by any chance, it went as far as the old chateau on the ridge it would mean that the ridge could be taken with minimum losses.’
‘That sounds like very keen work from Boscombe.’
‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it?’ agreed Haldean. ‘He says himself that going under the ridge knocked spots off going over it, and I can’t half see his point of view. Anyway, HQ were informed, as they’d have to be, and detailed Major Tyburn, Boscombe’s CO, together with Boscombe and five officers and men, to explore it. They must have got a considerable distance before they were attacked by a party of Germans. Boscombe, although wounded, managed to crawl back down the tunnel and there he lay, unable to move. In the meantime, Captain Whitfield, as he then was, turned up from Staff.’
‘Is that our Colonel Whitfield?’
‘That’s the one. Whitfield led a second expedition into the tunnels to try and find out what had happened to Tyburn and his men. According to Boscombe’s book, Boscombe heard them go past the side tunnel into which he had crawled. By his own account he tried to warn them of danger ahead, but was too weak to make himself heard. Now at this point the Germans attacked again. Whitfield escaped and came across Boscombe, who by this time had got himself back into the main tunnel. With the Germans down the tunnel they were still in very great danger, when a third party, sent by Captain Hodge from the farm, turned up.’
Ashley winced. ‘This sounds as if it’s got the makings of a first-rate disaster.’
‘It could easily have been very nasty indeed. As it was, it was bad enough but fortunately for us, Whitfield took a firm hand.’
‘What did he do?’ asked Ashley with interest.
‘He reported to Captain Hodge that all the English troops in front of him were dead or captured and that it would only be a matter of time before the Germans advanced. Boscombe was taken to safety but Whitfield insisted on staying behind to cover their retreat. As he was the senior officer present no one could very well argue the toss with him. They retreated in good order until they came to a point that Whitfield thought he could reasonably defend.’
‘That was pretty brave of him,’ said Ashley thoughtfully. ‘I’m blowed if I’d care to wait alone in total darkness, knowing the enemy might strike any moment.’
‘He got the VC for it,’ said Haldean. ‘Boscombe thought Whitfield was a bit Boy’s Own about it all and there was a touch of the Duke of Wellington – you know, “I don’t know if he frightens the enemy but, by God, he frightens me” – but Boscombe was fairly fond of his own skin. He’d always duck a fight if he could. Anyway, as soon as the rescue party with Boscombe reached the surface, another party was commanded to go down to aid Whitfield. They had to dig him out of the rubble. Apparently the Germans had thrown a couple of stick-bombs which brought the roof down and completely blocked the tunnel.’
‘Poor devil,’ said Ashley. ‘I’m not surprised he got a medal.’
‘A richly deserved one.’
‘But . . .’ Ashley stopped and looked at Haldean with a puzzled frown. ‘But you said the reason for Boscombe’s murder and so on went back to the war. What’s there in that story to warrant blackmail?’
‘Nothing so far, but hold on. That’s only half the story. Now granted we’re –’ Haldean had nearly said I’m – ‘looking for someone for Boscombe to blackmail I did briefly wonder about Mrs Verrity. When Boscombe was brought out of the tunnels he landed up as a patient in her hospital. Mrs Verrity appears in his book as the proper, if dispossessed, owner of the Augier Ridge – she’s a d’Augier by birth – and an unnamed Angel of Mercy, smoothing pillows and so on. He hints he had an affair with her.’
Ashley gave a derisive snort, but Haldean shook his head. ‘She might have done. He wasn’t a bad-looking bloke and he could have a world-weary charm when he wasn’t plastered. And Mrs Verrity’s really something. She’s a lovely woman, if a bit much of the femme fatale for my taste. However, even if she did have an affair with Boscombe, I can hardly see her stumping up hard cash to keep it quiet.’
Ashley rubbed his chin, frowning. ‘She wouldn’t want it talked about, though, would she? I mean, a woman’s got to be careful of her reputation. She might, granted that there had been something going on, which I doubt, be frightened into paying him to keep quiet.’
Haldean gave him a look. ‘Come on, Ashley. Mrs Verrity’s not the sort of woman who’s looking over the fence wondering what the neighbours think. She’s far more sophisticated than that. Say they did have an affair. We’re talking about a French widow and a single man in France in the middle of the war. It’s a few years ago now and even if Boscombe had some evidence, such as letters and so on, I think her reaction would be, to quote the Duke of Wellington again, to say “Publish and be damned.”’
‘All the same, she might not like it talked about. No woman would.’
‘I don’t suppose she would, but even if Boscombe did pop up at the fête to talk about the dear old days with memories of passion spent and so on, she couldn’t have killed him if she’d wanted to, because her alibi’s vouched for by about a million people.’
‘Which rules her out, however lovely you find her,’ said Ashley drily. ‘That’s got much more going for it as an argument to my way of thinking.’
‘Yes . . . So she’s a non-starter. A pity in a way because I could see her as a bit of a Mata Hari. Of the rest of the Home Team, so to speak, Colonel Whitfield is also ruled out because of Uncle Philip and so on.’
Ashley gave a wry grin. ‘Thank God for that. I can just see the Chief’s face if I told him my favourite suspect was a pillar of the community, a VC and a Justice of the Peace. That
wouldn’t be a good idea.’
‘Hardly, but you needn’t worry. I’ve got someone far more interesting for you to think about.’
Ashley looked at him quizzically. ‘Who?’
‘Major Martin Tyburn.’
‘Who? Boscombe’s Commanding Officer, you mean?’
‘That’s the one.’ He was approaching the real substance of his theory now. ‘When I breezed into the War Office, I met my old pal, Romer-Stuart. His recollection of the Augier Ridge was that there was something shady about it, and Major Tyburn is the shady bit. I checked all this this afternoon and what I found was that we had a good idea that the Germans knew Tyburn’s party were in the tunnels. The facts pointed that way and Boscombe, the only man from the first party to get back, said that the enemy were waiting for them. So an investigation was launched and in Major Tyburn’s things some highly incriminating evidence was found. Apparently he’d been in touch with the Germans for months. It was known there must be a spy or spies sending first-rate information to the Germans and Tyburn was the man. What d’you think of that?’
Ashley was aghast. ‘You mean to tell me that a serving British officer betrayed his men?’
Haldean nodded. ‘Not only his men, but the whole army. He was a dangerous man.’
Ashley was quiet for a few moments. ‘I hope someone got hold of him. My God, he should have been hanged. To think that while our lads were being blown to bits someone was giving the Germans the information they needed to help them do it. I . . . I . . .’ Ashley stopped, unable to find the words. ‘It’s no use,’ he said eventually. ‘An enemy soldier is just that; a soldier. You know where you are but this swine . . .’ Ashley stopped once more. ‘Hold on. If he was ahead of Boscombe in the tunnels he must have been killed. It’s a damn shame he was never brought to justice. He deserved it.’
‘He wasn’t killed,’ said Haldean quietly.
‘What?’
‘He wasn’t killed. Not in the attack, at any rate. We had spies too, and got the news back that Tyburn had been lightly wounded and taken prisoner.’
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