The Men

by Anthony Masters

  ‘And they let you go afterwards?’ he asked in astonishment.

  ‘One of the German officers felt sorry for us and they helped us get across the border. I can tell you how nauseated we were by all this and how terrible it’s been living in its shadow. Peter and I could have cracked just as much as Tim did. Even gone mad like Solange. But we didn’t. We sweated it out. If the photographs had come to light we would have been prosecuted.’

  ‘You never thought to try and get them back?’

  ‘It would have been too risky. We let sleeping dogs lie.’

  The hounds of hell, thought Lucy. Woken at last by Tim.

  Martin’s explanation was received in a forbidding silence.

  ‘You mean you were escorted through France by the Germans?’ asked Metand.

  ‘In a truck.’

  Peter was looking out of the window at a dog chasing a ball across the cricket pitch.

  ‘That must have shortened your “escape” considerably.’

  ‘It was still unpleasant,’ said Peter.

  ‘But it didn’t take three months.’ Lucy was gazing at Martin who returned her stare blankly. ‘And you didn’t escape. The Germans did it for you.’

  Metand paused and then continued. ‘They took you to the border in exchange for the photographs. Are you sure that wasn’t always the bargain?’

  ‘No,’ said Peter quietly. ‘Of course it wasn’t. You must appreciate how honest we are being with you. We were drunk when we were ordered to be involved in that obscene farce. If we hadn’t agreed, Tim would have been shot. We’ve explained all that.’

  ‘You realize the seriousness of this investigation,’ said Metand testily. ‘Why didn’t you give us this information earlier?’

  ‘Could we have saved Tim’s life?’ snapped Peter. ‘I don’t think so. What happened is not something you confess unless you absolutely have to. Bearing in mind the law and our reputations.’

  Metand sighed. ‘Let me fully understand what you are saying. Solange Eclave betrayed you to the Germans. The Gestapo then seized a propaganda opportunity, based on a demoralization plan they had for the British troops. Am I correct so far?’

  The Men, thought Lucy. Are these really the men who commanded my life and Sally’s and May’s? The men who set the standards?

  ‘How many Germans were there?’

  ‘Half a dozen uncommissioned officers, an Oberleutnant and two plainclothes members of the Gestapo,’ said Peter briskly.

  ‘That’s a very accurate memory for one who had been forced to drink considerable quantities of alcohol.’

  ‘I can tell you we soon sobered up,’ said Martin bitterly.

  ‘But you said you were still drunk.’

  ‘We knew enough to realize we were in a very difficult situation.’

  ‘Did you fully understand the reason for the photographs being taken?’ asked Metand.

  For the first time Peter and Martin exchanged glances.

  ‘Were you aware at the time that the photographs would be used for propaganda purposes? In other words they would be distributed to British troops, clearly illustrating British officers indulging in homosexual acts with French citizens.’

  ‘That was the implication,’ said Peter.

  ‘Implication?’

  ‘They never told us directly. But I think it was obvious.’ Martin’s face was neutral but Peter was beginning to betray more agitation now.

  ‘Did they tell Claude, Robert and Philippe?’

  ‘God knows what they were told.’

  ‘Look,’ Peter broke in. ‘I don’t see why Mrs Groves should continue to sit through this. Surely there’s no need to –’

  ‘I want to stay.’ For the first time Lucy was able to make her own decisions and the knowledge gave her a heady feeling of satisfaction.

  ‘Very well.’ Peter’s gaze once again returned to the dog playing on the green outside.

  ‘You’ve spent years judging me and Tim. Now it’s my turn.’

  ‘Judging?’ Martin met her eyes. ‘That’s unfair. We were trying to protect him – and you.’ He sounded awkward, as if he was disputing an umpire’s decision.

  ‘Rubbish!’ Lucy’s anger boiled over. ‘You were trying to protect yourselves.’

  ‘I think it would be best,’ said Metand, ‘if I asked the questions.’ He paused. ‘Did you know of the previous propaganda?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Claude told us.’

  ‘Did he receive money from the Germans?’

  ‘I’m sure both he and Solange did just that.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘We were told we were to be given an escort across the border.’

  ‘You are quite sure that this wasn’t the bargain?’

  ‘I’ve told you before. No.’ Martin was on his feet, his face a dull red.

  ‘Nevertheless, you took advantage of the offer.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I find that unacceptable.’ Metand’s voice hardened. ‘You aided German propaganda and then let them help you out of the country. Surely you could have been court-martialled if this had leaked out? Apart from having to face criminal prosecution.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt of that,’ said Martin crisply.

  ‘You told your commanding officer the truth when you returned?’

  ‘No.’

  The silence that followed was profound. Lucy could hardly take it in. The Men. The men of honour. They had done this? Then she realized that Tim had done it too. Metand’s next question was the very one she wanted answered.

  ‘And Tim accepted all this?’

  Martin glanced at Peter again, but he was rigidly staring out of the window of the pavilion.

  ‘No. He didn’t. He felt that we had behaved dishonourably. Not so much in going through the obscene ritual in the château but by taking German assistance and not reporting it to our commanding officer afterwards.’

  ‘You put pressure on him?’

  ‘He would never have given us away.’

  ‘Were you aware that the propaganda would soon be in circulation?’

  ‘We were hopeful that it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Solange told us she had managed to hide the film. That she regretted setting it all up.’

  There was a long silence during which Lucy was sure both men were beginning to panic and were clutching at invention.

  ‘When did she tell you that?’

  ‘Before we were driven away.’

  ‘You trusted her?’

  ‘Hardly. But when we heard nothing we began to wonder if she had protected us.’

  ‘And what about the Germans? How did Solange manage to get their valuable propaganda away from them?’

  ‘They had also been drinking heavily and she claimed she’d managed to take the film without them noticing and conceal it.’

  ‘That sounds unlikely.’

  ‘It’s what she told us,’ said Peter.

  ‘You never heard from her again?’

  ‘You mean – did she try and blackmail us? No. She didn’t. In the end,’ Peter abruptly turned to face them, ‘she was more of a decent person than we had imagined.’ He was beginning to sound increasingly artificial. The men’s gathering lack of credibility fascinated Lucy, and, at the same time, appalled her. Their fortress had been invincible for so long. Now it was in ruins.

  ‘When you got back,’ Metand continued. ‘You were treated as heroes?’

  ‘No.’

  Metand turned to Lucy. ‘Is this true?’

  She nodded. ‘I always thought it odd that there were no medals, so little fuss made.’

  ‘Why was that?’ asked Metand.

  ‘We told our commanding officer a half-truth. That we had bribed a German driver to get us to the border.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘We’d collected some francs before we left the Havre peninsula.’

  ‘Yet you said you were starving?’

&n
bsp; ‘We could hardly go into a shop and buy food, could we?’ snapped Peter. ‘We had about two thousand francs between us and we claimed he accepted that.’

  ‘And you were believed?’

  ‘The CO. wanted to believe us,’ said Martin. ‘We were closely questioned, but we got away with it.’

  ‘Is that why Tim broke?’ asked Lucy suddenly, and Metand frowned at her interruption.

  ‘Probably.’ Martin lit a cigarette. He didn’t offer one to Peter.

  ‘You never thought you could tell me any of this? To help Tim get better?’ demanded Lucy.

  ‘How could we?’ asked Peter savagely. ‘It would have meant telling May and Sally.’

  ‘So you pretended that it was just Tim’s nerves, left him to rot in case it all came out and your army careers were ruined.’

  ‘More than that,’ said Martin. ‘It wouldn’t just have been our army careers, would it? Our whole way of life was at stake. We’d have been disgraced.’

  ‘And now you admit it all so readily.’

  ‘Not readily,’ replied Peter.

  Something’s badly wrong, thought Lucy. She had the feeling that there was more, that once again the men had beaten a tactical retreat. At the same time she could imagine the sheer horror and disgrace of the headlines in the Esher News, let alone those in the nationals.

  ‘So why were you trying to prevent Tim from going to France?’ Metand asked quietly.

  ‘He would never have gone.’ Martin was confident. ‘It was only when Lucy intervened that he had this dangerous idea.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Tim seized his opportunity,’ said Peter. ‘He wanted to try to get the film back.’

  ‘So he was protecting you?’

  ‘By this stage we were both sure that Solange never had the film, that she was lying when she told us she’d hidden it. Martin and I were absolutely certain that the Gestapo had taken their precious propaganda away but, for some reason, not used it.’

  ‘Why did you tell Lucy she had been right to go to France -and that you had been wrong in trying to prevent her?’

  ‘Once she was there, I wanted to know what was going on,’ said Martin briskly. ‘It was better to be on good terms.’

  ‘Tim gave you the telephone number of the Hotel des Arbres?’

  ‘I told him to. Just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘We didn’t want to be out of touch.’

  ‘Did Tim have an affair with Solange?’

  ‘I’ve told you. No.’

  ‘He didn’t shoot Claude?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So Solange had no reason to kill him.’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Peter. ‘We had a good deal to lose, but circumstances forced us to be honest with you – and we have been. We’ve got no more to tell you.’

  ‘Does all this have to come out?’ Martin was sitting down again now, his legs in the carefully creased flannels crossed, his arms folded against his chest. He looked defeated.

  Metand was silent.

  Peter’s voice shook as he tried to negotiate. ‘Can’t our wives at least be shielded? I mean, are the photographs really relevant to this murder investigation?’

  ‘They might be.’ Metand stood up. ‘The problem is that you still haven’t told me the truth, have you? Either of you.’ He didn’t raise his voice and there was a long silence during which Lucy began to feel she couldn’t cope with much more.

  ‘How do you make that out?’ asked Peter. He seemed genuinely surprised, while Martin raised his eyebrows derisively.

  Does he have any hard facts, or was he just trying to unsettle them, Lucy wondered. Yet she knew instinctively that Metand was right.

  ‘There is still the question of the burning shed.’

  ‘What shed?’ demanded Martin.

  ‘The one in Mr Davis’s garden. The one that Inspector Frasier of your local police told me about. Do you remember, Lucy? You didn’t tell me, did you? Despite the fact I kept asking you to try and remember.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was of any significance.’ She was considerably shaken. William Tell launched himself into her mind, apple and all.

  ‘I believe Lucy discovered the fire and then Sally came to help her. But there wasn’t much they could do, was there? It was too well alight. Lucky it didn’t set fire to anything else. I mean the trees were very dry, weren’t they? And so was the grass.’

  Lucy gazed at Metand in amazement. What had the shed got to do with anything?

  ‘What possible link could that have?’ asked Martin irritably. Yet there was something behind the irritability – a hint of caution, possibly even fear.

  Metand turned to Lucy. ‘When you looked inside, you told a local policeman that you thought someone had spilled some paint, didn’t you?’

  ‘It was everywhere. But it was hard to see how much because of the smoke and the flames.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else?’

  Lucy was watching Peter. He had begun to sweat and there was a strange unfocused expression in his eyes.

  ‘Yes. On the bench and up the walls were paint splashes. Then I wondered if they could be words and someone had thrown paint at them – so they couldn’t be read. It was as if a nasty act of vandalism had been covered up. Sally agreed. She said something about teenagers from Hersham.’

  ‘That’s a familiar name in this case, isn’t it?’ said Metand quietly. ‘Hersham. Where all the evil comes from. Local teenagers on the prowl. A young gardener who had been arrested for indecency.’

  Lucy continued. ‘I told Sally I thought the words spelt WILL TELL. She was angry and told me that she’d stopped this bunch of louts from Hersham bullying a child on the green. A child called William Tell. While she was remonstrating with them the local bobby had turned up and gave all those young louts a dressing down. So they got their own back on her by vandalizing the garden shed and then burning it.’

  There was a long uncomfortable silence. Then Metand said, ‘Forgive me, but I’ve been thinking. Suppose William Tell never existed. Suppose Sally Davis had never broken up this gang from the dark underworld of Hersham. Suppose she invented the whole story?’

  ‘Why on earth should my wife do that?’ Peter seemed to have recovered and was back to his usual decisive self. But his eyes kept blinking.

  ‘Because I don’t believe the words spelt a name. They formed part of a message, a very threatening message. Something will tell. How about I will tell? I suggest, Mr Davis, that you saw the damage and the threat written up in paint. I also suggest you didn’t have the time or the patience or maybe even the paint to remove the entire message, so you burnt the shed.’

  ‘What utter nonsense!’ Peter blustered. ‘It was pure vandalism.’

  Martin laughed in amusement. ‘And who do you think was the vandal?’

  ‘How about Graham Baverstock?’ suggested Metand quietly. ‘I shall keep Inspector Frasier briefed, and I’d like you both to come to Mrs Groves’s home with your wives at about seven.’

  Peter and Martin gazed back at him blankly. They’ve got their backs to the wall, thought Lucy. Maybe that’s when they’re at their best.

  ‘I just can’t accept any of this,’ said Peter slowly and reasonably. ‘It’s a lot of tommy-rot.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Metand was confident. ‘I need you to think over your denial. I do suggest you do that, Mr Davis. Think it over very carefully indeed.’

  After the traumatic discussion in the pavilion Lucy and Metand went to The Prince of Wales, the pub near the cricket ground, where they each drank a couple of glasses of dry white wine.

  She hoped Metand would discuss tactics for tonight’s meeting; instead he was gloomily silent. Puzzled, Lucy sought contact.

  ‘The British disease has rubbed off on you. Don’t you want to tell me?’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  ‘What you think. What they haven’t told you.’

  ‘I should have move
d faster. Not left this entr’acte.’

  ‘I’m still not clear about this Baverstock connection.’ The possible permutations whirled round in her mind. ‘You’re saying that he was going to tell on Peter. Tell what? Was he blackmailing him? And why didn’t you bring it all to a conclusion?’

  ‘I want to see whether they will finally decide to tell the truth. We lack concrete evidence. I need a confession.’

  ‘Aren’t you just allowing them to fall back on another strategy?’

  ‘I’m hoping they’ll think their options have run out.’

  ‘You have no more evidence, no more facts to throw at them?’

  ‘I have nothing.’

  ‘And you’re worried?’

  ‘I’m worried I could have overplayed my hand.’

  Lucy dreaded returning to Gables. Last time there had been hope that Tim was alive. She didn’t know how to cope with the intimacy of the place, his presence in every nook and cranny.

  To gain a little more time, she took Metand the long way back, strolling across the recreation ground by the river. It was chilly and she kept shivering, while he had buttoned his coat up to the neck and stuck his hands deep into the pockets.

  Lucy could feel his anxiety and the tension growing between them. Had he set off a chain of events that was running out of control? Her heart pounded with the uncertainty of it all.

  Then Metand took a decision. ‘Look. I’m sorry. I’ll have to go and see Peter Davis again. There are things we need to talk about before tonight. I’m not satisfied with the way I handled the final part of that interview.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll take you to –’

  Suddenly, Sally was running across the grass towards them, waving frantically, a twisted look on her face that Lucy had never seen before.

  Metand watched her and, for the first time, Lucy could see that he was afraid.

  ‘I’ve been looking for Peter,’ Sally burst out as soon as she was within earshot, trying to walk normally now but only succeeding in making little scampering movements. ‘I can’t find him anywhere.’ Her skin was chalk white and there were sweat stains under the arms of her crisply laundered cotton dress.

  ‘We were talking to Mr Davis in the pavilion.’ Metand’s voice was strained, apprehensive.

  ‘He hasn’t come home.’