Nothing special about the Ancre. A sleepy little river bottom, with its lagoons and reeds and water-grass, and its villages nestling in the ridge-folds on either side: Hamel and St Pierre Divion, Beaucoun and Grandcourt and Miraumont. It looked for all the world as though nothing had ever happened, or could ever happen, along this quiet stream.
‘This is where Emerson came last week.’
‘Why here?’
‘Because this is where we slogged it out with the Germans, October, November, January, February -‘
The most terrible place on the whole Western From, worse even than Passchendaele, where the mud had been like a beast which gulped living men in the darkness: how could he tell them that about this gentle place?
‘This is where he thought we finally won the battle, when we made them pull back to the Hindenburg Line.’
She frowned at him.
‘But the Poachers weren’t here.’
So Audley had told her, as he’d said he would.
‘No, they weren’t.’
‘And it is the Poachers who matter - the man with the gun, Sous-Lieutenant Bellamy, and the men with him who disappeared, they are the ones who matter most of all.’
‘ “D” Company,’ said Audley.
‘”D” Company, yes. Supposing they had taken the Prussian Redoubt - would that not interest Professor Emerson?’
‘But they didn’t take it. The other companies took it, we know that. And they came through Bouillet Wood to do it. As far as we know Bellamy’s men never even entered the wood.’
‘But could they not have come round the back of it - into the ravine? Then they could have attacked the redoubt from behind.’
Mitchell stared at her, unwilling to admit that he had already considered that very possibility - in the darkness and the confusion anything was remotely possible - and had discarded it.
Finally he shook his head.
‘It’s not on, Nikki.’
‘Why not?’
‘Too many Germans, too few Englishmen - too few to make an attack on the redoubt anyway. And there isn’t a shred of evidence.’
‘What about the gun - the sous-lieutenant’s gun?’
‘That’s evidence of a sort all right, but that’s not what I mean. Suppose Bellamy did all you say - suppose “D” Company did attack the redoubt from the rear. I don’t believe for one moment that they did, but suppose they did - it still doesn’t help us one bit.’
She looked at him uncertainly.
‘But it would have interested Professor Emerson - and is that not what you have been looking for?’
She turned towards Audley questioningly.
‘That is what you said?’
Audley rubbed his chin.
‘Yess … but I can see what Paul’s driving at: it would have grabbed Emerson - or any other military historian. But it wouldn’t have mattered a damn to anyone else … You mean maybe we’ve been barking up the wrong tree, Paul - the wrong tree all along?’
‘I’m not sure - I don’t know,’ Mitchell shook his head. ‘Somehow I don’t think we’re wrong.’
‘Nor do I - and nor did they, by God,’ said Audley grimly. ‘Nobody kills the way they’ve been killing without a damn good reason. Whatever Emerson found out, it was dynamite.’
That was the point Mitchell had come back to himself: either there was something he had overlooked or there was something he didn’t yet know. But there surely was something.
He gazed over Audley’s head at the rising ground of the Thiepval ridge, towards the ugly red-brick memorial which carried the names of all the men who might have supplied the answer to his questions, the lost men of ‘D’ Company: Bill, my brother, an’ cousin Bertie, and little Georgie Brett, an’ Herbert Bidwell, an’Arthur Hough … all good lads. And H. J. V. Bellamy, the sous-lieutenant with the gun.
‘But we’re a long way from Bouillet Wood, you’re right, Nikki,’ he repeated to himself.
‘So whatever Emerson found out must have come to him, he didn’t find it down here,’ prompted Audley.
The big man was looking at him intently, almost as though he was willing him to stretch his wits to their furthest extent. For an instant Mitchell was unbearably reminded of Emerson, whose encouragement had always stirred him to try to excel. Both men had in common that quality of leadership which had burned so brightly on this very ground: he remembered how one ancient survivor of the St Quentin canal crossing had summed up his company commander - he made me act braver than I really was.
The man Turco had had the map - Emerson’s map - and the gun - Bellamy’s gun … ‘Someone could have offered him that Charles Lancaster - offered to sell it to him.’
‘Did people offer him souvenirs?’ asked Nikki.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Did he buy them?’ asked Audley.
‘No. Not unless they went with information.’
‘Like what, for example?’
Mitchell shrugged.
‘There was one chap who offered him a piece of a tank’s engine he claimed to have found in Triangle Wood. He didn’t buy it, but he paid the man to show him where he’d found it - no one knew how far that tank went into the wood before it was knocked out, you see. That was the sort of thing which interested him.’
They both stared at him expectantly.
‘Maybe Bellamy’s gun was offered to him. That would get him back on Hameau Ridge sure enough.’
‘To find out where it came from? Would he have known it was Bellamy’s gun?’
‘He’d have known about the Poacher junior officers carrying them, I’m certain of that.’
‘Provenance!’ exclaimed Audley triumphantly.
‘Provenance?’ Nikki looked at him. ‘What is that?’
‘It’s the archaeologist’s first question, mademoiselle. If you give him an old coin or a potsherd, like as not he’ll be able to tell you what it is because that’s his business. But what he’ll want to know is where you got it from - that’s its real value to him.’
He nodded at Mitchell encouragingly.
‘You’re right, Paul - I’d never have guessed the same was true for a modern historian, but I can see how it could have been. The gun would make him ask the question.’
Nikki said quickly:
‘But we don’t know who answered it.’
Again they both stared at him.
Stretch -
‘There is a reason why he could have visited Hameau Ridge, or pretty close to it,’ said Mitchell suddenly.
Stretch -
‘He had friends out here - ordinary people he’d got to know who were interested in the war. Not scholars, just local people - though some of them know a great deal, actually. There’s one in Bapaume and another just outside Arras, and a couple in the town itself, and one at Albert -‘
Just as it was possible to be made braver than you really were, so you could be made sharper.
‘ - but the one I’m thinking of lives in Vaux, just beyond the ridge on the Beaumetz road. It’s the one place he’s sure to have visited. I should have thought of it before, darn it.’
‘Why is it the one place?’ asked Nikki.
‘Because he bought his petrol there - it’s a garage run by two brothers named Jarras. They sell petrol and repair farm machinery, and that sort of thing.’
‘But he’d be going out of his way to get petrol there.’
‘That wouldn’t make any difference, he always bought it from them.’
‘Because they were interested in the war?’ cut in Audley. ‘Is that why?’
‘One of them is, the elder one - Etienne. And he’s not just interested, he’s got an incredible collection of stuff from the battlefield. Guns and shells and all sorts of things. He does buy things, too.’
Nikki regarded him with a flicker of suspicion.
‘You’ve researched Professor Emerson remarkably thoroughly. Captain.’
‘Never mind -‘ Audley waved his hand at her dismissively �
� - the point is the man’s a collector and every farmer on the ridge must know it. So if anything turned up it would come to him, eh?’
‘More than that. He pays for it too - the other brother’s married, but Etienne’s a born bachelor. He spends half his - ‘
Mitchell broke off abruptly as he saw the expression on Audley’s face change.
‘What’s the matter?’
For a moment Audley looked at him bleakly, then the cold logic transmitted itself.
Emerson. Emerson and Mitchell. Emerson and George Davis - Emerson and Etienne Jarras.
‘We’d better go and see for ourselves,’ said Audley.
8
‘HOW DID IT HAPPEN?’ said Audley.
Marcel Jarras finished pouring the wine before looking up, and then methodically pushed each of the glasses to its place across the oilcloth-covered table before speaking.
‘Who can tell, m’sieur? The road is lonely there and it was very dark - and there were no witnesses. We shall never know.’
Mitchell watched the bubbles on the rim of his glass pop one by one. Etienne Jarras was dead and already buried, and there was nothing they could do about it. Murdered and buried, to put it more precisely, although this was one accident the bastards had got away with successfully - at least until now.
They were too late again, as they had expected to be; the only consolation was that once again there was nothing he could have done about it. He could kick himself for taking so long to point Audley in the right direction, but Etienne Jarras had been dead before Audley had even received his fragment of Somme map. Indeed, he had been the first unknowing victim of the whole business.
‘But what sort of accident was it?’
Audley’s French accent was execrable but his grammar was impeccable.
‘He had the break-down truck -‘ Marcel Jarras’s shoulders lifted ‘ - as one leaves Tilloy Wood the road is steeply embanked to the right, with a drop of three metres or more. It was there he left the road. Perhaps he swerved to avoid something, that is what the police suggest - another vehicle, maybe. But they do not know because there is no sign to say what happened. And even if there was he would still be dead.’
Audley nodded sympathetically.
‘That is true … And it was a break-down he was attending, then?’
Jarras nodded back at him.
‘On the other side of Tilloy. Some imbecile from Paris had stalled his car and couldn’t start it again. Me - I would have let him stew, but Etienne was good-hearted always. He was a Samaritan, a true Samaritan. He would go out no matter when or what.’
‘I see. So when he didn’t return you naturally became alarmed?’
‘I was not here, monsieur. We were on holiday, my wife and I. We were - ‘
Jarras trailed off, frowning suddenly at Audley as he did so.
‘You are a friend - you were a friend of Etienne’s, you say? I don’t remember you.’
His gaze shifted from Audley to rest on Mitchell.
‘Now you, monsieur - I do seem to remember that we have met…’
‘No, Paul!’
Audley cut off the half-truth Mitchell was about to offer, turning to Nikki.
‘There’s no more time for games. If you would care to introduce yourself, mademoiselle, I think we shall save time.’
‘Certainly, Dr Audley.’
Nikki reached inside her bag.
‘Police, Monsieur Jarras - Bureau of Liaison with the SDECE. And these gentlemen are of the British Ministry of Defence.’
Jarras’s jaw dropped open as if the muscles holding it had been severed. He stared first at Nikki, then at the card she held up to him, and then again at her. Remembering his own consternation of the night before at the photograph in With the Tanks to Cambrai Mitchell could well understand that look: in a male chauvinist pig’s world secret policewomen were bad enough, but secret policewomen looking like Nikki MacMahon were downright unfair.
With difficulty Jarras wound up his jaw to its correct position, but the effort required to speak was still too much for him.
‘You were on holiday?’ said Audley.
The Frenchman looked at him, still speechless.
‘You were on holiday?’ repeated Nikki sharply.
Jarras gave a start.
‘Yes. On holiday.’
Mitchell remembered the way she had simulated fear at the approach of the two motor-cycle police on Hameau Ridge. No need to ask where she’d learnt that role: she’d obviously been the cause of it often enough herself.
‘Where?’
‘At Lyons. My wife - that is to say, my wife’s parents live there-‘
‘You were called back from holiday?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ Jarras nodded. ‘It was on the Saturday - we were not due back until the next Wednesday.’
Nikki looked at Audley.
‘You have further questions, Dr Audley?’
She paused.
‘Monsieur Jarras will answer them.’
Or Mademoiselle MacMahon will know the reason why. And not so long ago I was planning a cosy evening with Mademoiselle MacMahon, thought Mitchell. Phew!
Audley considered the Frenchman for a moment.
‘What happened to the imbecile from Paris?’ he said mildly.
‘The imbecile - ?’
‘The man whose car broke down.’
‘Oh - him.’ Jarras bobbed his head. ‘He telephoned later to say he’d managed to start his car by himself.’
‘Telephoned?’
‘But yes, m’sieur. He telephoned both times. First to ask for help, and then - ‘
‘Telephoned who?’ Audley’s voice was still mild, ‘If your brother was already on the way, and you were on holiday - who answered the telephone?’
‘Who answered?’ Jarras looked at him questioningly. ‘The boy answered, of course.’
‘What boy?’
‘The boy - Pierre. He helps with the odd jobs in the workshop and looks after the pumps when we are busy.’
‘Is Pierre here now? Can we speak to him?’
‘But yes - he is here.’ Jarras glanced at his watch. ‘He is on the pumps now, until nine o’clock.’ He looked at Nikki uncertainly. ‘Do you wish me to get him?’
Nikki caught Audley’s nod.
‘Yes, Monsieur Jarras.’
Mitchell watched the little man scuttle out, waiting until he had closed the door before speaking.
‘You think the boy could know something?’
‘He’ll know nothing of value, that’s for certain.’
‘What makes you so sure of that?’ asked Nikki.
‘Because if he did he’d be dead, mademoiselle - like Etienne Jarras.’
Etienne Jarras among others. All of them innocent and unknowing, and all dead; it was as though Charles Emerson had carried the plague on his breath, infecting one person after another with the disease already in his own bloodstream.
All dead except one.
‘But he may have seen something all the same, you never know,’ continued Audley.
‘They had to leave him alive to take that phone-call, so there wouldn’t be any mystery why his boss was on the road. A calculated risk, you might say. But a very small one, I’d guess, because I have the distinct impression that somebody knows exactly what he’s doing, which is more than we do. We’re just picking up the pieces.’
He frowned at Nikki.
‘I think your boss is taking one hell of a risk not cancelling this meeting, you know.’
‘And I think you under-estimate him, Dr Audley.’
‘I don’t under-estimate Ted Ollivier, young woman - I know him better than you do, and I know when he’s being pushed from behind against his better judgement.’
Audley scowled at them both horribly.
‘There’s something that doesn’t smell right about this thing - it smells of politics, not security. And if there’s anything that knocks the hell out of good security it’s political necessity … So what
we want is something the politicians will understand, something that’ll scare the daylights out of them.’
‘Don’t dead men do that?’ said Mitchell.
‘The only thing that’ll do it is proof that their security has gone really sour. It’s like Ted said, you expect the wasps to buzz round the jampot.’
He jabbed a finger towards Mitchell.
‘We’ve got to prove to them that the lid isn’t sealed properly - because I’m damn sure it isn’t.’
Nikki gestured towards the window, through which the red neon lights of the garage sign were now bright against the gathering darkness of the evening.
‘You are running out of time for that - ‘
The outside door banged and there was a sound of hobnailed boors clumping down the passage to the office.
‘Unless you think an apprentice mechanic can give it to you, that is.’
Audley shrugged.
‘Apprentice lads have been known to have sharp eyes.’
The door banged open.
Mitchell’s heart sank: but not this apprentice, he thought, taking in Pierre’s vacant expression, which significantly remained unchanged as the lacklustre eyes shifted from Audley to Nikki. If the sight of her couldn’t raise a spark in this shambling creature, then there was no spark there.
‘Come in, Pierre,’ said Audley.
‘Uh?’
Pierre advanced three steps, stooping a little as though the ceiling was close to his head.
‘I want to ask you one or two questions … about Monsieur Etienne Jarras, Pierre,’
Audley said slowly.
‘Uh?’
Pierre frowned.
‘Monsieur Etienne Jarras - ‘
‘ ‘E’s dead.’
‘We know that. You were working with him on the night he died.’
‘What?’ Pierre looked at Nikki. ‘What’s ‘e say?’
Audley cast a hopeless look at her.
‘You were working with Monsieur Etienne on the night he died,’ said Nikki.
‘ ‘E died …’ The boy nodded.
‘You were working with him that night.’
‘On the tractor, we were - Monsieur Morel’s tractor. Wanted it next day, ‘e did … Didn’t get it did ‘e - wasn’t ready, that’s why.’
‘Monsieur Etienne was called out on a breakdown - called on the telephone?’
Other Paths to Glory Page 20