The Sign of Fear

by Robert Ryan

  Sir Gilbert had reached that stage and recognized it. He had accepted that thrashing around and trying to scream against the wad of cloth in his mouth was a waste of time, as was trying to penetrate the wall of darkness created by the mask over his eyes. He had heard the others pass through the same cycle, the squeak of bedsprings growing erratic and then, finally, ceasing. He had worries other than mere escape now.

  A full bladder, for one thing.

  But how was he to signal that he needed to attend to the usual calls of nature? Never mind the hunger that had replaced the terror-pit in his midriff, or the pressure in his bowels, he was going to soil himself within the half-hour, unless he was taken to a lavatory.

  But perhaps that didn’t matter. Perhaps he was going to die in this room anyway. Whether he did so in stained sheets was neither here nor there. The Guild of Disaffected Servicemen? What did that mean? One thing was certain, the Government would not give in to blackmail, to anarchy like this. Never had and never would. The level of compensation would be decided by due process, not by acts of terror and intimidation.

  He took heart that somebody in authority must have realized the entire Compensation Board was missing. Surely the élite of Scotland Yard were even now scouring London for them. If, indeed, they were in London, he admitted to himself. He recalled nothing much after getting into the taxicab. A feeling of drowsiness and then a stab of nausea. He remembered trying to pull the window down for fresh air, but it wouldn’t come. Tapping on the partition to the cabby . . . then, nothing.

  Gassed.

  That was the most likely explanation. Some noxious substance had been introduced into the rear, no doubt, airtight and sealed, compartment of the cab. How clever, part of his brain thought. No struggle, no snatching from the street. You just drive on and deliver the passenger to . . .

  But he knew no more than that. They could have driven for ten minutes, an hour, a day, for all he knew. He had no idea where he was. So how could even the Yard’s finest locate him?

  He stifled that thought immediately. He must not give in to the corrosive acid of despair. At least his wife, Margaret, was safe, with the children. She would be worried, of course, when the news reached her, but she would do the sensible thing and stay away from London, he was certain. She would leave it to the professionals. Oh, Margaret.

  He swallowed back a sob. His parched throat felt as if sand had been poured down it. He needed a drink of water. But at least the pounding headache he had woken with had subsided. No doubt that had been caused by whatever crude sedative they had used to render him incapable.

  He allowed himself a small feeling of satisfaction above the din of clamouring thoughts. He was thinking straighter now that the blind terror had subsided. Helped, no doubt, by his body purging the poison from his system. Like a patient recovering from anaesthesia, he felt the fog slowly lifting. He might not like what he could see – or in his case, not see – but having his wits about him was a considerable improvement, just as long as he could keep a lid on the panic he knew was waiting to spring out like jack-in-the box. Stay calm.

  He only became aware of the footsteps moments before he felt the bed jerk. There was a squeak of long-idle wheels turning. Close by, a grunt of effort, followed by a slow acceleration and the sensation of moving through space. He was being taken to another location. But where?

  And why?

  Even though the room was in semidarkness, the sudden burst of light hurt Sir Gilbert’s eyes as the blindfold was pushed up. Tears filmed across his cornea. He blinked. It was like viewing the world through rain on a windowpane. There were people around the bed, except they were horrible insectoid creatures: half-man, half-fly.

  He swivelled his head to try to take in his surroundings. There were banks of electric lights, unlit; a wallchart of the human circulatory system. Or was it nervous system? Still indistinct. Cream-coloured metal trolleys were parked close to the bed. The glint of instruments. And the device with the bellows, cylinders and valves was an old Gwathmey’s machine for delivering a mixture of nitrous oxide and oxygen.

  He was in an operating theatre.

  And those were . . . gas masks. Three men, all wearing gas masks. The ridged rubber tubes had reminded him of insect tracheoles, the oversized glass circles in front of the face made the eyes look monstrous. But behind the canvas, there were people. People who were intent on doing him harm in this place of healing.

  Now he thrashed and tried to scream, the juices of fear once more flowing in his veins.

  ‘Sir Gilbert,’ came the muffled voice from the nearest man. ‘Calm yourself. Struggling will do you no good. As I think you have guessed, I am afraid the fates have decreed, by a drawing of the straws, that you will be the first example made to the Government.’

  The man stepped in closer. He was wearing a white coat a size too small, and Sir Gilbert could smell an aftershave on him. No, hair oil. A coconut macassar.

  ‘Imagine the men in the trenches, Sir Gilbert. The day before, some of their comrades had gone over the top. They had walked into murderous machine-gun fire. Harvested like so much grass with a good, sharp scythe. Now, their superiors tell the next batch it is their turn. They must take that walk into no man’s land. They must face the blade. And what do they do? Do they turn and run? Do they kill their officers like any sane man might? No. They write to their sweethearts, mothers, fathers, brothers. They smoke a last cigarette with their pals. They take the tot of rum, grateful for the warmth and the courage. And when the whistle blows, they climb the ladders and they die like men. And those that come back, those who have lost arms, eyes, legs, balls and pricks, are they any less men? No. We should be proud of them. Instead, we leave them to beg. To slit their own throats. To knot their sheets and hang themselves in some madhouse or throw the rope over a branch in a secluded wood. These are the men who went over the top for you and me.’ He put a hand on Sir Gilbert’s shoulder and squeezed. ‘And I want you to be as brave as they were. Because in a way, you’re fighting for them now, you are campaigning for them to win the Government’s respect.’

  He took a step back and, behind him, Sir Gilbert could see another of the masked men holding a device he recognized. A Pohl/Mössinger combination cranial clamp/retractor. His eyes widened and he shook his head, silently pleading with the canvas-faced creature before him. But the eyes he could see blinking behind glass showed no sign of mercy.

  ‘We did wonder what the first of our demonstrations should be. And then we decided, well, let the punishment fit the crime. Not that you have committed a crime, exactly. But we can clearly do something that is . . . appropriate.’

  He turned and took the Pohl/Mössinger from his colleague and presented it to Sir Gilbert, like a medieval torturer displaying the instruments of pain. ‘Now, we can either do this the hard way or make it as easy, if not as painless, as possible.’

  Against all the odds, Sir Gilbert managed to squeeze a scream past the gag in his mouth.

  SIXTEEN

  ‘I have not been following you and I am mightily offended you would suggest such a thing!’ exclaimed Betsy Buck.

  Watson sipped his tea, unconvinced by her protests or the way her face had clenched into a low-browed frown of disapproval. ‘As a journalist, isn’t pursuing a story by tailing a suspect part of your armoury of techniques?’ he asked.

  She considered this.

  If Betsy Buck had been surprised to see Major Watson on the doorstep of 221b Baker Street again so soon, she didn’t show it.

  ‘Doctor!’ she had cried with what appeared to be genuine delight. ‘Have you news for poor Mrs Crantock? Would you like coffee? Or tea? No, tea, of course. Come in. I’ve just lit the fire. Is September usually this cold here?’

  Watson had looked up at the sky, thick, brooding and impenetrable, as if nailed in place. There were rumours of gales out in the channel. ‘At least it means the bombers are unlikely to come tonight.’

  ‘Amen to that. You coming in?’

  An
d so, Watson had removed his cap and stepped into the hallway, feeling the same mix of satisfaction and regret he had on the previous occasion at being back in their old quarters. Fifteen minutes later, he was seated in front of the fire, feeling the heat of the coals on his face while dusk slid into darkness outside the window. There was efficient electric lighting in the room now, although he had to admit he missed the comforting softness of the oil and gas lamps they had used in his day. He had waited until Betsy was seated before he had made his accusation of her being the one following him.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she said eventually. ‘I have been known to tail, as you put it, a man or a woman. But what would be the use of following you?’

  ‘In case I meet with Holmes?’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh, pah,’ she said. ‘I thought that story will either come out or not. I’ll know through Mrs Crantock.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Besides, what makes you so sure someone followed you?’

  He explained about Mycroft and his observation of a taxi that had drawn up after his own, then loitered outside and the figure inside who had peered up at the building. The cab had driven off only when the observer realized that Mycroft was busy, in turn, examining them. ‘He was certain it was a woman.’

  ‘Small, blonde, American?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘He couldn’t see clearly into the interior. She was wearing a hat and a veil.’

  ‘So it could even have been a man,’ Betsy said.

  Watson had to admit this was true. After all, a young lad had dressed as a woman to avoid the police in the story he had called ‘The Girl and the Gold Watches’.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me in the cab,’ she said. ‘Barking up the wrong journalist there, Doctor.’

  ‘Just to let you know, I have not bothered Mr Holmes with the case of the reappearing husband. Mr Crantock, I mean. I think it is what he might call “commonplace”.’

  ‘A man writing a note from beyond the grave might be commonplace in your world, Doctor, but not in mine.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he continued, ‘I have put a man on to it. A rather reliable chap. I expect a report within a day or two from Mr Johnson.’ Porky, he was confident, would get to the bottom of the affair, even if he would charge handsomely for doing so. He supposed that he would end up footing the bill, even though the case didn’t really interest him. He could hardly present it to Betsy Buck. That would be most ungentlemanly. Holmes always said he was a soft touch when it came to women.

  ‘I look forward to hearing all about it. And if it moves from the commonplace to the extraordinary . . .?’

  Watson had to smile at that. ‘If it is the work of a ghost, you mean? Then, perhaps, I shall send a telegram to Holmes.’ Betsy made to speak but he raised a hand. ‘I have promised myself not to disturb him unless absolutely necessary. It would have to be something quite remarkable.’

  ‘Well, if you two ever need a place to discuss things,’ she swept an arm about the sitting room, ‘where better than 221b Baker Street?’

  ‘Where better indeed.’ Watson didn’t add that this might have the same address as the location for many of their adventures, but somehow the spirit had flown from it. Although it was possible that the vital qualities of 221b resided not in ornate table lamps, Persian slippers and old armchairs, but in Holmes himself. Perhaps even in the combination of Holmes and Watson. Perhaps that was where the magic lay.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Looked like you’d drifted off for a minute or two there,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you for the tea.’ He put the cup down on the side table and stood. ‘And I’m sorry to have . . .’

  He hesitated. Something had disturbed his equilibrium.

  ‘What is it?’ Then she put her head to one side. She looked puzzled. ‘Is that what I think it is? I thought you said—’

  ‘I did. Turn out the lights, can you?’

  She did as she was asked and Watson crossed to the window, pulled back the curtains and raised the sash, and now they could both hear it clearly: the low pulsing.

  The Gotha Hum.

  Watson went down the stairs and into the street. Betsy was close behind him and he advised her to stay indoors.

  ‘I’m as likely to be blown up in there as anywhere,’ she insisted.

  Outside, the darkened streets were filled with the sound of thudding feet and shrieks of alarm. ‘Take cover! Take cover!’ Figures, only half glimpsed, ran past, some of the men apparently having lost their hats. Watson pressed Betsy back into the doorway as a mob bundled by, stumbling over each other. ‘Baker Street is still open,’ one of them shouted in his face. ‘They’ll take you in there.’ The Tube, he assumed.

  In the pause that followed their passing, Watson strained his ears. The low vibration of the engines was there, all right, but nowhere as loud as on the last occasion, when he had taken shelter with the now-missing Sir Gilbert. It was coming from out to the east, the most likely target of the bombers, but seemed metronomically steady, as if the bombers were static or circling.

  ‘I don’t think they’re coming our way,’ said Watson.

  ‘I think you might be right,’ Betsy agreed after a moment. ‘It’s not getting any louder.’

  It was then they heard the flat crump of the first explosion. The guns started up, stabbing plumes of light into the sky, the sound of shells detonating booming through the streets, drowning out the hum. Honeysuckle, Britannia, Wellington, one after the other the batteries began to hurl shells upwards at the invisible enemy. The individual detonations fused into a solid rumble, a continuous sound that reminded Watson of the front.

  ‘I think we’d better go inside after all,’ he said.

  The bomb fragment clattered on the pavement yards away, its metal casing still glowing dull red.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Betsy, dragging him by the sleeve back into 221b.

  ‘The conditions over the North Sea are appalling,’ Trotzman bellowed into the phone. He listened for a second. ‘We tried to send some Gothas over last night. All three had to turn back. One of them crashed on landing, killing the crew.’

  Trotzman rolled his eyes in apology at Schrader, who waved his cigarette to show it was not a problem. The Oberleutnant looked at the weather updates lying on the table and reflected how lucky he had been. His own ‘ultra secret’ flight had taken place in a relative lull in the weather. For the most part he had nursed the Bristol – not the fastest or most manoeuvrable of planes, but rock steady – at around a thousand metres, hidden in cloud, only dropping down to check his position. Trotzman’s directions and waymarkers had been clear and concise, the cricket pitch as smooth and welcoming as promised. He had even drawn some applause from a cluster of young English lads who had watched him land, unaware of his provenance.

  The passenger had neither acknowledged nor thanked him but then again, hadn’t been air sick all over the place either. The weather on Schrader’s return leg had been less kind, and he had fought against a shearing wind not to be blown over enemy lines, which would have been ironic, considering the plane he was piloting. A friendly Fokker, sent up from Ghistelles, eventually located his beacon and shepherded him home. The flight had not been referred to since. It was as if it had never happened.

  ‘Well,’ Trotzman said, glancing over at Schrader, ‘I’m looking at one of our very best bomber commanders as we speak. He is right here, on the ground. As is his plane. As are all the others planes and will be for four or five days more, as far as I can tell. Yes, Herr Major, my apologies for my tone. Thank you. Good night.’

  The weatherman slammed the earpiece of the telephone into the cradle with such force there was the sound of something breaking. He followed this with a tirade of choice, ripe profanities.

  ‘Trouble?’ Schrader asked.

  ‘Imbeciles. The general staff wanting to know who had ordered the bombing raid on London.’

  ‘What bombing raid on London?’ Schrader asked.

  �
��Precisely. We are the England Squadron. And we are here.’ He scratched his cheek and recovered some of his composure. ‘Sorry – what can I do for you?’

  ‘I just wanted to check it is safe to go into town, get blind drunk and wake up with a hangover and maybe a pretty girl.’ Nobody had mentioned a reward of any description for his unusual cross-channel sortie, so he thought he might as well give himself one.

  ‘Safe? Yes, it’s safe to assume there will be no missions for a while. So safe, in fact, I might join you. Although I am not so worried about the “pretty” part. Any old dog will do for me these days. But, yes, as I said, we won’t be flying against London for some days.’ His raised his eyebrows. ‘Now, I know we weather types aren’t quite as glamorous as you flyers, but would you mind if I accompanied you in this enterprise?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Schrader truthfully. He knew after three drinks Trotzman would become maudlin, pine for his wife in Düsseldorf and then slope off to bed. Alone.

  ‘I’m going to Church,’ Schrader warned him. This was the most expensive of the local drinking haunts. It was, indeed, located in an old church, which had been deconsecrated in every sense. Some officers felt squeamish about what went on behind the old altar space. Schrader wasn’t one of them.

  ‘I’ve never been,’ Trotzman admitted.

  ‘Bring money. Lots of it. And your drinking boots.’

  ‘And a pack of Devil Dogs?’

  Teufelshunde – condoms. ‘They provide their own. Kamels. Nothing but the best for those girls.’

  Trotzman’s eyes brightened. ‘See you in the mess in fifteen minutes. I’ll whistle up a car to take us.’

  Schrader stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and swept up his cap from the map table. He paused halfway to the door and turned back. ‘What makes them think there was a raid on London tonight?’

  Trotzman shrugged. ‘Agents reporting by radio, I would imagine.’ He saw something darken in the Oberleutnant’s face, like a passing storm cloud. ‘What?’