by Robert Ryan
‘I nearly killed him,’ Watson replied.
He gave a jerk when he felt her hand on his shoulder, warm through the shirt now that he had taken his tunic off. ‘And how do you reach that conclusion, Major?’
He looked up at her. There was something of Emily, his second wife, about her. A heart-shaped face – plump, she might have called it when younger – that had somehow softened the inevitable progress of ageing. ‘I was so pleased to see him, so pleased,’ he said, ‘that I failed to act like a physician should. I knew he wasn’t well. There were signs, but I ignored them. The jaw, for instance. It clearly wasn’t toothache, but this.’ He jabbed a finger at the bed. ‘But to watch him attack the knot of a problem, slashing this way and that . . . well, it did me good. I was being selfish.’
Matron’s voice changed to something harsher, ringing like hammer on steel. ‘I think you do yourself a disservice. Major, would you come with me, please? Now. It is quite urgent.’
Bad news, he thought.
‘Captain Macmillan,’ she said, addressing the Greek reader in the next bed. The man looked up, his eyes rheumy in a gaunt face. Only his bristling moustache looked to be in the best of health. ‘If Mr Holmes so much as stirs and Sister is not here, please pull the cord.’ She indicated the rope that would summon help. ‘Now, come along, Major.’
Her footsteps made a brisk drumbeat on the linoleum as she powered along the ward and out through the double swing doors, with Watson a pace behind. ‘Poor Captain Macmillan. Grenadier Guards. Wounded at the Somme.’
‘But that was more than a year ago.’
‘Ten operations so far. His hip is still not right. Very stoic. Just reads the classics all day long. Very reliable chap. In here, if you will.’
Watson found himself in a windowless room, with a high bed – a step was provided for entry, like a horse’s mounting block – screens and what looked to be a private bathroom. ‘We don’t use this much because nurses tend to forget about it. Easier to have the men all in one place. But we do get the odd dignitary in who appreciates some privacy.’
‘I see,’ said Watson, although he didn’t.
She pulled the curtains that covered the glass pane in the door and stepped in close. ‘Nobody will disturb us here.’
‘I should get back to Holmes,’ Watson said, trying to step around her. A hand gripped his forearm. ‘There is something we need to take care of first.’
‘What is that?’
‘You, Major, you. Excuse me.’ Matron eased past him into the bathroom and turned on the bath taps. Pipes gurgled and banged then there was the rush of water. ‘Strip, Major. Behind the screens, if you must.’
‘Matron.’
She reappeared, hands on hips, eyes blazing. ‘You say you missed the tell-tale signs of Mr Holmes’s episode. Well, I would be failing in my duty if I did not act on the symptoms I see before me.’
‘What symptoms?’ Watson demanded. ‘I’m as fit as a fiddle.’
‘That fiddle is cracked and needs restringing, Major Watson.’ She wagged an admonishing finger at him. ‘When did you last sleep? Sleep properly? I have seen you here at all hours, delivering the wounded, staying with them, if need be, till dawn. I have seen your skin grow greyer and thinner by the week. Your shoulders slump. Your hands shake. You are close to exhaustion, Major, and that won’t do Mr Holmes any good, now will it?’
‘I feel a little peaky now and then, perhaps—’
‘You will get in that bath – I have put some Epsom salts in – and then you will get into that bed and you will sleep.’
‘But it’s the middle of the afternoon.’
‘And your body has no idea what time of day it is. Two hours will do you the world of good. Strip and dip, Major, strip and dip.’
He supposed he would have to face up to life, one day, without Holmes. Lying in a warm bath, luxuriating in the heat of the water and the grittiness of the salts, it seemed impossible. But it was likely there would be consequences from the angina attack. He would have to consult the finest physicians in London, go for the most up-to-date treatment. Holmes deserved the best care. There was enough money in the Cox & Co. accounts to pay for it, too.
Matron had been right, of course. He had been running his body like a tinker flogging an old nag until it drops in the poles. Distraction, distraction, distraction. His own drug, his own version of the seven per cent solution.
Watson had a sudden vision of the slender thread by which life hangs, of the brevity of the time left to him on this earth. What was he to do with this finite allocation? He should spend it with Holmes. Because one of them would go within a few years, at most. Why waste moments trying to fill up the vacuum left by the women in his life when he could spend his declining days in the company of another who had made such a contribution to his life and, yes, happiness.
He wouldn’t insist Holmes came to London. He would find a cottage on the South Down suitable for two bachelors facing the accelerating years of old age. Holmes would have his bees. Perhaps he should get a bull pup. And, despite his protestations that there would be no more adventures published, he could spend the time writing the few remaining stories taken from their heyday. The Strand would pay handsomely for them – ‘The Illustrious Client’, for instance, when Holmes feigned being so near the real death that was stalking them now. And, as with poor Sir Gilbert, there was a disfiguring at the heart of it. Vitriol had been used, the same acidic solution those villains at Harzgrund had used to hide the evidence of their murderous schemes when he was incarcerated in Germany. And there was the ‘Shoscombe Old Place’ affair, which also involved the disposal of an inconvenient body. Worth a thousand pounds at least. They could live out their sunset years in some style.
He was jerked back from this idyll by a distant boom, and a vibration that caused the water in the tub to ripple. No doubt it was the new guns in Regent’s Park being tested. It reminded him there was a long way to go, many rivers to ford and obstacles to climb, and the mystery of Staff Nurse Jennings and the Dover Arrow to solve before the South Downs beckoned him to retirement.
TWENTY-THREE
The new wonder weapon was laughingly tiny. Schrader had seen his mother produce bigger sausages than the Elektron bomb. It was not much more than 20 centimetres long and, judging by the way the scientist was tossing it from hand to hand, it didn’t weigh much more than a bratwurst. Mind you, he thought, neither did the scientist, a weaselly little man called Gröbben, who spoke in low, creepy tones that sounded as if he were whispering sweet nothings in a woman’s ear. It took a while for Schrader to realize that the man was indeed in love – with his bomb.
They were in the briefing room at Ghent, a draughty barn of a place – which was exactly what it had been – that still reeked of its original occupants. It was lit by oil lamps and strings of electric lights, with a single bright spotlight shining on the blackboard onto which the scientist had drawn an exploded version of the bomb.
‘Elektron,’ he said softly, causing the assembled aircrew of the England Squadron to lean in to catch his words, ‘is the name of the material used for the casing. It is a magnesium alloy. Inside, here,’ he pointed to his diagram, ‘is a thermite core. As you know, thermite burns very hot indeed, up to two and a half thousand degrees centigrade.’ He smiled, smug and satisfied, like a very proud father. Look what I made.
Schrader raised his hand.
‘Yes?’
‘Oberleutnant Schrader, commander of an R-type bomber. The last type of incendiaries also had thermite in them. It burns intensely but very quickly. If they ignited at all. How long will the thermite charge last in an Elektron?’
Gröbben paused, knowing the answer would disappoint. ‘Less than one minute.’
There were groans around the room and Hauptmann von Kahr swivelled in his seat and glared at the assembled company.
‘You are right to be disappointed. We know you can’t have the Fire Plan without fire. And we at the Hanau factory appreciate that the A-
7 incendiaries, with kerosene and tar, were inadequate in every way. The A-9s, those recent models the Oberleutnant was talking about, had unreliable fuses and, as he suggested, a burn time that often failed to create a ground fire before it fizzled out. But the Elektron, or the B1-E to give it its correct name, has a little trick up its sleeve.’
Gröbben paused for a drink of water, knowing he had their full attention again.
‘As I said, the casing is a magnesium alloy. The job of the thermite core is not to start fires, but to ignite the casing. The magnesium will burn bright and strong.’ He glanced at Schrader. ‘In answer to your next question, the magnesium in the outer skin will burn at around fifteen hundred degrees centigrade for around fifteen minutes. Not only is that likely to start secondary ground fires, it is almost impossible to douse the conflagration once ignited. The casing will continue to burn, no matter how much water is played on it from firefighting hoses.’
Someone gave an appreciative whistle.
‘Well, let’s get going then,’ said Rutter, Schrader’s ventral gunner and engineer. ‘Trotzman says conditions are good.’
Trotzman nodded his confirmation that the weather had stabilized over the North Sea.
‘Just one moment. Your bomb bays will need to be modified. There are special racks for these. They are being fabricated now and will be fitted within a few days.’
Another groan rippled around the room. It sounded to Schrader like the sound made by children who had just had their presents taken back on Christmas Eve.
Rudy von Kahr stood. ‘Gentlemen, we will get a chance to use these in the coming weeks, I am sure. Let us not forget that our high explosives and shrapnel bombs with delayed fuses have a terrifying effect on the population of London. We have reports they live like moles, frightened to emerge from their holes. Tonight, we bomb with high explosive with both percussive and delayed fuses, softening them up for the real terror to come. At oh-seven hundred hours, two Giants and eleven Gothas will take off. Once over England, two Gothas will peel off and fly low towards Margate, making sure they are spotted at the coast. That will be the Gothas of Leitner and Bremmer.’
The two commanders exchanged concerned glances. Being the decoy was a dangerous business, because you were inviting the whole of RFC’s home defences to come after you while the main force with its defensive firepower carried on up the estuary to London.
‘You will carry a fifty per cent bomb load so you can gain height quickly once the alarm has been raised.’
Leitner and Bremmer looked a little happier at this.
‘Reports from over there are predicting clear skies and a full moon. Trotzman will brief you on the routing you will take over the North Sea. And tonight, the England Squadron will bomb London once more!’
An enthusiastic cheer went up into the worm-eaten rafters. Nobody appeared to notice that Oberleutnant Schrader didn’t join in.
The public house Inspector Bullimore had chosen was one of several he deemed safe for a meeting. Close to Paddington Station, it was the sort of place used to strangers. It also had a relaxed attitude to women drinkers, as long as they stayed in the snug if unaccompanied and in one of the wooden booths if with their husbands.
His pint of ale arrived courtesy of the landlord, who scooped up the coppers he had left on the table. There had been a delay while a new barrel was put on. Bullimore held up the glass. It was still cloudy, but he said nothing. Best not draw attention to himself.
There were soldiers and some sailors in, crowded around the bar, their gaiety loud but forced. On their way back somewhere, he assumed, not just arrived in the city. Then there was a kind of hysteria that gripped fresh arrivals, the thought of a few days in the fleshpots of the capital, time for women, song, drink, shows, women again. At the end of the leave a melancholy infected them. No matter how good a time they had had, it was never enough to temper the thought of what awaited them upon their return. The war was always out there, biding its time, like a great big hungry beast that had to be fed.
Bullimore leaned out of the booth and scanned the pub. No working girls were in; the landlord kept a tight ship on that score. It was another reason why it was on the preferred list of meeting places.
One of the sailors caught his eye and he could see the man wondering how old Bullimore was. Civilians were used to that. Those in reserved jobs were often made to feel uncomfortable in public. Bullimore returned the man’s gaze. He had nothing to be ashamed of. The bubbling in his lungs when he lay down at night spoke of duty done. And police inspector was a starred – that was, exempt from call-up – occupation. He smiled knowingly at the sailor and the man turned away, confused.
He sometimes wondered if he should have kept ‘captain’ before his name, as was the wont of many ex-military men. But ‘inspector’ was fine for him and, in truth, he had disliked being in the provost units of the Military Foot Police. He had mainly dealt with cases of desertion or handling of POWs. For the last few months, it had been control of the chaotic traffic leading up to the front. It wasn’t proper coppering. And then came the shelling and gas attacks. His behaviour during those onslaughts – getting men undercover, treating those who had breathed in the gas, neglecting to fit his own mask until all around him had theirs on – earned him the Military Cross, which, in turn, had helped him up through the ranks of the police. That, and the absence of decent men in front of him in the queue. War could prove most advantageous to career prospects.
She came in and spotted him at once. She had on a long, camel-coloured coat with a dark fur collar and a Woolland Brothers cartwheel hat with a feather in the side. He knew it was from the Knightsbridge shop because she had worn it before. She had ‘dressed down’, as she put it, for the assignation. The coat would be from Bourne & Hollingsworth or Barkers, rather than Madame Mercier’s, but the truth was you could dress her in a munitionette’s trousers and smock and she would still turn heads. It was the poise, bearing and the confidence of privilege that she exuded, which was impossible to disguise.
She did not, he noticed with some sadness, have any form of overnight case with her. Sometimes they adjourned to one of the small hotels on Sussex Gardens, where no questions were asked about marital status. Adulterers’ Row, it was sometimes called. Not tonight, though.
Marion ignored the stares and the mumbling from the beer-swilling barflies and kept her eyes firmly on him as she slipped into the booth, taking off her gloves, but merely unbuttoning the coat, as if she wouldn’t be staying. She flashed him a smile and he caught a scent of her perfume.
‘A drink?’ he asked.
‘Lemonade,’ she replied.
He fetched her one from the bar and a second pint for himself. When he returned he watched her sip daintily, her cheekbones standing out sharply as she pursed her lips, the brown eyes quizzing him. Thirty-four and beautiful. And his. Some of the time, at least.
‘Not staying?’
‘I can’t. I have to be back. I think Charles is coming down with something.’
‘Nothing serious?’
‘Tonsils, I think. Dr Trellis is coming round later.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He tried to make it sound like genuine concern rather than selfish disappointment.
She smirked, the first sign of his version of Marion to appear so far, rather than the respectable figure who occupied the Big House, one wing of which was given over to the convalescence of the gassed. Which is how he had met her. ‘I knew you’d be disappointed but . . .’
‘Family comes first.’
‘Yes.’ She swirled the lemonade in her glass and examined the miniature maelstrom she had created.
He supped his pint and kept his eyes on her face while he did so, wanting to make sure he absorbed maximum pleasure from this fleeting visit.
‘Are you terribly busy?’ she asked when the whirlpool faded.
‘I have a case I could do with Arthur’s help on.’
She looked shocked at the mention of his name. ‘Don’t.�
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Arthur, her husband, was a surgeon with the Royal Army Medical Corps, and rich from his father’s invention of the Miracle Intelligent Valve, used to regulate fuel flow to engines. Every car or aircraft or boat sold in Britain put a few more shillings in the family coffers because of the patent.
‘It’s true, though. Bit of a medical problem.’ He didn’t elaborate.
‘You must have police doctors?’
‘Few and far between. I did have a chap called Watson giving me some advice, of Holmes and Watson fame, but he seems to have gone to ground.’ He had asked Trenchard to seek out Watson and discover exactly what was going on with the man.
‘Dr Watson? How terribly exciting. Arthur . . .’ She paused, before continuing. ‘Arthur loves those stories.’
Bullimore drank some more. It looked as if he could be back on the Sir Gilbert case that very night.
‘I’m late,’ she said.
He glanced at the clock. ‘You’ve only just got here.’
Her eyes widened in emphasis. Then they flicked downwards, towards the table. ‘I’m overdue.’
The news took the air away from his damaged lungs completely and for a while he thought he would never draw breath ever again. Her hand flicked out and touched his.