The Sign of Fear

by Robert Ryan

  ‘You’ve gone a strange colour. Are you all right?’

  ‘Are you?’ he finally blurted.

  Is it mine? He wanted to ask, but knew, instinctively, it would be unwise to do so. It suggested he doubted her fidelity even to him. But what he meant was, Am I really going to be a father? He felt appalled that he had put a married woman in this situation. The potential for scandal and shame was overwhelming. Bearing another man’s child? It was social suicide, even in the levels she moved in. But another part of him felt elation at the prospect of fatherhood, something he had considered in his twenties when he was engaged to Rosie, but since that had been called off, he had never even countenanced. Married to the job, his colleagues used to say. They made that jibe no longer, not since Marion appeared in his life, although none of them knew the details of the person who had put a fresh spring in his step.

  ‘How long . . . I mean, when is it . . .?’ How ironic, he thought: the police interrogator, suddenly tongue-tied with questions.

  ‘I’m about two months along.’

  ‘Right.’ He had no idea what this meant. Was the baby a tadpole-sized thing or fully formed with limbs and eyes and a heart beating away? Was it a person yet? Suddenly, he felt scared. ‘You’re not going to do anything foolish?’

  ‘By that do you mean anything against the law, Mr Policeman?’ That smile again, tightening the band around his heart.

  ‘I mean that in my time I have been called to many incidents, not all of them in poor districts by any means, where some woman has decided to go against nature.’

  A laugh. ‘Oh, how you men dress things up. A dose of diachylon or Madame Drunette’s?’

  ‘You’ve been researching it then?’ he snapped. ‘How else would you know about lead solutions or Madame Drunette’s Lunar Pills? Which, by the way, are nothing short of quackery.’

  A rose of colour bloomed high on her cheeks. ‘Only in my lowest moments.’

  It was Bullimore’s turn to touch her hand, albeit briefly. ‘We’ll think of something. Two heads are better than one.’

  ‘I don’t think a man’s head counts for much under these circumstances.’

  ‘Maybe not. How much does a man’s love count for?’

  ‘Everything,’ she said, her face suddenly taking on a glum aspect. ‘And nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Shush.’

  He had raised his voice. ‘What have you decided?’ he asked in softer tones.

  ‘You remember that Arthur was home on leave three months ago?’

  ‘I do.’ He certainly recalled the animal the visit had unleashed inside him, a wild, snapping jealous thing that raged against having his lovely Marion back in the arms of another. He could feel the beast stirring again, as if testing its chains. ‘Did you . . .?’

  ‘A gentleman wouldn’t ask.’

  ‘So it could be Arthur’s . . .’ The thought gave him no relief.

  Her lips pursed in irritation. ‘The child is yours. But . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Arthur was blind drunk most of the time. The things he had seen had affected him. Most nights he didn’t so much go to sleep as pass out. He wouldn’t recall a thing the next day.’

  ‘So as far as he is concerned, you could have . . .?’

  ‘We could have, yes. I am sure he thinks we did. I certainly gave him that impression, even then. Just to keep him at arm’s length.’

  ‘So you could have it and . . .’

  ‘Charles will have a new brother or sister.’

  Bullimore leaned back and sighed, his mind whirling through the ramifications. He despised the slight sense of relief he could feel, despite himself. ‘Well, I don’t altogether approve. But the child would be brought up in rather more style than on a police inspector’s salary.’

  ‘He or she will want for nothing.’

  He leaned in once more, elbows on the table. ‘And we . . .’

  ‘Shall never see each other again from this day on.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Watson did not awake feeling like a new man, but he did feel like one who had been given an overhaul. A reconditioned man, perhaps. He looked at his wristwatch. It was evening and must be getting dark outside. He slid out of bed, dropping the few feet to the ground rather than using the step, and found his uniform had been sponged and pressed. He dressed quickly and hurried out to see how Holmes was getting on.

  Mycroft was sitting at his brother’s side now, while the former detective slept on, no doubt as a result of a sedative. An oxygen cylinder had been wheeled in, the rubber mask placed on the pillow next to the patient. Watson asked after Matron, but one of the VADs told him she had gone off duty. He made a mental note to thank her; flowers or some confectionary from Bonds.

  ‘How is he?’ Watson asked.

  ‘He was awake briefly,’ answered Mycroft. ‘But agitated.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘He wasn’t making much sense. He kept doing this . . .’ Mycroft held up fingers that looked as if they were afflicted by a spasm. ‘The doctor gave him a mild sleeping draught.’ Mycroft cleared his throat. ‘Did he tell you about my luncheon meeting with regards to the Dover Arrow?’

  ‘And you being frightened off? He did,’ said Watson, brusquely. ‘I didn’t think you were a coward or a man to be bullied quite so easily.’

  The elder of the brothers glared at him. ‘I am not, Watson. But I have sailed these choppy waters long enough to know when I have just drifted into a minefield and am likely to be blown out the water.’

  ‘Much like the Dover Arrow was.’

  ‘Quite. There is to be an official inquiry about the sinking, you know.’

  ‘Well, that’s good news,’ said Watson. Even if, as he feared, Staff Nurse Jennings was on board and was therefore one of the lost, at least the truth would come out. ‘When?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘I shall attend, of course.’

  ‘It is to be held in camera,’ said Mycroft solemnly.

  Watson almost spluttered. ‘What? Behind closed doors?’

  ‘DORA, my dear chap.’

  Watson groaned in frustration. Where was the democracy they were supposedly fighting for?

  ‘I have walked Whitehall’s ill-lit corridors of power long enough to know there is always a back door, a recondite path to the truth. Publicly, I have to be seen and heard to be chastened and to withdraw and leave it all to this inquiry. Privately, that is another matter. As the Chinese say, ou duan si lian – the lotus root may be cut, but its silken threads remain. I shall follow the silken threads.’

  Watson felt ashamed of his earlier accusation. ‘I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply . . .’

  ‘Think nothing of it. I suspect, like my brother here, you are a man who wants conclusions as quickly as possible. In my area of expertise, that is rarely forthcoming. But we do need to find out what happened to the Dover Arrow before any inquiry buries the truth.’

  ‘Indeed. And I have other pressing problems, not least with the maiming of Sir Gilbert and the demands of these so-called GODS.’

  ‘Is that your problem? I would imagine MI5 and Special Branch will now be called in to take over from this policeman of yours.’

  ‘From Bullimore? Very likely. But the fact that I witnessed the original attack and put Sir Gilbert in the taxicab that resulted in this outrage makes me feel responsible. And Holmes, here, he had some thoughts on the matter.’

  They both glanced at the slumbering form. Whatever insights that great brain could offer were now locked inside a skull for which they had no key. Watson prayed that Holmes would not awake from this with his faculties impaired. He would rather die, he knew, than face life as a diminished force.

  ‘I must go back to Wimpole Street,’ said Watson. ‘There were newspaper cuttings Holmes was about to show me that may shed some light on his thinking. Are you staying?’

  Mycroft nodded. ‘For some hours, at least.’

  ‘I shall be back later,
before my rail station duties.’

  Mycroft nodded and Watson felt a terrible temptation to stay. But he knew that Holmes would want him to continue the quest for these men who thought they were GODS.

  Outside, night was falling on the city. Up above, a rash of stars were sprinkled across a rapidly darkening sky and, like an old friend that one now regarded with horror, the moon was rising, ready to bathe London in its treacherous silvery glow. Watson could taste something in the air, something other than coal and exhaust fumes and manure, the usual bouquet of the streets of central London. It was the taste of fear, the sense of a city sweating in anticipation of what was to come. He could read it in the hurried steps of pedestrians, the rhythm of horses being driven that little bit faster than usual, the impatient acceleration of the almost invisible cars racing by and the irritable parp of horns.

  He crossed the road and turned south, lighting a cigarette with his last match as he did so. The streets were emptying as if the air-raid alarm had already been given. Soon it would be a ghost town. He was aware of the clatter and burble of a taxicab behind him, no doubt hawking for one last fare, but he waved it on. He was but a few minutes from home.

  The vehicle drove past him and stopped at the kerbside. As it did so, the rear door opened and a passenger stepped out. So it hadn’t been touting for business, just looking for an address.

  The man who had alighted stood to his full height. ‘Major Watson?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  The moonlight glinted off the barrel of the revolver that was pointing at him. Watson looked from gun to face. It was the flour-thrower, the man with the false hand. ‘If you’ll just step inside.’

  Watson was fairly sure the man wouldn’t shoot, so he simply turned on his heels, only to find himself face to face with another pistol. The owner of this one, too, was familiar. ‘Best do as he says, Major,’ said Captain Trenchard apologetically.

  ‘Arm or leg?’ the chief of the GODS asked, as if discussing carving up a roast.

  He looked down at Lord Henry Arnott, who was in no position to answer. A muscle was twitching in his cheek, like a frog’s leg under electricity. It had been firing into spasm ever since they wheeled him from the ward to the operating theatre.

  ‘What do you offer in your scheme of things? Let me see . . .’ From the gas mask case at his hip, the tormentor took a piece of paper. ‘I have the recommendations here. “Amputation right arm through shoulder. Ninety per cent.” What’s that? Thirty-six shillings a week for a private? Ever tried living on that, Lord Arnott? I thought not.’ He read on: ‘“Amputation of leg at hip or stump not more than five inches, right arm below shoulder with stump six inches” – so precise, you people – “severe facial disfigurement, loss of both feet.” Now what is that worth? To face the world with a visage stripped raw by gas, a jaw blasted away by bullets? Twenty-eight shillings a week. Although I hear some are arguing that no compensation should be given for any wound above the neck.’ He shook his head. ‘Which I don’t understand. And so it goes on. One leg below the knee? Sixty per cent. Twenty-four shillings. How much is a thumb worth? Well, sixteen shillings if it was on the right hand. But only twelve on the left.’

  He let the paper flutter to the ground, turned, picked up a saw from the trolley and held it aloft so the electric light glinted on the blade. ‘So, I repeat, arm or leg? Or perhaps both feet. Eh?’

  The pungent smell reached his nostrils and he threw the saw down in disgust. ‘What’s that? You’ve shat yourself, Lord Arnott.’ He was at the bedside in two paces. He punched the tethered peer once, in the face, the skin splitting like a peach under the signet ring. ‘Where is your manhood now, eh?’ He turned to the two men hovering in the shadows. ‘We’ll save this one for when we really need to make a point.’ He leaned in close, certain that a dazed Lord Arnott could hear him. ‘When we have to take all four limbs off.’ He straightened up and shouted at his juniors. ‘Right! Clean up this excuse for a man and get me another patient, quick as you like.’

  The taxicab drove off with Watson sandwiched between the two men. The light of the new moon meant it was a simple matter for the driver to avoid the looming hulks of other vehicles. They turned east and then north, towards the park.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ asked Watson, trying not to let the concern gnawing at him leak into his voice. Sir Gilbert had been taken by taxicab. Did that fate, that kind of mutilation, await him?

  ‘We just want a chat,’ said Trenchard. ‘To clear some things up, sir.’

  ‘At gunpoint?’

  ‘I fear our cause has also been hijacked. We mean you no harm.’

  ‘Tell that to Sir Gilbert,’ he said, looking at the one-hander to his left. ‘Am I to be blinded or maimed in some way, too?’

  Instead of an answer, there came the screech of metal. Watson was thrown over on top of the man from the Wigmore and he heard the pistol clatter to the floor. There came the scream of an over-revved motor nearby and then another slam of steel into steel. The driver wrestled with the wheel, but, on the third impact, he braked to a halt. The bullet shattered the glass next to him and Watson watched his head jerk back and forward twice before he slumped forward.

  More breaking glass, this time from behind, showering Watson with needle-sharp particles. He fell awkwardly to the floor as the flour-thrower tumbled out of the vehicle and Watson lost his support. Trenchard pulled him up, his voice pleading as he spoke. ‘Major, you have to understand—’

  The door next to Trenchard was yanked open and Watson had to watch helplessly as a gloved hand grabbed at Trenchard’s hair, pulling the head back, a gun barrel was placed next to his temple and the trigger pulled. Trenchard opened his mouth to scream, but the gunshot drowned him out. The boom felt as if it had burst both of Watson’s eardrums and he felt warm mist spray over his face. He got a look at the shooter’s face as he leaned in to drag at the dead man. It was a pugilist’s face under a bowler hat.

  Special Branch. MI5.

  Mycroft had been right. They had sent in the heavy mob. Those boys, he knew, didn’t play about.

  As the limp form of Trenchard was bundled out onto the street, hands grabbed at Watson, pulling him, too, into fresh air ripe with the stench of cordite. Nearby, one of his rescuers fired into the night, the muzzle flash searing a jagged lightning bolt onto Watson’s retina. Another shot followed, no doubt aimed at the fleeing flour man, who appeared to have given them the slip.

  ‘Bollocks,’ shouted the gunman and threw the pistol to the ground.

  ‘Who the blazes are you?’ Watson asked the man with the boxer’s nose, his words made muffled by the roaring in his ears. His answer was a vicious blow from a cosh and the streaks of light that dominated his vision for a second were quickly replaced by darkness.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Have you been drinking?’ Chief Superintendent Adams asked Bullimore.

  ‘No, sir,’ he lied, then thought better of it. ‘Well, just the one, sir. After I had seen what they had done to poor Dr Powell.’

  His superior officer grunted. It probably, Bullimore reckoned, smelled like more than a quick medicinal one to Adams and he would be right. After Marion had left, the inspector had downed two more pints and then switched to whisky, and then had another at the Red Lion before he got home to the station house to find a message summoning him back to Bow Street and a meeting with the chief super.

  ‘This business would drive anyone to drink, Bullimore. To one drink, I mean. You needn’t worry about this case any longer. We’re handing it over to Special Branch and their unsavoury friends in Whitehall. This is a government matter now.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘So, I want you, tonight, to write up your notes and get them typed up, ready for a handover first thing tomorrow. Witness statements, contact details, the lot. Understood?’

  ‘Sir. We do seem to have lost one witness.’

  ‘Lost?’

  Bullimore made an effort not to let his words slur, even though he was tired and st
ill drunk. The thought of life without Marion, of the child he would never see – unless he ruined her reputation and marriage – had left him feeling like a hollow shell. The attempt to fill that vast void with alcohol had been both foolish and futile. ‘Major Watson, who was the last man to see Sir Gilbert intact, sir. He appears to have disappeared. I sent a Captain Trenchard after him, but have heard nothing.’

  ‘Trenchard?’ Adams looked down at his desk. ‘A Captain Trenchard was found dying in Regent’s Park from a gunshot wound to the head earlier this evening.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘That’s what “dying from a gunshot wound to the head” suggests, Bullimore. Tell me again how he is involved?’

  Bullimore shifted his weight from foot to foot. His legs ached and he longed to sit down, but there was no sign of that invitation. ‘Trenchard works with Watson on the incoming ambulance trains. I asked him to get hold of Watson, and apparently there had been some sort of disturbance at his lodgings.’

  ‘What sort of disturbance?’

  Bullimore’s throat went dry. He could see himself being painted in a corner that said ‘incompetence’ or ‘dereliction of duty’. ‘It’s not entirely clear. That’s one of the reasons I sent Trenchard over.’

  Adams looked as if he had swallowed a spoonful of cod liver oil. ‘But this Trenchard isn’t a copper, is he?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight. You send Trenchard to find out what happened to Watson, and the captain ends up dead in the street, shot through the head. Has it occurred to you that Watson might have played you for a fool?’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The last to see Sir Gilbert before he is blinded. But blinded with some medical expertise in evidence. Am I right?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And Major Watson is a doctor.’

  They were interrupted by a knocking on the office’s glass pane. ‘Enter.’

  A sergeant put his head round the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the observers and acousticals have picked up German bombers.’

  The ‘acousticals’ were huge concrete parabolas designed to detect the engine noise of the Gothas from many miles away. They were installed at Dover and along the Essex coast, but there was some disagreement about whether they worked better than a set of sharp human ears. ‘Heading for?’