by Robert Ryan
He heard the footsteps of the men as they retreated. It was just him and this caricature of a woman now.
‘You have a lot of nerve coming back to England,’ said Watson.
There was no response. She turned and surveyed the block in front of her, which held a variety of cuts of meat, glistening red. She took one of the largest knives and sliced through the flesh, producing a thin escalope. Then she looked up.
‘Good, sharp knives. A joy to use,’ she said in a sing-song voice.
‘What is this place?’
She turned back to the stove. He couldn’t see what she was doing but he heard the flame of a gas ring. Heating one of the knives, perhaps?
A stab of fear momentarily swamped the hatred that was burning inside him for this woman. No, not woman, that did her sex a disservice. A she-devil.
‘It was the German butchery centre. It’s not far from Smithfield. Because we Germans like our meat jointed differently from you British, and, of course, we like our sausages, this was set up to supply the restaurants of Charlotte Street.’
Parts of Fitzrovia had been so popular with her fellow countrymen before the war that the main street was nicknamed Charlottenstrasse. It had, therefore, become the focus of Londoners’ rage at the Belgian atrocities, the Zeppelin and now the Gotha raids. There were few overtly German businesses left north of Oxford Street now.
She turned again, a cleaver in her hand this time, and brought it down with such force it passed through a lump of beef and buried itself in the wood. ‘You must hate me.’
Watson had to laugh. ‘The word can hardly encompass what I feel for you.’
Miss Pillbody reached underneath the block and fetched an apron, which she slipped over her head and tied at the back. It had once been white; it was now stained with splodges, looking like a map of a strange remote archipelago. ‘I won’t apologize.’
‘You think that would do any good? You think I would accept an apology from you?’ In his anger Watson began to rock against the chains. He could feel spittle forming on his lips. ‘Why don’t you just get on with what you are about to do to me and have done with it. Oh, I forgot. You like your work. You like tormenting and maiming and torturing and pain, don’t you?’
Miss Pillbody levered the cleaver free of the wood and brought it down again. ‘On the contrary. I’m not saying those things don’t have their uses. But as a means to an end. Not for any enjoyment they might bring.’
‘You killed . . .’ Watson could barely bring himself to say the words.
‘Mrs Gregson. Yes. I shot her on the bridge. Now that –’ she waved the bloodied cleaver at him ‘– was an emotional act, I’ll grant you. And it didn’t have the effect I had anticipated. I had thought by shooting her, I would have all the time in the world to pick off you and Holmes. To do what the Broomway couldn’t.’ This was a reference to the treacherous mudflats off the island of Foulness, where she had once left Watson and Holmes to drown. ‘I have to say, Holmes moves swiftly for a man of his age.’ She shook her head as if in disbelief. ‘And I did not expect the submarine.’ There was admiration in her voice.
‘We thought they would imprison or kill you. Your own side, I mean.’
For a second, Miss Pillbody looked the picture of innocence, the prim schoolteacher she had once pretended to be, with her milk-and-honey complexion, bright guileless eyes and dimpled cheeks when she smiled. Only the gore-flecked blade in her hand and the specks of fresh blood on her apron spoiled the image. ‘I can be very persuasive when I need to be, Major.’
‘I am fully aware of that. But the way you have murdered—’
‘Major!’ Her exclamation, coupled with the slam of the cleaver into wood stopped him short. She took a breath. ‘I was a young widow who was asked if I would serve my country. I was chosen to train for the Sie Wölfe, an élite branch of Naval Intelligence—’
‘I know all this.’
She carried on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Thirty-two of us were selected. Eighteen qualified. The rest? Well, we used live targets and live ammunition. We were taught how to fight naked, how to slit throats effectively – not as easy as you might think – how to suppress any silly qualms about what we were doing. We toured the hospitals to see for ourselves what the British and French were doing to our men.’
‘No more than you to ours.’
‘We see our task as an extension of war. The same as if we were in the trenches. There will be casualties, on both sides. But compared to the number of bodies out on no man’s land? A drop in the ocean.’ Again, she brought the blade down, this time catching herself with the edge. She sucked a finger. ‘I convinced my old employers that my passion was still for the cause. That I could be of use, especially as a German who can pass as an Englishwoman. So, here I am, in London to report on the impact of our bombing raids on the population. And very devastating they are, too.’
‘Then what do you want with me?’
Miss Pillbody picked up a wicked little boning knife and began to cut away at some sinew. Dissatisfied, she gave it a few more strokes along the steel. ‘Well, this time it’s a personal matter. I need to ask you a question. I need an honest answer.’
Holmes. She’s come for Holmes. Unfinished business. ‘You can go to hell. Slit my throat in your expert way and have done with it.’
‘You haven’t heard the question yet.’
‘Go on then,’ sneered Watson. ‘Waste your breath.’
She held up a glistening fillet of beef. ‘How do you like your steak?’
THIRTY
Sir Gilbert’s eyes were still bandaged. He had not been told the full extent of the damage. Bullimore knew he had to tread carefully. He stood at the foot of the bed while Lady Hastings finished reading a letter from an aunt, wishing him well, and then asked her for a moment alone with her husband.
‘You’re going to catch the men who did this?’ asked Lady Hastings.
‘With your husband’s help, yes,’ Bullimore said softly.
‘And hang them?’
‘That’s not up to me.’ In fact, the perpetrators hadn’t committed a capital crime. Not yet.
Lady Hastings’ voice dropped to a growl. ‘Actually hanging is too good for them.’
‘I agree,’ said Bullimore. ‘But let’s catch them first.’
She nodded at this sentiment, her lips tightening into a bloodless slit and she left the private room. Bullimore couldn’t blame her for being so angry, one look at Sir Gilbert with his heavily bandaged eyes made him want to go around tearing doors off until he located the men who had sliced into him so brutally.
He sat down on the wife’s newly vacated chair. ‘Sir Gilbert, I’m Inspector Bullimore. I am part of the investigation into this dreadful affair. Rest assured that the police, Special Branch and MI5 are all putting every resource behind it.’ Every meagre resource, he thought. ‘I need to ask you some questions, if you feel up to it.’
The head turned on the pillow, and for a second Bullimore felt as if the man could see through him, like one of those X-ray machines he had seen in action at the front. When he spoke, it was with a slightly muffled quality, probably due to the morphine. ‘What about the others?’
‘Others?’
‘Holbeck, Powell, Arnott, Carlisle? They were there with me.’
Bullimore hesitated and then decided the truth was the best option. ‘We have found Dr Powell.’
A spasm of anguish passed over Sir Gilbert’s face. ‘And what had they done to him? The truth now.’
‘Deafened.’
A sigh escaped his lips. ‘Five men. Five senses. Are they to rob us of one each, do you think?’
‘Possibly.’ But there was a chance it could be worse than that. ‘But I need you to go back, if you can, back to the room where you were held. I know it will be painful . . .’
‘Not if it helps catch him.’
‘Him? Them, surely?’
‘But there’s one man, one they defer to. The leader. The man who, although he tries, cannot hid
e one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
The voice was a croak as he pointed to his damaged eyes. ‘That he enjoys this.’
‘Enjoys?’
‘I could hear it in his voice, his breathing. No matter what he claims his ultimate motive is, this barbarism is part of the appeal for him.’
‘What can you tell me about him? Can you describe him?’
‘They always wore masks – gas masks. I never got a clear look at all. It’s a hospital of some description, of that I am certain. There’s an operating theatre, you see . . . How is Dr Powell?’
‘Not as well as you, sir.’
‘Meaning?’
‘I think the balance of his mind has been affected by his experience.’
Sir Gilbert managed a nod. ‘I won’t see again, will I? I can feel, even beyond the drugs they have given me. There’s nothing there.’
‘I’m not a doctor,’ said Bullimore cagily.
‘But you are a policeman. With a crime to investigate. I suspect you know the nature of this crime. It’s severity.’
‘Yes.’
‘Will I see again, Inspector?’
‘No, I don’t believe you will see again, sir, not as you did, at least. Not unless there is a miracle.’
Sir Gilbert took a deep breath. ‘I’d weep if I could, but I am not sure all that is working. Blind or deaf? Which would you choose?’
‘Luckily, we rarely have to make that decision. Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘There was something about the way he spoke, even behind the rubber and canvas of the gas mask. Something . . .’
Bullimore waited while Sir Gilbert composed his thoughts.
‘A brogue of some description. Lilting, that was it.’
‘Lilting in what way?’
‘Well, I can’t swear to it, but I have a feeling the man is Irish.’
Watson did not feel like steak of any stripe. His stomach was a sea of corrosion, eating itself out through the walls, to flood acid through him. Miss Pillbody ignored him and set about frying a piece of meat in a skillet on the range, humming as she did so, like any carefree housewife.
‘You think I’ll poison you. Is that it?’
The thought hadn’t occurred to him, but it was a distinct possibility.
‘But, if I am as wicked as you think I am, where would be the fun in that?’ She considered the scenario for a second. ‘I suppose to see your eyes bulge, your tongue loll from your mouth.’
‘Some might call it entertainment.’
She laughed at that. ‘But, surprisingly, not I. You might find that hard to believe. But there is no gain from murdering you. The world might mourn the chronicler of Sherlock Holmes, but it will advance our cause – Germany’s cause – not one jot.’ She cut a piece of steak and popped it in her mouth. ‘Are you sure you won’t join me?’
Watson shook his head. ‘If I am of such little importance, why have you gone to such lengths to bring me here?’
She swallowed another piece of meat, a thin line of juice escaping from the corner of her mouth until she dabbed at it with a cloth. ‘First things first. You have to say thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘Rescuing you from those men who kidnapped you.’
It was Watson’s turn to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘That I should consider being taken from Captain Trenchard to you any kind of improvement in my situation.’
‘I told you. I mean you no harm.’
‘I am not convinced Captain Trenchard did either. But we’ll never know now because your men shot him through the head. Who are they, anyway, your tame Alsatian dogs?’
‘South African, mostly. All men with a good reason to hate the British. Look, Major Watson, you are chained to that chair because I know you hate me for the death of Mrs Gregson. I am going to try to persuade you to put that aside for the moment.’
‘You think I can forget who or what you are?’
‘I think you can take a pragmatic decision to ignore it for a short period of time. You are welcome to continue hating me. You are even welcome to try to kill me if you must, at some later date.’ She savoured the final piece of the steak. ‘If you think you’re man enough.’
Watson saw the twinkle in her eye at the prospect. Now that would be entertainment for Miss Pillbody.
‘You have to park your pain. At the moment, you look at me, you see her. And that hurts. Physically. I know, I felt it every time I saw a Zeppelin and thought of my husband, falling to earth in flames. But that hatred for me might also blind you to something that is important. Important to you, I mean.’
Watson kept his eyes on her face, but it was as devilishly hard to read as ever. She could be telling him the results of a scone-baking competition. But she could equally have killed him by now or reduced him to a ball of pain. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Major Watson, I have been following you for some time.’
‘Following me?’
‘Not always personally. But on occasion.’
A light went on in his head. ‘It was you outside the Diogenes Club?’
‘It was. I had to leave in rather a hurry when the other Holmes spotted me. But I know what you discussed.’
‘How?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You discussed the sinking of the Dover Arrow.’
He inclined his head in admiration. Miss Pillbody was indeed a formidable agent. Perhaps even Holmes would appreciate that, in a detached way.
‘Mycroft Holmes was warned off looking further into it. By his own government. There is to be an inquiry into the loss of the boat-train. The results of which I doubt will ever be made public. Not in our lifetime, at least.’
That had a horrible ring of truth to it. He might never learn the true fate of poor Jennings. ‘You are very well informed. You have a man at the Diogenes, I assume?’
She ignored his assumption. ‘I want you to think very carefully before you react to the next statement. Given the correct response from you, I do believe we can get rid of those chains.’
‘Very well.’
‘Germany did not sink the Dover Arrow.’
‘Irish?’
Amies was pacing the floor of the old dining-club room, clearly agitated by the news that Bullimore had delivered.
‘Is he certain?’
‘No,’ said Bullimore. ‘Sir Gilbert’s not certain about anything. He’s been pumped full of morphia. But he is fairly certain he was in a hospital. I’ve put some men on checking every abandoned hospital in London.’
‘What if it isn’t in London? Have you thought of that?’
‘Then we’ll work outwards.’
‘Good.’ Amies walked to the window and looked at the gathering dusk. ‘Any news of Watson?’
‘No.’
‘You think these GODS have him?’
‘It is a distinct possibility.’
Amies punched the wall with a force that must have hurt. ‘Go and get that sleep we talked about.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Amies turned. ‘If the Irish are involved then perhaps this isn’t as straightforward as we thought.’
Bullimore had never considered it straightforward but didn’t voice the opinion. ‘He said he thought he might be Irish – there was no indication that this was in any way political.’
‘Everything is political with the bloody Irish—’
He stopped talking as they heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. With barely a knock, Rush, one of Amies’s colleagues, burst in. He looked pale and sweaty.
‘They have found Holbeck.’
Bullimore had read up on the man. One of the finest surgeons in England, by all accounts, renowned for his delicate touch.
‘Where, man, where?’ demanded Amies.
‘Sorry. On a barge in the Thames.’
‘Is he intact?’ asked Bullimore impatiently.
‘They say something has happened to his hands.’
/>
Bullimore cursed under his breath. ‘What? What has happened to his hands?’
‘They’ve gone.’
Later, after he had been told there was no way he could question Holbeck that night, Bullimore went back to the station house, bathed, and slipped into the single bed. The room was flickering to the glare of the searchlights prowling the sky. He could hear the distant thud of guns, presumably from somewhere down the estuary.
He wondered what Marion was doing. Perhaps also lying down, hands on her stomach, waiting for the signs of the life within to manifest themselves. The thought of her made him restless and he tossed back and forth, unable to settle. It was torment, the thought he might never see her again.
The light in the room changed. It was orange now. He threw back the covers and went to the window. To the east, flashes of red. Bombs were falling. Again. And out there was the man who had mutilated three talented people and still had two more to go.
He felt a stab of guilt. His little woes were nothing compared to Holbeck’s. To remove the hands from a surgeon . . . it suggested a very twisted mind indeed. He shuddered when he thought of Sir Gilbert’s conviction that the devil of a butcher had actually enjoyed this. Despite Amies’s new conviction that Irish rebels were behind this, it was difficult to see how these depraved acts could further their cause.
He knew sleep wouldn’t come. From the top drawer of a chest he took a tube of Dr Fischer’s Energy Tablets, swallowed a handful, and began to dress again. He would sleep when this was over.
Miss Pillbody was cautious enough to keep her pistol within easy reach once she had loosened the chains. She need not have worried. Watson was in no fit state to start tussling with the woman. He accepted a cup of coffee from her, his mind buzzing with what she had just told him.
‘Why should I believe that Germany did not attack the Dover Arrow? It wouldn’t be the first hospital ship to be sunk by German U-boats or mines. The Donegal, the Asturias, it’s a long list.’
‘Mines, we can do little about. Both sides lay them. They’re a blunt instrument of war. But we know what the public thinks of the sinking of hospital ships by submarines. And what they think in Milwaukee and Pennsylvania. You British have done your best to keep it in the newspapers over there.’