by Robert Ryan
They were standing on a small bluff that overlooked what had once been a natural amphitheatre on the shoreline, but which had been marooned as the sea had retreated over the years. Now it had been extended, with a wide canal-like cutting that once more would connect it to the Channel, although a new harbour wall would protect it from the worst of the waves. Immediately below them it had been transformed into a churned plain of dirty-white chalky soil with a tangle of railway tracks and sidings laid out for completion. Battalions of men, many wearing shirtsleeves despite the sharp wind coming off the sea, were laying sleepers or hammering in spikes. Others were constructing elaborate gantries for signals, and a control tower to oversee all the expected activity was taking shape. At the area closest to the sea, quays were being constructed for ferry berths. Two of the boats, equipped with four railway lines on their decks, with funnel and bridge positioned to one side to allow rolling stock to be driven on unobstructed, were riding at anchor beyond the incomplete harbour wall. They had been freshly painted in the disorienting ‘dazzle’ geometric camouflage pattern, designed to make it difficult for a U-boat captain to judge range, course or speed.
Looking closely, Holmes could see that there were several nationalities at work across the site – English, Caribbean, Australian – their distinctive hats gave them away – Chinese in tunics and Sikhs in turbans, along with Hindus, Gurkhas and probably Mussulmans. The Empire was at work.
‘What about the railway gauge?’ asked Holmes. ‘If you want to drive the train straight onto the ferry, aren’t Continental and British railway gauges different?’
‘Indeed they are,’ said Shandling, pleased that someone took an interest in such matters. ‘We have adopted the English standard, four feet eight and one-half inches for here and the ferry. The continental standard is four feet nine inches.’
‘Which means you can take a train right through from, say, the factories of Birmingham to Ypres.’
‘Quite.’
‘When do you expect to be fully operational?’
‘Not until January. As long as those German bombers don’t notice us. But they haven’t come calling yet. Probably not enough women and children to kill and maim here.’
‘And the steamers out there, specially built?’
‘They have been adopted from the Dover-Calais service that operated before the war. One existing ship and another completed from the blueprints.’
‘Very good. Well, I won’t detain you.’
‘Mr Holmes, you haven’t actually explained why you are so interested in our train-ferry system.’
‘I had some small part to play in the development of the tank.’ It wasn’t the truth, but it wasn’t entirely a lie either.
‘Did you?’ Shandling looked surprised.
‘And I suspect that a lot of them will be coming through here.’
‘Yes, yes, they will. They are buggers – excuse my French – to load and unload using conventional train and ferry transport, as you can imagine. But if they can stay on there while we put them onto the ferries or the towed barges we’ll use in calm weather, they’ll be at the front that much quicker.’ He smiled proudly at this.
‘I just wanted to be sure they weren’t going to end up at the bottom of the sea. I think you have done splendidly. I’ll sign out, shall I?’
Holmes had left his cab waiting, but once they had let him through the gate at the facility, he marched past it to the police car. As he had anticipated, Bullimore was in the rear seat, a plain-clothes constable behind the wheel. The inspector pulled down the window as he approached and folded up the newspaper he had been reading.
‘Inspector.’
‘Mr Holmes.’
‘Might I ask why you are so keen on pursuing me?’
‘Not you. Your friend Watson. My superiors have made it clear that my career is in jeopardy because of him. You all played me for a fool, convincing me he was above suspicion. I still maintain consorting with Miss Pillbody, a sworn enemy of this country, is highly suspicious.’
‘That’s as may be, but you are wasting your precious time following me, Inspector,’ Holmes said. ‘I made it clear that I will not lead you to Watson. Or to that woman.’
‘Perhaps not, but you are up to something peculiar.’
‘Government business. For my brother. Have you found the missing nightwatchman yet? Crantock?’
‘We have not. My superiors tell me he is small beer.’
‘My instincts tell me he is a loose end.’
Bullimore refused to be goaded by this. ‘And my instincts tell me you are helping Watson in some way. Wherever you are, he is bound to turn up sooner rather than later.’
‘As I said, I am on government business.’
‘Well, tell me, where will your government business lead you next?’
‘So you can prepare to follow me?’
‘If need be,’ insisted Bullimore.
‘Well, you had best make sure your papers are in order, Inspector, for tonight we sail for France!’
‘France? Why France?’
‘Because, Inspector, after my visit here, I know what really became of the Dover Arrow.’
There were men with tapes and poles busy crisscrossing the cricket pitch when they pulled up in the van. Three of them, one pacing out distances, the other taking notes, the third hammering in the tall wooden stakes. One man wore a bowler hat, the other two flat caps; all three had on wellington boots.
‘What the hell are they doing here?’ Miss Pillbody asked. ‘The plane will be landing in thirty minutes.’
Watson wasn’t sure where Miss Pillbody had picked up the compact Colt pistol she now held in her hand. Most likely she had acquired it on her little excursion. She pulled the slide back to chamber a round.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked as she opened the door.
She pointed to the low white building at the end of the field. ‘I’ll put them in the cricket pavilion. Tie them up.’
‘And if they won’t go?’
She looked around. There wasn’t a dwelling in sight. She held the small pistol up. ‘I’ll shoot one of them. That’ll concentrate their minds.’
With a speed that surprised even him, Watson snatched the gun from her grip. ‘You bloody woman. You will not kill any more innocent men. Leave this to me.’
He managed to get the gun into his left hand and behind his back before she encircled his right wrist and squeezed. A stab of pain shot up to his elbow. ‘If we are seen struggling, how will you explain that?’
‘Give it back, Major.’
A white-hot locus of pain began to burn in his joint. It was all he could do not to cry out. ‘When you learn to behave like a reasonable person.’
Anger clouded her face. ‘I could snap your neck in a second and take it.’
He tutted. ‘That’s a long way from reasonable, Miss Pillbody. Didn’t they teach appropriate levels of response at the She Wolves?’
She released her grip. ‘I must have been absent that day.’
He pocketed the gun and massaged his throbbing arm. He waited for a renewed attack, but none came. Doubtless she was curious to see what he did next. ‘You wait here,’ he instructed, without much hope she would obey.
Watson stepped from the van, straightened his suit and walked across towards the men, who stopped what they were doing to watch him approach.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Mornin’,’ replied the bowler-hatted one without much enthusiasm, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Major Watson,’ he said. ‘Royal Flying Corps.’
‘Oh, aye.’
Watson looked from one to the other. The man who had spoken was bull-necked and ruddy, about forty, with a drinker’s web of veins under each eye. The other two men were older by five or ten years and showed signs of having been outdoors for most of their working lives.
‘I’m sorry, you are . . .?’
‘Hugh Garber. Essex County Council.’ H
e looked Watson up and down. ‘RFC, you say?’
‘Yes, not in uniform. People tend to get alarmed when the RFC come walking onto their land.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked one of the other men.
‘In case they want to build one of their airfields,’ said Garber. ‘But you’re too late. Vegetables.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Watson.
Garber waved a hand over the pitch and beyond. ‘Whole thing’s going to be turned over to growing vegetables. Not much call for cricket these days . . .’
‘First team’s mostly dead,’ offered the man with the notebook.
‘. . . so we are going to plough it up for the duration,’ said Garber.
‘Ah. Well, we are looking for a forward air defence base. Somewhere to put the new night fighters that will go up against the bombers.’
Garber looked puzzled. ‘What, as well as North Weald and Rochford?’
Watson remembered with dismay that Rochford in Southend had been an important base for anti-Zeppelin sorties. In all likelihood it was being used by the RFC to try to intercept bombers, too. His cover story was crumpling.
‘As an overspill,’ he improvised. ‘For aeroplanes low on fuel or lost.’
‘St Michael’s College has a flying club at West Bergholt. Still got a grass strip there. Why not use that?’
‘I’m just following orders,’ Watson said with a shrug.
‘Aye, me, too.’
‘The thing is, Mr Garber, there is a test landing due at any moment. If you could just pull up the stakes over there.’
‘Took us all mornin’ to get ’em in,’ said the third man tetchily.
‘Test landing?’ queried Gerber.
‘To check the . . . um . . .’ Watson stomped a foot on the grass, ‘. . . consistency of the surface.’
Garber shook his head so violently he almost lost his bowler. ‘Look, Major, this is highly irregular. Even the RFC can’t just take land willy-nilly. There are proper procedures for this sort of thing. One, I need to see some sort of authorization. Then, I suggest you and I go to the town hall—’
His younger ears picked up the sound a few moments before Watson did. The distinctive note of an aero engine, no louder than a distant gnat for the moment, but growing in strength steadily. The three men shaded their eyes and looked up into the sky.
When they looked back, Watson was pointing the pistol at them.
‘What’s your game?’ Garber asked.
He heard the door of the van slam as Miss Pillbody exited the vehicle.
‘Do as you are told and you won’t get hurt. Do anything stupid and I’ll be forced to make an example of one of you.’
‘You . . .’ Garber began. ‘You’re bloody spies!’
All three men clenched their fists and Watson brought the pistol up to head level. ‘No, we are not.’ Well, not both of them. ‘But I don’t have time to explain the niceties of the situation. I want you to turn and walk while you still can.’
‘Walk where?’
‘The pavilion.’
The three men stood their ground until Watson flicked the safety off with a loud snick.
Garber spoke. ‘Come on, it’s not worth getting killed for, whatever it is.’
The trio turned and began to trudge across the grass towards the hut, each mumbling threats or curses under their breath.
Watson was aware of Miss Pillbody at his shoulder. There was an amused sparkle to her voice when she spoke. ‘Well done, Major. We’ll make a She Wolf of you yet.’
Miss Pillbody took over the task of tying and gagging the men – she clearly hadn’t been away on that day – and Watson moved across the field gathering up the marking poles and wrapping up the cotton tape they had been using to mark out plots. The Bristol came in low at one point and Watson waved to the pilot, who lifted a hand in response.
The pilot took the plane round in a large shallow loop and by the time he was back on the approach the obstacles had been cleared and Watson and Miss Pillbody were standing on the perimeter of the improvised landing strip.
‘What will you do?’ Watson asked as the Bristol lined itself up for touchdown. ‘While I am over in Belgium with this witness?’
‘Return to London. I’ll have to make alternative arrangements for you to come back across.’ She inclined her head at the pavilion. ‘I think we might have trouble using this strip again.’
‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ he said. ‘You know that, however I get back to England, our alliance, such as it is, will be dissolved.’
‘I realize that. You’ll do everything in your power to bring me to justice.’
‘Yes,’ he confirmed.
For Mrs Gregson’s sake. Quite.
‘Pity.’
‘I think you only have yourself to blame.’
‘No, I mean a pity that our partnership will be no more. I’ve quite enjoyed working with you, Major. You’re a good man. I’d almost forgotten what they are like.’
‘Perhaps that’s because you have a tendency to kill most of those you meet.’
‘You say the sweetest things.’ She leaned in close and kissed him on the cheek. Watson scuttled back, horrified. ‘Relax, Major. You’re safe from me.’
‘Nobody is safe from you,’ Watson said with some feeling.
She slapped him playfully on the shoulder, as if this were some kind of compliment.
The handsome Bristol throttled back and drifted down towards the earth, bouncing twice before spinning round and coming to a halt. Watson and Miss Pillbody ran to the plane, holding on to their hats. As they reached the wings, both became aware that a gun was pointed at them.
‘Who are you?’ the pilot yelled, waving the Mauser at Miss Pillbody. Even at idle, the prop wash was snatching his words away.
‘The same person you dropped off here, Oberleutnant Schrader.’ She took her hat off. ‘Only with rather less hair.’
Schrader lifted his goggles and peered at her before nodding. ‘Get in.’
‘Major, let me give you a hand,’ she said.
‘I want him in first, you on his knee,’ said Schrader.
‘Ich werde nicht,’ she protested.
‘I’m sorry, but my orders are to bring both of you or neither,’ he said.
The gun, they both realized, was still pointing at them. Watson had the small pistol in his pocket, but it was no match for a ‘Broomhandle’ Mauser.
Miss Pillbody closed her eyes for a second, as if to keep the blast from the propeller out of them, but Watson knew she was running through her options. When she opened them again, he could see something like defeat in them.
‘After you, Major.’
Watson found a stirrup-like foothold and, as he gripped the rim of the cockpit, allowed himself to be pushed up by Miss Pillbody to the point where he could hook a leg over and climb into the observer’s seat.
‘Hurry up, please,’ said Schrader impatiently. ‘Take off your hats. There are goggles in there, two pairs.’
‘This is going to be cosy,’ Miss Pillbody said as she followed him in and then slid down on top of him. ‘Open your legs, Major.’
Watson ignored her and slid to one side, his knees pressed together so hard that they began to ache.
‘As you will.’ She wriggled a little until she had part of her bottom on the uncomfortable metal-and-canvas seat. The rest of it Watson didn’t care to think about.
Watson found the straps had been lengthened so they could pass round two people and he fed them through to Miss Pillbody, who snapped the buckle shut. It was not so much cosy as compressed and he found it difficult to breathe. There were also parts of his body still tender from the car being tipped over in Old Street. However long the flight, it was bound to feel like an eternity.
The engine note increased and a storm of air buffeted them. Schrader gave a thumbs up, increased the throttle and the Bristol lurched forward, bouncing over what suddenly seemed a very rough, corrugated surface. Watson realized he should probably h
ave gone to the lavatory before he set out, a feeling reinforced when Miss Pillbody twisted round to speak to him. Her expression was glum as she shouted over the increasingly raucous whine and clatter of the Rolls Royce engine.
‘Like I said, Major. She Wolf or no She Wolf, I’m a dead woman.’
FORTY-TWO
Within twenty minutes of takeoff, Watson’s lower body had gone numb and his face felt like it had been rubbed raw with pumice, such was the constant blast from the propeller. The pilot, Schrader, said nothing – not that they could have heard much – nor made many hand signals. Once airborne, he had made directly for the coast, climbing all the time at a steady pace. Only once did Miss Pillbody turn, a rather strange smile on her face.
‘What?’ he yelled.
‘Nothing. Just funny how life turns out. Here we are, two peas in a pod.’
‘Peas in a pod? Hardly. It suggests we are alike, Miss Pillbody. Nothing could be further from the truth.’
She had fallen silent then. Watson had examined the patchwork of English fields once or twice, but as they left land behind, decided he wouldn’t bother looking at the relatively featureless mass of water below, which only made him feel sick. Lord, how he hated flying. Never again, he swore. They could not use the field again after what happened with the surveyors, so they’d have to feed him back to the UK another way.
If they allow you to return home.
That cheery sentiment caused him to shudder. He had no desire to see the inside of a German POW camp again.
They were almost touching the few clouds that dotted the sky now, stray wisps were stroking the upper wing of the Bristol. The sea, from their altitude, looked like a flat expanse of grey Welsh slate, hewn from a single piece, the only veins in it provided by the razor cuts of white left by the cross-channel ships ploughing those dangerous waters. Ahead must be the Belgian coast, but Watson couldn’t see much past Miss Pillbody, Schrader and the blur of the spinning propeller.
Schrader watched the two planes rising towards him, small mottled specks against the waves. He could make out the undulating line of the coast. Soon he would spot the first of the giant British tented hospitals that seem to run in an unbroken line from close to their front line, all the way to Boulogne and beyond. No such concentration of beds existed for the Germans, who had no need to park up their wounded before they could be shipped over the Channel or returned to the war. But he doubted the number of injured and sick Germans was any fewer than the thousands upon thousands that the British had under canvas.