by Robert Ryan
Outside, engines were starting, disturbing the evening air and shaking the hut. Trotzman entered and told them the other Engländer had arrived from the hospital.
Watson used his index finger to topple his king.
Schrader held out his hand and Watson shook it. ‘Three thousand metres it is, then.’
FIFTY-ONE
‘I am afraid we have had a wasted day,’ said Bullimore to Holmes as they each took a tin mug of tea from the makeshift canteen on the upper deck of the steamer back to England.
‘Why do you say that?’ Holmes asked.
Bullimore moved to the rail, watching the sun edge closer to the horizon, its colour bleeding into the water. ‘All those hours looking at transit logs and arguing with French officials. Not a mention of the Dover Arrow.’
‘Which tells us something,’ said Holmes, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck.
‘What’s that? Is it the dog that didn’t bark or some such?’
‘Similar. It is the ship that vanished completely, even before it set sail. Somebody does not want any trace of the Dover Arrow left in the records. Even a ship that sinks has to leave port. Not this one.’ Holmes sipped his tea.
‘But you don’t think it did sink.’
‘No, it’s been repainted as a dazzle ship and will continue to sail these waters as a boat-train. With a few helpful prods from my brother, that is what I surmised at the harbour works on the Kent coast. So, ask yourself, if the ship didn’t go down, what did?’
Bullimore thought for a few moments. ‘Its cargo.’
‘Precisely. The train that was on board.’
‘With the passengers inside?’
‘I would assume so. For reasons we can’t yet conceive. One hundred and thirty-nine unwanted and unnamed souls.’
Bullimore gripped the mug with both hands, the hot metal almost burning his palms. ‘What sort of monster would do that?’
Colonel Arthur Hartford was on the same troop ship back to England as Holmes and the policemen, whom he knew had spent a fruitless day trying to find the log of the Dover Arrow and the origins of the loco and carriages that boarded it. There was not a sniff of any of that, Hartford knew, because he had been asked to expunge it from the record, which he had. No paper trail led back to Noyelles-sur-Mur; his name did not appear on any authorization.
He would not get a medal for what he had done. But, in his view at least, he deserved one.
The ship went through the usual zigzag routine as it left the harbour. It was another bright, star-filled night, with a friendly moon setting the surface of the sea aglow. It would be a perfect night for a romantic cruise, strolling on the deck with his wife, but instead he was sharing the boat with dead-eyed, battle-scarred men who were the beneficiaries of the Government’s recent relaxation of the rules for leave from the front. They were mostly Geordies, which was bad luck for them – the five or six days’ leave took no account of travelling time. Those who lived in the south might get several full days at home. Those from the north or Scotland might find a huge percentage of their free time eaten up by long, tedious train journeys.
How long would he have at home, Hartford wondered. The unexpected order to return to Blighty came through along with instructions to cover the tracks of the Chinese incident.
Hartford had always considered the bringing of Chinese labour halfway across the globe a misguided idea. He had been there, working as a doctor in Tientsin, where he met Vernon Kell, who was then working as a correspondent for the Daily Telegraph. Kell had subsequently tried to recruit Hartford into the secret service once war was declared, but he had resisted the blandishments. He was a doctor. He would join the RAMC. Too old for the front line, they had said initially, and then changed their minds when the medical services almost collapsed under the weight of wounded, tossing him straight into the Ypres carnage and into the bottle. He drank, morning, noon and night, until he was as much a danger to the British soldiers as the enemy’s Big Berthas.
After the breakdown, he was put in charge of the health of the labour battalions, which at first were British, Belgian, French and North African. Of late, the scale of the Allied fortifications, and the number of dead that needed burying, meant the net had been cast a lot wider. To China. And his time in that country and his ability to speak a small amount of Mandarin meant he had been given the task of screening the new arrivals.
He watched Holmes and the policeman at the rail, smoking and chatting. Holmes would be coming up with some theory about the lost ship. Not lost at all, of course, simply repainted and renamed, and would soon operating out of Richborough as the Kent Flyer.
If Hartford hadn’t been there to spot the signs of the Blue flu, as he called it, disaster might have struck the entire British Army and, eventually, England. He had seen it before, of course, in Shandong province, when he was dealing with what he thought was a recurrence of Russian flu from the 1889 outbreak. But this had proved far more horrible, with the bleeding and coughing and that terrible tinge to the skin. The only way to prevent its spread was to isolate the victims totally.
When he discovered an infected man in a batch of labourers, Hartman had ordered them quarantined and had contacted Kell at MI5 to tell him of the threat. If the Blue flu got a foothold, and infected soldiers carried it home when on leave, the number of deaths could be enormous. Millions. Extreme measures were needed, he had insisted. Tough decisions had to be made. Kell had been there during the cholera outbreak in China; he had seen for himself what a stubborn disease could do in Qingdao. And Blue flu was far worse than cholera. Back then he had lost two nurses and a doctor to it, gone in twenty-four hours.
Yes, he had murdered people. And that nurse, he supposed. Idiotic woman, making herself a witness. He touched his breast pocket. He still had the scribbled note the nurse had written, absolving him of all responsibility for entering the carriage full of infected labourers. Yes, she had signed her death own warrant, but he had saved a nation by his actions. And he had subsequently drawn up a rigorous series of health checks to put all the foreign workers through before they mixed with the British Army. If he was certain of anything, it was that diseases didn’t give up and certainly didn’t disappear. Blue flu, or some close relative of it, would be back. And he had arranged for compensation payments for the workers’ families back in China, something he was under no obligation to do, as they were in no position to make waves in a British court.
He had a good mind to stride over and tell Holmes all this, to ask him what he would have done in his position. But then they were all distracted by the noise from above. Something that set the air pulsating. He peered up, but could see nothing, but without a shadow of a doubt there were bombers up there and they were heading for London.
There wasn’t much space inside the Giant. Watson and Harrow had been placed against the low storage unit behind the two pilots. Within it was the compartment that held the parachutes. They sat, facing the rear, both tense as the plane lumbered along the runway and into the air. The racket was, thought Watson, unbelievable, but he was surprised by how quickly he became accustomed to it.
The climb was a long slow one and nobody spoke to the two passengers. The crew had been told they were German spies being dropped into England. Schrader had plotted a course that would take them over northern Kent and a designated drop zone, before the bomber continued on to London.
Watson closed his eyes as the Giant dragged another few thousand feet from the sky. He ran Harrow’s story over and over in his mind. A group of men – ignoring their nationality – are deliberately sealed in railway carriages and then dumped at sea to drown. Why?
Did they know something detrimental to the war effort? Unlikely: they were labourers. Were they some kind of threat? Mutineers, perhaps?
Mutineers, no. A threat yes. It is the only possible solution.
So they were carrying a disease, then. But what sort of Englishman would order such an outrage?
A frightened one.
&nb
sp; It was possible. People have reacted irrationally when faced with something they don’t understand. Especially if that something comes from a mysterious country, far, far away. Like China. There were incidents in history of whole towns and villages being sealed off when plague was suspected and of people being killed to stop them leaving. The thought that, perhaps, a medical man was responsible, though, was depressing in the extreme. Although doctors on both sides, with their toxicology experiments, had willingly helped develop poison gases. All you had to do was convince yourself that another group of people were less than human, and, it seemed, ethics flew out of the window.
Whatever the reason, it wasn’t good enough. Not to stoop to murder. Not to kill all those men. And Miss Jennings. And in a few days’ time an inquiry would quietly sweep the truth under the governmental carpet. He had to get back with Harrow, to let him tell them what really happened to the Dover Arrow.
He could feel the heat of anger in his face when something shook his leg. It was Schrader, crouching before him. ‘Time to get the parachute on, Major. We’ll be crossing the coast soon. I don’t think there are too many guns at the spot I have chosen, but I might be wrong.’
Watson nodded and stood. Harrow was already struggling into his harness. ‘You know, I thought this was an exciting idea when they told me. Now . . .’ He gave a wan smile.
Watson gripped his shoulder. ‘At least you’re young. I fear these old bones might just crumble when I hit the ground.’
The Giant wobbled and they heard a series of muffled explosions. ‘That’s an anti-aircraft ship,’ said Schrader. ‘Don’t worry, they rarely hit us. The ones on land are a different matter. They’re getting better,’ he added ruefully.
What irony, Watson thought, to be blown out of sky by his own side. He looked out into the night, and tried to imagine jumping out into it, but couldn’t.
Watson’s ears popped. They were going down.
Schrader checked the harnesses. ‘So, remember what I said. You pull this when you are well clear of the plane. A small canopy will pop out. The air will catch it, and it will drag out the main parachute. If it doesn’t, you can reach over and pull this cord. It should do the trick and deploy the large chute.’
‘Should’ was not a reassuring word, thought Watson, as he wiped a clammy hand on his jacket. ‘Thank you. For this. Not for what you will do later.’
‘Deitling,’ Schrader yelled. ‘Nehmen sie bis zu tausend Meters.’
Watson said. ‘Tausend? Nicht drei?’
Schrader winked. ‘One thousand. As Trotzman said, I like to cheat.’
It seemed to take a lifetime for the plane to lose height, with one of the pilots shouting out the altitude every hundred metres. Watson could feel the tension in the crew. All of them were peering out of the cabin, scanning the stars for shadows flicking across them, the sign of a hunting British fighter, and for the sudden explosion of tracers that would mean they had been discovered. Off in the distance, they could see dancing searchlights, seeking the main fleet, which had continued on its way to London.
‘Harrow, you go first,’ Watson said quietly.
‘Oh. You sure?’
‘You go first.
‘Tausend Meters!’
Schrader gave an instruction to cut the airspeed, made a hand signal and the rear gunner lowered the ramp. The increased roar of wind and engine filled the cabin. Somewhere below was England. All they had to do was go down the slide and roll over the rails that normally held the straps for the gunner and the machine gun itself. All they had to do.
‘If I don’t see you on the ground, I shall see you in London, Major,’ yelled Harrow.
‘If they leave any of it intact,’ said Watson, staring at Schrader.
‘Now,’ said Schrader. ‘Quickly.’
Harrow looked as if his nerve had gone, his legs were shaking as he stepped onto the ramp. But some sort of fatalism took hold, he smiled, crouched down onto his bottom and slid to the rail. Without a moment’s hesitation, he flung himself over and was plucked away in the blink of an eye.
Watson felt a hand on his shoulder. ‘Your turn, Major Watson.’
There were precious few lights at Folkestone in case the bombers returned, and the harbour navigation aids flared briefly as the ship approached. But docking went smoothly. As usual, the officers were allowed to disembark first before the troops were released, so Colonel Hartford found himself walking down the gangway some steps behind Holmes and the copper.
On the quayside he could see two military policemen, scanning the passengers as they disembarked. So, unless he was very much mistaken, it looked as if Holmes’s meddling was going to be curtailed.
‘I have your luggage, sir,’ said a voice in his ear.
It was Terence, his batman, who was carrying his steamer trunk. It was clearly an effort, probably because of the half-dozen bottles of brandy in there. Hartford felt his stomach contract at the thought. He imagined himself sitting before the fire, matching the stare of the two dragon sentries he had had shipped back from China, drinking a large glass while Marion fussed over him before bringing Charles down to say hello to his papa. The evening would slide into a warm fug of an alcoholic blur and he could forget all about drowning Chinamen. Later, he would slide in beside Marion . . .
‘Colonel Hartford?’
He snapped out of his reverie and looked up at the military policeman. He was six foot three or four, with a face as square as a spade. ‘Yes.’
Holmes and the policeman had walked on along the jetty. He could see their heads above the crowd, heading away, unmolested.
‘If you could come with us, sir.’
‘What? Why?’
‘We’ll take your luggage for you,’ said the shorter of the two, relieving Terence of the trunk and indicating he should leave. Terence, never a fan of MPs, scuttled off without an argument.
‘What’s this about?’ asked Hartford indignantly. ‘I have important meetings in London.’
‘We have no idea, sir. We are just following our orders,’ said spade-face.
‘I need to get home.’
The words sounded futile and empty, and as soon he said them Colonel Hartford had an inkling that he might never see home, his wife, Marion, or his son, Charles, ever again.
Watson spent some time staring down into the void below the bomber at the spectral countryside. No sign of a parachute, but they had already travelled a considerable distance since Harrow went over, so that wasn’t surprising. He put his feet on the ramp, sat down and looked up at Schrader ‘I’m sorry,’ he shouted, ‘that we should have met like this.’
The German raised a hand in acknowledgement and Watson pushed himself down, hitting the rail awkwardly. He clung on, the roar of engines and air filling his skull, swamping any chance of rational thought.
Legs over first.
Yes, legs over the top rail first. Hook elbow around metal strut. Let go.
Watson hadn’t imagined the sound could get any louder but it was as if demons were screaming in his ears. His legs flailed, and he began to oscillate in the prop wash, slamming his ankles into the fuselage. Up above, he could see Schrader shouting at him, but it was as if he were miming the words. The message was clear, though: he wanted him to let go.
Watson let his weight drop him down the pole he was clutching and used his right hand to rummage in his jacket. His strength was fading, he knew, there were only seconds left before he was snatched out into space.
His chilled hands fumbled the little pistol he had so assiduously hidden from the Germans. Miss Pillbody’s little Colt, a mere peashooter against this raging Giant. It fell from his fingers but caught in the lining of his jacket. Now he had it. Safety off. His thumb felt as thick as sausage and about as responsive as he tried to move the lever. He was aware from the twisting movement of the slide that Schrader – or another crew member – was coming down after him.
Watson forced himself down, ducking beneath the metal ramp, and raised the gun, watching
it twist and buck in the airstream as he tried to steady his arm. Too old, too old. Too old for this nonsense.
His eyes were streaming from the wind slapping his face. His vision began to blur. He tried to recall exactly where they had been going to load the bombs and squeezed the trigger.
The pistol bucked wildly, but he swung it back round and fired again, the spent cartridge, bouncing off his cheek as it spun away, singeing the skin.
A pain shot through his left hand and arm and he felt his purchase slip and then fail. Schrader had stomped on him with his boot. As he fell away, he felt a moment of stillness, away from the shriek and growl of the engines and the battering of the wind. He gripped the gun with both hands, pointed in in the vague direction of the bomber, and fired until the slide jammed back. Then he let the weapon go, spinning away into the darkness.
The great beast carried on, chewing the air as its engines powered up to gain Schrader’s precious height. Watson wondered if he should just close his eyes and surrender to what was inevitable, to give himself up to an eternal peace. There was weariness in his bones and he wanted it to end.
The survival instinct was too strong and his right hand decided it, at the very least, wanted to live and began scrabbling for the primitive handle that would release the chute.
Up above, something shone from the plane, like the sliver of light under a doorjamb at night. It was the outline of the bomb bay, glowing silver.
One pull.
Nothing. And then, a fantail of sparks, spinning away behind the bomber, like a spluttering firework.
Two pulls.
A light so intense it hurt his eyes blossomed from the belly of the Giant.
Three pulls.
A jerk as the canvas bag eviscerated itself and a tangle of material and cords exploded above his head before twisting and turning and finally resolving a lovely bell-shaped flower. The straps dug into him and for a few moments he felt as if he were rising back towards the stricken bomber. The movement stopped, the parachute steadied and he began to pendulum down towards the fields of Kent.