by J. R. Trtek
As I approached my door, I saw Miss Lamington in her blue dress and apron with white cap, dossiers in her arms. Her cap was slightly askew, slanting down on her left side, a gesture that had always been a signal that she wished to convey something of substance to me in private.
“You have more profiles for me?” I said, uttering the oft repeated phrase in a wooden voice.
“Why, yes,” she said. “If, however, another time would be more convenient—”
“No,” I insisted, opening the door and stepping aside to let her pass. “The present time is acceptable. There is also a matter I wish to discuss with you.”
The young woman entered. I followed and closed the office door before walking round to my desk chair as she sat down in a chair facing me.
“Something is wrong,” Miss Lamington said at once, holding the dossiers in her lap.
“I will be leaving Isham soon,” I told her. “Moxon Ivery having been identified as our German spy, Sherlock Holmes now wishes me to return to London to pursue another matter with him.”
“So I had been informed earlier today.”
I looked at her earnest face and added, “I should tell you as well that I have evidence that removes your cousin, Mr. Wake, from consideration as a possible accomplice to Ivery.”
Miss Lamington nodded. “I knew he could not be involved,” she said, “but there was no proof. I will not ask you to share more of that information with me, but I thank you for telling me of its existence.”
“I am glad that the matter has been resolved in the manner that it has.” I considered telling her of Wake’s decision to join the Labour Corps, but remembering his desire that it remain secret until he himself revealed it to others, I said nothing.
“Will you then tell me what bothers you so?” Miss Lamington enquired as she rose from her chair.
“Why, I regret having to leave Isham, of course.”
“I am sure that is the case, Colonel, but I am also quite certain that there is a greater trouble gnawing your soul at this moment.”
After several seconds spent staring at the top of my desk, I glanced up and into her eyes, which silently urged me to free myself.
“An officer with whom I was acquainted—a flyer—was killed in France some time ago. I have only this moment learnt of his death, from an offhand comment by a patient.”
“Oh, dear Colonel Watson,” she said.
Miss Lamington placed the dossiers on my desk and stepped behind me to boldly place a hand upon my shoulder, a comfort I did not refuse. “That is an awful thing, and all the more that you should learn of it in such a manner,” she said. “I do so wish it were otherwise, but the war is taking from everyone, is it not? None of us is immune.”
“I suppose not.”
“I have an older friend—a fellow VAD from Derbyshire—who has lost her fiancé to the war. Imagine how her life has been turned inside out.”
“Her loss is far greater than mine,” I freely admitted. “Captain Harper—his name was Cecil Harper—was a momentary acquaintance, but he made a vast impression upon me, Miss Lamington.”
“Perhaps,” she said, “perhaps, in these guarded moments when we converse as spies for Sir Walter Bullivant, you might call me Mary instead?”
I opened my mouth and then shook my head and gave a bittersweet smile. “It would seem odd to me to do so, Miss Lamington, for Mary was my late wife’s name.”
“When did you lose her?”
“Years ago, though each morning it seems to me as if it had happened the night before.”
A second hand took my other shoulder. I steeled myself against tears, and after a time Miss Lamington asked, “What was she like?”
“Small,” I said evenly. “Dainty and blonde. Her face might not have been viewed as lovely by some, but her expression was the sweetest one could have imagined, and her blue eyes so large and singularly spiritual.”
“And Captain Harper?”
“Cheerful, upright, devoted to duty. Worldly, to be sure, yet still an innocent boy in his way. And as fine as any son I might ever have wished to have, had I children of my own.”
“But you have lived long after your Mary’s passing, have you not?”
“Yes,” I said calmly. “She has a place in my mind and heart, but the soul does move on, does it not?”
“There,” declared Miss Lamington. “You have said it. Grasped it and stuffed it into a nutshell. Your soul will move on after the loss of Captain Harper as well, as it must.”
“I know that in my mind, Miss Lamington, but my heart has yet to be dragged into agreement.”
“Oh dear Uncle John,” she said. “For that is what I will call you in our guarded moments from now on. You will never fear to confide in me? Tell me so. Whatever troubles befall you, never fail to search out my ear. Do you promise?”
I reached up and put a hand on one of hers. “You are ministering to a doctor now, instead of to patients as you should. I will be all right, Miss Lamington. I have become inured to the loss of my wife, as you have said. I have not become a hermit, to be sure. And, certainly, I will come to accept this latest loss in time.”
“Yes, in time,” she said. I could feel her determined eyes bearing down upon me. “But in the meanwhile, promise me you will talk to me if you feel such a need, Uncle John. Promise me?”
“Very well,” I said. “I promise I will seek your counsel, though recall that I will not remain long here at Isham. Sherlock Holmes beckons me to London, you see,” I stammered with a bitterness that surprised even me.
“And you do not wish to go?”
“I have found myself—here!” I said sharply. “It is here that I belong. At Isham. With my staff. With our patients. Everything and everyone here—which is my true place, one I do not wish to leave.”
“Then do not,” the young woman told me, lifting her hands from my shoulders. “Inform Mr. Holmes that—”
“But I cannot fail him,” I said. “I cannot, you see, for I also found myself many years ago with him.”
I turned round to look up at her.
“I was living in a private hotel on the Strand, having just returned from Afghanistan and leading a comfortless, meaningless existence—spending money and doing little else. And then I chanced to meet Sherlock Holmes, and all that changed. I discovered friendship, meaning, and a renewed devotion to my profession—indeed, found a second profession as well, though Holmes will never admit to the legitimacy of it,” I added, chuckling through my tears. “I cannot disappoint him, you see. He calls, and I must answer.”
“I understand,” said Miss Lamington. “And I cannot resolve your dilemma, Uncle John. I can only express my wish that you be happy. And as for this place,” she said, stepping back to the front of my desk, “Well, I will be departing Isham as well, I suspect. Once Sir Walter decides what to do with Mr. Ivery, he will no doubt assign me elsewhere.”
“I find it astounding that one so young as you and—if you do not mind my antiquated perspective—female should carry off so well this game of espionage.”
“Thank you,” said the young woman. “I take that as a compliment.”
“And so it is.” Feeling my composure returning, I gestured to her rakishly set cap and asked, “What is the subject you wish to bring to my attention?”
“I am to inform you that General Hannay departed for Glasgow earlier today.”
I nodded. “Moxon Ivery is his battle now. Actually, for the moment, his and yours,” I added, and I thought I detected a slight flush in her face as she stepped away from me.
“Well,” I sighed, “I suppose we each should return to our work here, completing our duties before we are both scattered to the winds. Thank you, Miss Lamington—many times over.” I put a hand upon the dossiers, still sitting before me. “I shall read these presently.”
She gracefully stepped to the door and, with her hand on the knob, said as she left, “Take care of yourself, Uncle John.”
Corporal Scaife arrived l
ate that afternoon to take me home in the dogcart, and when we arrived at the cottage, a local boy was tending the burgeoning vegetable garden, framed by two rows of lavender. Though Mr. Jimson and I had discussed autumn crops, I knew now that my part in those plans must now be laid aside.
When I told Scaife on the journey home of our impending return to London, he expressed pleasure at being able to rejoin the service of Scotland Yard. I was also aware that Holmes was preparing to welcome his old housekeeper Martha back with uncharacteristically open arms, and I was certain that she, upon learning the news, would be more than ready to tend to his domestic needs again.
“Dinner will be ready at the usual hour,” she said as I stepped into the cottage. “Oh, and Mrs. Jimson visited earlier. That South African fellow staying with them is off on holiday, she informed me. And she brought something for you, Colonel. It’s in the sitting room.”
She passed me with a smile and scurried off, and I stepped into the next room, where a bright bouquet of freshly cut sunflowers adorned a small table near the window.
Military cap in hand, I sat down in my armchair and stared at the cluster of large blooms, remembering Mrs. Jimson’s promise of them when I had first arrived in Biggleswick. Each bronze seed stood out in a round centre, all spiralling outward with their fellows toward radiating petals of brilliant yellow. The etched contours of the vase in which their stems sat caught the tired light of a dying day, distilling it into phantom diamonds.
“He will not grow old,” I said in a quiet voice, “as I have been left to grow old. Age will not weary him.”
I sought my armchair and sat there as the sky outside faded and my vision filled with blurred patches of gold. And there, in undisturbed quiet, I remembered a beloved, fallen comrade while contemplating another, more than equally dear, who had called me yet again to his side.
Age, I promised myself, would not weary friendship, either.182
* * *
172 What Americans today call Daylight Savings Time had been implemented in Britain for the first time in 1916.
173 During the war, Londoners were prohibited from whistling for taxis after 10:00 p.m. for fear that the sound might be mistaken for an air raid alert.
174 In 1915 and 1916, German airships had bombed London. As British defenses against those lighter-than-air craft improved, however, airplanes subsequently replaced airships as the prime method of attacking Britain directly. The first bombing of London using heavier-than-air craft had occurred on June 13, 1917.
175 Gothas were heavy bombers used by German during the First World War. The raid described by Watson in this instance is undoubtedly the one conducted by twenty-two Gotha G.IV aircraft on July 7, 1917.
176 In an attempt to hear German aircraft approaching Britain, parabolic surfaces were fashioned of concrete or etched into coastal cliffs. These were meant to focus sound onto microphones, but until vacuum tube amplification was employed in 1918, these systems were not effective.
177 The Labour Corps was a distinct body of troops, organized in 1917, whose purpose was logistical: building and maintaining roads, railways, canals, builds, camps, telegraph and telephone systems, as well as moving supplies. In addition to Britons, the Labour Corps also included large numbers of men from India, Egypt, China, and elsewhere. It was a precursor to the Royal Pioneer Corps, created in 1939 and similarly employed during the Second World War before being united with other units to form the Royal Logistic Corps in 1993.
178 “Navvy” is a now dated term for a laborer employed in the excavation and construction of roads, railways, and canals. It was coined originally in relation to navigation canals.
179 Officers’ Training Corps.
180 In India, “vilayati” is an Urdu word meaning “foreign” which eventually came to refer primarily to the British. A regional variant, “bilayati,” was picked up by British troops stationed on the subcontinent, and they used it—now transformed to “blighty”—as slang for home. During the First World War, use of the term spread. A blighty wound was one that resulted in a soldier being sent back to Britain for recuperation.
181 A corkscrew picket was a round steel bar whose lower section was bent into a helix, enabling it to be silently screwed into the ground. It had several loops, which were used to support barbed wire.
182 The words uttered by Watson in his sitting room are a paraphrase of lines from “Ode of Remembrance,” which itself is a portion of the poem “For the Fallen,” written by Laurence Binyon and first published by The Times in 1914. It may be recalled that, in chapter 11, Watson relates how he saved newspaper articles and features during the opening campaign of the war. His reference to Binyon’s piece suggests that “For the Fallen” may have been one of those items, and that its words had remained with him during the conflict.
BOOK TWO: THE WILD BIRDS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: CHANGING THE GUARD
In the days following the revelation of Cecil Harper’s fate, I found some small purpose in redoubling my efforts to prepare Isham for an imminent change in command, as well as gathering my household for moving back to London from the Cotswolds. I had been responsible for the hospital for less than half a year, but I believed that I had, in the course of those five months, significantly bolstered morale and made meaningful improvements to everyday practices, so as to leave the institution in a state far better than that in which I had found it.
And, indeed, as I participated as guest of honour at a farewell gathering, I felt touched as, in turn, patients and staff expressed appreciation for me. From Major Collins to Captains Simmons and Hughes on down to Sergeant-Major Ffolkes and Nurse Finch, I felt the strength of the ties that we had forged. Even Nurse Williams was moved to tears, and though Lieutenant Hooper nearly dropped the cake, Vespera Cochrane came to the rescue, taking hold of that treasure before its sublime layers tumbled onto the recreation room floor.
Glancing at Mary Lamington as I was given the first ceremonial slice, I savoured once more a sense of fulfilment in the secret knowledge that I had played a minor role in plumbing the depths of the reorganised Black Stone espionage group, as well as helping to unmask Moxon Ivery as its prime agent in Biggleswick. That feeling acquired an ironic twinge later that day, when I received through the post a present from the German spy—an ivory letter opener—along with wishes for a pleasant return to London and apologies for being unable to attend the gathering at Isham.
Still, as I received the congratulations of everyone, including Blaikie and Ashley Tate, who represented the patients, I was fearful that my return to Queen Anne Street would begin a descent into uselessness.
A day before my departure, I made my usual rounds, intending in particular to welcome yet another small group of new convalescents who had shipped in the night before. As I approached the north garden, I saw Ashley Tate and Blaikie sitting with two of those recent additions. The former, as I had noticed at my party, was beginning to exude a new calmness of the soul, though he still retained the nervous mannerisms so evident upon his arrival.
I strode closer, glad to see such swift progress in him, and noticing as well a far more vigorous spark of life in Blaikie’s eyes than before. Smiling, I greeted the four men, silently wishing that somehow the war might end before they were all once more thrust into the breach.
“Ah, Colonel Watson!” declared Ashley Tate, raising a somewhat palsied hand in salute as I gestured for him and the others to remain seated. “Blaikie and I have been counselling the new boys here.”
“Yes,” declared the Rhodesian. “We have, we have been telling them all the wonderful secrets of Isham.”
“And what are those?” I asked genially.
“Where Nurse Williams hides the extra sugarelly, for one,” said Ashley Tate with a knowing smile. “And, for another, which doctor will let you pil-pil-pilfer his shag without a scolding afterward.”
“And how to coax Nurse Cochrane to dance extempore in the wards,” added the Blaikie with enthusiasm.
I smiled
and turned to the pair of new men, who had been listlessly perusing week-old newspapers. They looked at me with the all too familiar mixture of worried hope and animal fear, and introductions were made in a very low key.
“Much happening in the world beyond the trenches,” Ashley Tate remarked, motioning to the papers that our newcomers were holding. “What with all the rioting against German-born shopkeepers over here, I’m glad to read that we’ve finally got ourselves an English king, eh?” he said, playfully poking Blaikie, who laughed while holding up palms in defence, as the two other men looked on questioningly. “It’s about bloody time we were ruled by one of our own, if you ask me.”183
“I know it won’t be in the papers, but will Nurse Cochrane be leaving as well?” asked Blaikie.
“What?” I asked.
“Will she be leaving with you, Colonel Watson?”
“Why would she be so inclined to join me in departing this place, Lieutenant?”
“Do you not like her?” Blaikie said.
“Well,” I stammered, “I do respect her abilities greatly.”
“Come now, Colonel,” taunted Ashley Tate in a sly manner. “You can’t fool an Old Contemptible like me, you know.184 You fancy her greatly, just as she does you. Everyone is aware of it.”
“But I do not—”
“We talk about it,” said Blaikie without a semblance of discretion. He turned to the two new patients. “We all do,” he told them. “The nurses speak of it as well.”
Ashley Tate suddenly burst into song:
Smile the while you kiss me sad adieu,
When the clouds roll by I’ll come to you…
Blaikie joined him in the next lines:
Then the skies will see more blue,
Down in lovers’ lane my dearie…
Ashley Tate gestured to the pair of newcomers who, though uncertain of the words, haltingly made it a quartet: