He jerked his head towards the table where Dalziel was sitting apparently deep in contemplation of the shirt button straining over his navel.
'Super's in a drinking mood but,' he said.
Her gaze moved to the monumental figure, then back.
'I've not drunk enough myself,' she said. 'Goodnight then, sarge.'
Feeling both a heel and a hero that at last he'd put the job second, Wield went out into the night.
Away to the west in Leeds, Peter Pascoe too was being offered a drink.
He shook his head but Ellie said, 'Yes, please. As it comes,' and Hilary Studholme smiled at her almost gratefully as he poured a measure large enough to please a detective superintendent.
He'd expressed no surprise when he'd opened the door and seen the Pascoes. It was late-night opening at the supermarket and through the automatic doors, almost continuously open under the steady stream of shoppers, drifted a thin line of disco music, broken now and then by a plummy voice urging customers not to miss the unmissable bargains to be found at the delicatessen counter. Lights blazed above, around, and from within the building, and through the unearthly glow cast by the sodium lamps which ringed the car park drifted a no-man's-land brume of November mist and deadly exhaust gases.
'Amazing,’ Ellie breathed as she took in the contrast between the world represented by that garish bustle and the narrow, high, Victorian museum. And when she stepped inside and the heavy door blanked out the 1990s like a candle-snuffer, 'Amazing,' she said again.
She would have liked to linger in the museum, but this was Peter's show and she had accompanied the two men silently up the steep staircases to the major's tiny flat. At least there was to be no forensic fencing, Studholme coming straight to the point with military directness.
'You found out about my father,' he said as he poured himself a Scotch. 'I didn't know whether to tell you or not. I almost did, then I thought, if he's really set on digging up the past, he'll find out himself and come back to me.'
'Everyone seems set on giving me little tests,' said Pascoe. 'Pass them, and I'm allowed to move on a little further. I presume you got your own knowledge from your father's war journal?'
'Yes. That's why Pascoe rang a bell. Then you said it wouldn't have been Pascoe. Then I found that old photo and it looked so like you, I just had to check.'
'But there's more, isn't there? Not just the name. That wouldn't be enough to leave you so agitated. There has to be something else.'
The major glanced at Ellie and smiled again.
'Living with someone who's always putting two and two together must present its problems,' he said.
'His arithmetic's not always that hot,' said Ellie.
'What else is there?' said Pascoe, refusing to be lured into these mood-lightening exchanges.
The major regarded him with his one bright eye, sighed, rose and went to an old bureau not a million miles in style from Ada's secretaire.
From a drawer he took a book stylishly bound in tooled leather.
'My father's diary,’ he said. 'I had it bound to stop it falling apart. When I die, it will have its place in the museum, but till then
… well, it was his personal record, and if it was meant for anyone else's eyes, I like to think it was mine.'
Expertly he opened it with his one hand at a place marked by a pipe spill.
'This is what he wrote about Sergeant Pascoe's trial. You can look at it yourself if you like, but I warn you, his hand is almost illegible to the untutored eye.'
'Why don't you read it to us?' said Ellie.
'Very well. Could you pass me my glasses?'
Ellie picked up a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles lying on the table next to the whisky decanter, approached the major and without any hesitation placed them on his nose.
'Thank you, my dear,' he said with another flash of that charming smile.
'My pleasure,' said Ellie.
Jesus, thought Pascoe. Thank God the old sod isn't ten years younger!
'I'll do a little bit of editing as I go,' said Studholme. 'But nothing relevant, I assure you.'
He coughed twice to clear his throat and began reading. He adopted an old-fashioned public speaking style, much heavier than his normal mode, like a man called upon to read a lesson at a carol service.
'October 1917. Date fixed for Pascoe's court martial at last. Delay caused by Grindal's absence. Minor physical injuries, so everyone thought he'd be back in matter of weeks. CO got report saying neurasthenia diagnosed with no prospect of rapid return, so it has been decided to admit written account as evidence. Evenlode sneered at mention of neurasthenia which he calls shirkers' cramp. Says that temporary gents are particularly susceptible, by which he means Grindal because his family are trade.'
'This Evenlode,' interrupted Ellie. 'Any relation to the Pitt-Evenlodes?'
'Oh yes. Name got modified when his cousin, the baron, married the only child of Sir Chesney Pitt who was keen to preserve his own family name. The Evenlodes felt that the distaff side, being inferior, should come second, but the story is that Sir Chesney said that if they called themselves Evenlode-Pitt, it would be like having a coal mine in the family. Their grandson, Piers, is serving in the regiment currently, just gazetted lieutenant colonel. Do you know them?'
'A nodding acquaintance,' said Ellie who could sound regally condescending when she wanted.
'Evenlode was the adjutant, right?' said Pascoe determined to cut through the cosiness.
'Right. And from what my father wrote, he had a distaste for Sergeant Pascoe which outweighed even his dislike of Lieutenant Grindal. Where was I? Oh yes, here we are. Evenlode raised no objection to using written evidence however. Never liked the way Pascoe stuck up for his men. Recall him telling poor old Hurley that an infantry platoon needed good NCOs not trouble-stirring shop stewards. And since that business of Pascoe being helped by Fritz to rescue his cousin, he's really had him marked down as one of these Bolshevik agitators everyone's been talking about since the spring. From my knowledge of both Pascoe and Grindal, I'd have bet on the sergeant being much the steadier of the two. But no one's asking me.'
He paused to turn the page.
Pascoe said, 'This Evenlode, he was the prosecuting officer, yes?'
'That's right. It was usually the adjutant from the prisoner's unit who took that role. Kept it in the family, so to speak, and also meant that he would have a personal knowledge of the individuals involved. It was generally thought to work to the prisoner's advantage.'
'Generally. Meaning, like a general? Very apt,' sneered Pascoe.
Ellie quickly said, 'The cousin, what was his name, Steve Pascoe, right? What became of him?'
'I told you what those women at Kirkton said,' began Pascoe irritated at the interruption.
'Yes, I know. Ran off with his cousin's widow. What I mean is, if he deserted too, how come he never got caught? And how come, if Peter reported you right, major, the only mention of him in the regimental records is that he got wounded in the Salient?'
'Ah yes. Private Stephen Pascoe. I did check naturally once I realized my father's involvement,' said Studholme. 'It was rather a sad case. Technically he did desert. His uniform and identity discs were found bundled up at the railway station in Liverpool and it was assumed he'd either stowed away or otherwise obtained a passage to America. The thing was that though he made a fair recovery from the injuries he sustained in August, the medical records show that the movement of his left upper arm and shoulder was going to be permanently impaired. On the day he took off, he'd been before a medical board to assess his condition. This was normal practice for all wounded men prior to returning them to their units – or, of course, advising further treatment. The board examined him and made their recommendation, which was for discharge. He had no future as a fighting soldier and would be more use to the country in his old job.'
'Nobody, of course, thought to tell him this on the spot,' snapped Pascoe.
'That's not the way the army
works, I'm afraid,' said Studholme with genuine regret. 'Proper channels are the thing. Presumably he went off thinking they were going to rubber-stamp his return to the Front and decided he'd had enough. Technically, as I say, he was still in the army till he received his official discharge. But no regiment likes to have desertions in its records and in this case to haul a chap back to try him on a capital offence when it had been decided he wasn't fit to fight anyway would have offended natural justice. So his discharge was quietly and quickly processed at the depot, which was here in Leeds, and the fact that he went AWOL for his last couple of weeks of service gently passed over.'
'Well, I'm so glad another Pascoe's name wasn't allowed to besmirch your precious records,' said Pascoe bitterly. 'Let's get back to your father, shall we?'
'Of course. The next entry begins: I should never have written "But no one's asking me!" They just have, or rather, they've just told me, because naturally there's no saying no in such matters. I'm to be Pascoe's Friend. The CO told me it was a nasty job but he knew I'd do my best. Evenlode said that on the contrary it was a cushy number, the verdict was in no doubt, so all it meant was I spent a couple of days out of the line, keeping myself warm and dry and killing lice. I said, that must mean it's cushy for you, too, rather sarcastic. But he missed my point, saying, oh yes, it's killing that one big louse that I'll particularly enjoy. He really is a nasty piece of work.'
He paused again and said to Ellie, 'Refill. Do help yourself.'
'Gosh, have I drunk it? Thanks, I will.'
She did. Pascoe said, 'So what does your father say about the trial?'
'Well, before that he writes about his difficulty in getting Pascoe to talk about his defence: He really doesn't seem to grasp the danger he's in. He admits freely he struck Grindal but says it was only to disable him from harming himself by continuing to advance in a dazed state, and then he describes leading the remnant of his platoon back to the jump-off point as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world to do. All he seems to have any regret about is being rude to a staff officer, and the reason he regrets this is that there's no point in losing your rag with dumb animals, which is unlikely to endear him to the court. Though on second thoughts, if they are all line officers, they may well take his point!'
The major permitted himself a smile as he read this and Pascoe said, 'How comforting that your father didn't lose his sense of humour in face of someone else's adversity.'
'Peter, for heaven's sake,' said Ellie.
'No, my fault, I'm sorry, Mr Pascoe, this must be very painful for you. There's little more. He records that Sergeant Pascoe is clearly relying on the testimony of Lieutenant Grindal and of the members of his platoon to clear him, or at least reduce his punishment to loss of stripes. He regrets that his efforts to cross-question witnesses, in particular Private Doyle, are unproductive and cut short by the president. He tries to object to the admission of Grindal's written testimony because it didn't afford opportunity for cross-examination, but is told that these Chancery Lane tactics are entirely out of place here…'
'There's none of this in the trial record!' protested Pascoe.
The major's eye lit up with interest.
'You've seen it, have you?' he enquired.
Ellie bared her teeth at her husband, and said firmly to Studholme, 'No, he hasn't. But we did get an unofficial digest from an influential friend, one condition of which was complete confidentiality.'
'My lips are sealed,' said Studholme. 'I know how these things work. Mr Pascoe, I can understand your feelings about my father's ineffectiveness. I shan't bore you with the details, but please believe me, he agonizes at some length about your great-grandfather's fate and despite knowing in his rational mind that there was nothing he could do to alter it, he felt, and continued to feel till the end of his days, I believe, guilty that he should have played any part in it.'
Pascoe refused to catch Ellie's eye and said nothing.
Studholme sighed and went on, 'You will be relieved to hear my father had nothing to do with the actual execution, so I am spared the macabre task of reading out a description. He did however see Sergeant Pascoe the day before, when he took on himself the task of bearing the news that there was no hope of mercy and the sentence was to be carried out the following morning.'
He put down the book to take a sip of whisky, then picked it up again and began reading.
'The sergeant gave me a letter to his wife which he asked me to post. I said I would. Then after a little hesitation he produced a book consisting of several sheets of paper roughly sewn together between covers made from squares of rubber from an old groundsheet. This, he said, was a journal he'd been keeping. There'd been another book from the start of the war which he'd left at home on his last leave, thinking that either he'd be able to use it to recall these years for himself in later life, or if he fell, it would be a record for his family. But he is uncertain whether he should ask for these later leaves to be sent home also, because of the tragic material they contain. He asked me if I would take it and, when I had time, read it, then send it to his wife or not at my discretion. It was not a task I wanted, but equally it wasn't one I could refuse. Then we shook hands and he thanked me most courteously for what he called my kindness and help, and I left and walked around in the dark by myself for an hour or more for shame of being caught weeping'
Studholme put the book down and removed his glasses.
'There is a note added at a later date in which he says that he has read the journal with some difficulty and decided after much thought that Pascoe was right to be reluctant to have it passed on to his wife. He concludes, There is little in here to heal and much to keep old wounds raw. RIP.'
'So what did he do with it then? Burn it?' demanded Pascoe.
'No, Mr Pascoe, it is here.'
He put his hand into the bureau drawer and produced a volume of the same surface dimensions as the one Pascoe had received from Ada, though much slimmer.
'I have glanced at it. It is difficult as my father implied, but what little I have managed to interpret seems to confirm he may have been right in his decision. But that was eighty years ago. Before you condemn him for interference, read it yourself and see if you would have wished him to act differently.'
He handed the book over. Pascoe took it. It felt cold and clammy and the lights in the room seemed to dim as he recollected the circumstances in which his great-grandfather had last touched this volume.
Studholme went on, 'Perhaps we can talk again when the perspectives are still longer. Mrs Pascoe, it's been a pleasure meeting you again.'
'For me too,' said Ellie. 'I'd like to look round your museum some time.'
'I look forward to being your guide.'
They went down the stairs. At the door, Ellie dug a line-out jumper's elbow into Pascoe's ribs and he said, Thanks, major. You've been very… well, thanks anyway.'
'I'm sorry,' said Studholme. 'I really am.'
'Me too,' said Peter Pascoe. xvii
It was two o'clock in the morning before Pascoe succeeded in reaching the end of the sergeant's journal. Haste of composition, agitation of spirit and the fading of age had rendered much of the writing almost illegible, but again and again as it seemed he had reached an impasse, his mind found the way; almost, he might have said had he been a superstitious man, heard a voice speaking the obscure words and phrases out loud.
Ellie during all this time offered no reproach about the lateness of the hour, no comment upon the wisdom of the proceedings, but simply brought cups of strong coffee at regular intervals, and otherwise sat curled up on the sofa with a book which only later did he realize was the history of the Great War that Studholme had loaned him.
'OK,' he said finally. 'You want to hear it?'
'I haven't sat up half the night in hope of hearing the nightingale,' she replied. 'But perhaps you can edit?'
'Of course. It's the assault in Polygon Wood that's central. Here's what he wrote afterwards, when he'd been arrested, b
ut well before he admits to himself what serious crap he was in.'
He coughed, recognized the echo of Studholme's introit, and forced himself to use his normal everyday tone as he started reading.
'Gertie finally snapped today – Id seen the signs from the moment we were told of our place in the line – he were talking all the time and making jokes that werent near funny – and reminding me of the old days when I were a lad and him a nipper. Bit different from Wanwood – he kept saying – Remember those trees – thought they touched the sky like it says in the poem – not that you could see the sky – so many branches and leaves all moving in the wind it was like being on the bed of the sea with all that green surging overhead. That was one of your games remember? You were always good at inventing games to keep me amused.
'Id best see what I can manage today then sir – I said. And I did try. I think his main fear to start with was that hed be too afraid to move – that when the command came to go forward and we all rose up and climbed out of our hole his legs wouldnt raise him and hed simply be left lying there for all to see and mock at. So I fed him rum – his ration my ration and a bit more besides till if hed had much more he wouldnt have been able to move for being stotious let alone being feart. It worked and when the signal came I gave him a bit of a lift – then he was up and off like someone on the cover of the Boys Own – waving his pistol and yelling like he were going to clear Jerry out of Polygon single handed.
'Didnt last of course – couldnt – I were hoping maybe hed get a friendly Blighty – bullet through his shoulder – bit of shrapnel in his leg – anything to knock him over and give him an excuse to lie there – but he seemed charmed – and while rest of us were creeping forward bent double – or going down never to creep again – he were prancing around like a lad on a football field yelling at us to keep up with him.
'In old days it might have been all right – quick charge on foot or horseback – scatter the enemy – all over in half an hour or so. Bet that many a man won his medal half seas over. But this lot goes on forever – and gets nowhere. Hour – two hours – all fucking day – you look around and where youve got to looks no different from where you set off from – same holes – same mud – same pathetic stumps – same bodies – same stench – same endless hopeless senseless sameness.
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