Guilty Consciences - [A CWA Anthology]

by Edited by Martin Edwards

  Or did they? Mightn’t an Emperor of the old Prussian Royal House do just that? In the face of defeat and the loss of his imperial crown, mightn’t he make that final arrogant gesture?

  ‘So,’ said the German driver, ‘it is to be well guarded, you see.’

  I did see. I still didn’t entirely believe him, but I didn’t disbelieve him. So, when he got back into his car, I reached into that attaché case. I expected it to be locked and it was. But it was a flimsy lock - not what you’d expect of German efficiency - and it snapped open as easily as any lock I ever forced. No one was looking and I reached inside and took out a small square box, stamped with a coat of arms involving an eagle. I put the case quietly in my pocket, got back into the car, and drove on.

  ~ * ~

  Infuriatingly, the next few pages were badly damaged - by the look of them they had been shredded by industrious mice or even rats to make nests. I didn’t care if the Pied Piper himself had capered through that attic, calling up the entire rodent population of Hampstead as he went. I needed to know what came next.

  Clearly great-grandfather had driven high-ranking officials to that historic meeting in a railway carriage in Compiegne Forest, at which the Armistice ending the Great War was signed. And on the very threshold of that iconic meeting, he had planned to go yomping off to some nameless chateau to liberate it of easily transportable loot! Carrying with him what might be Wilhelm II’s signet ring.

  I carried the entire box of papers home, but after several hours poring over the disintegrated sections I gave up, and hoped

  I could pick up the threads in the pages that were still intact.

  ~ * ~

  11 November, 1918

  Well! Talk about Avalon and Grarnarye! I got into that chateau at dawn, and it was so easy they might as well have rolled out a welcome mat.

  And if ever there was an Aladdin’s cave . . .

  The family who owned it must have left very hastily indeed, because it didn’t look as if they taken much with them. The place was stuffed to the gunnels with silver and gold plate, paintings, furniture . . . But I kept to the rule I had made earlier and only took small objects. Salt cellars, sugar sifters, candle snuffers. Some Chinese jade figurines, and a pair of amber-studded snuff boxes. Beautiful and sellable, all of them. I thought, If I survive this war, I shall live like a lord on the proceeds of this.

  And so I would, have done if the military police hadn’t come chasing across the countryside. You’ll have thought that with a peace treaty being signed - probably at that very hour - they’d overlook one soldier taking a few hours extra to return to his unit. But no, they must come bouncing and jolting across the countryside in one of their infernal jeeps.

  I had the stolen objects in my haversack, and I ran like a fleeing hare. I had no clear idea where I was going and I didn’t much care, but I got as far as a stretch of churned-up landscape, clearly the site of a very recent battle. There were deep craters and a dreadful tumble of bodies lying like fractured dolls half buried in mud. The MPs had abandoned their jeep, but I could see its lights cutting a swathe through the dying afternoon, like huge frog’s eyes searching for prey. Prey. Me.

  The haversack was slowing me down, so eventually I dived into the nearest crater and lay as still as I could. It was a fairly safe bet they would find me, and probably I would get a week in the glass-house, but if they found the chateau loot I would get far worse than a week in the glass-house. And find it they would, unless I could hide it …

  I’m not proud of what I did next. I can only say that war makes people do things they wouldn’t dream of in peacetime.

  There were four dead men in that crater. I had no means of recognizing any of them, partly because they were so covered with mud and partly - well, explosives don’t make for tidy corpses. I chose the one who was least disfigured, and tipped the stash into the pockets of his battledress, buttoning up the flaps. He was a sergeant in a Lincolshire regiment. I memorized his serial number.

  One last thing I did in those desperate minutes. I slipped the Kaiser’s signet ring out of its velvet box and put it on the man’s hand.

  Then I stood up and walked towards the MPs, my hands raised in a rueful gesture of surrender.

  I didn’t get a week in the glass-house. I didn’t even get forty-eight hours. Armistice was declared at eleven o’clock that morning, and four hours filched by a soldier who had driven the colonel to the signing of the peace treaty was overlooked.

  And after the celebrations had calmed down, those of us who had survived had to bury the dead.

  They say every story is allowed one coincidence and here’s mine. I was one of the party detailed to bury the bodies from that very battlefield where I had hidden. That Lincolnshire sergeant was where I had left him, lying in the mud, his jacket securely buttoned, the signet ring on the third finger of his right hand. I promise you, if I could have got at any of the stuff I would have done, but there were four of us on the task and I had no chance.

  But when they brought the coffins out, I watched carefully and I saw my Lincolnshire sergeant put into one with an unusual mark on the lid - a burr in the oak that was almost the shape of England.

  ~ * ~

  The journal ended there. Can you believe that? I felt as if I had been smacked in the face when I realized it and I sat back, my mind tumbling. What had my great-grandfather done next? Had he tried to get into the coffin later? But he couldn’t have done. If the signet ring of the last German Emperor had been up for grabs after the Armistice, I would have known. The whole world would have known.

  I went back to Hampstead the next morning. I intended to scour that house from cellar to attics to find out if my greatgrandfather had recovered the Kaiser’s signet ring from the coffin—

  I’ve just re-read that last sentence, and it’s probably the most bizarre thing I’ve ever written. Hell’s teeth, it’s probably the most bizarre thing anyone has ever written. I hope I haven’t fallen backwards into a surreal movie or a rogue episode of Dr Who and not noticed.

  But there were no more journal pages. Eventually, I conceded defeat, and returned to my own flat. This time I ransacked the few family papers I possessed. I don’t keep anything that could incriminate any of us, of course - there’s such a thing as loyalty, even though my family are all dead. But there were birth certificates, carefully-edited savings accounts - burglars have to be cautious about investments. Too much money and the Inland Revenue start to get inconveniently interested. My father used to buy good antique furniture; my grandfather invested in gold and silver. I don’t know what my greatgrandfather did.

  There were letters there, as well, mostly kept by my parents out of sentiment, and it was those letters I wanted. I thought there might be some from my great-grandmother and I was right; there were several. Most were of no use, but one was dated September 1920, and attached to it was a semi-order for great-grandfather to report to the HQ of his old regiment. He had, it seemed, been chosen ‘at random’ to be one of the soldiers who would assist in exhuming six sets of ‘suitable’ remains from battlefields in France.

  Random, I thought, cynically. I’ll bet he contrived it, the sly old fox.

  The six coffins, said the letter, would be taken by special escort to Flanders on the night of 7 November. A small, private ceremony would take place in the chapel of St Pol, and greatgrandfather would be one of the guard of honour.

  By that time a pattern was starting to form in my mind, and I unfolded my great-grandmother’s letter with my blood racing. It read, ‘My dear love . . . What an honour for you to be chosen for that remarkable ceremony. When you described it in your last letter it was so vivid, I felt I was there with you . . . The small, flickeringly-lit chapel, the six coffins, each draped with the Union Jack . . . The brigadier general led in, blindfolded, then placing his hand on one of the coffins to make the choice . . .’

  That was when my mind went into meltdown and it was several minutes before I could even get to the bookshelves. E
ventually, though, I riffled through several reference books, and in all of them, the information was the same.

  ‘From the chapel of St Pol in Northern France, the Unknown Soldier began the journey to the famous tomb within Westminster Abbey . . . The man whose identity will never be known, but who was killed on some unnamed battlefield . . . The symbol of all men who died in battle no matter where, and the focus for the grief of hundreds of thousands of bereaved . . .’

  Great-grandmother’s letter ended with the words, ‘How interesting that you recognized the coffin chosen as one you had helped carry from that battlefield shortly before the Armistice. I wonder if, without that curious burr, you would have known it? It’s a sobering thought that you are probably the only person in the whole world who knows the identity of the Unknown Warrior.’

  ~ * ~

  All right, what would you have done? Gone back to your ordinary life, with the knowledge that the grave of the

  Unknown Warrior - that hugely emotive symbol of death in battle - contained probably the biggest piece of loot you would ever encounter? The signet ring of the last Emperor of Germany - the ring intended to seal the peace treaty that ended the Great War. Wilhelm II’s ring that never reached its destination because a German car had a puncture.

  The provenance of that signet ring was - and is - one hundred per cent genuine. It’s documented in great-grandfather’s journal and great-grandmother’s letter. Collectors would pay millions.

  It’s calling to me, that iron-bound casket, that unknown soldier’s tomb that’s the focus for memories and pride and grief every 11 November. It’s calling with the insistence of a siren’s seductive song . . . Because of course it’s still in there, that ring, along with the loot taken from the French chateau. It must be, because in almost a century there’s never been the least hint of anyone having tried to break into that tomb.

  I’m ending these notes now, because I have an appointment. I’m joining a party of tourists being taken round Westminster Abbey. Quite a detailed tour, actually. After I come home I shall start to draw a very detailed map of the abbey. Then I shall make precise notes of security arrangements and guards, electronic eyes, CCTY cameras . . .

  <>

  ~ * ~

  HE DID NOT ALWAYS SEE HER

  Claire Seeber

  Claire Seeber enjoyed a successful career in documentary television as well as working as a freelance feature writer for a number of national newspapers before turning her hand to psychological thrillers such as Never Tell.

  ~ * ~

  J

  eff helped Olivia choose the February book, steering her heavily towards Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. There were a few inward groans when Olivia had mumbled her idea at the last meeting. The group preferred modern books: they often enjoyed the Daily Mail’s selection, or the ones that chat show couple chose. But actually, they all agreed at the meeting, Shelley had hit on something with the creation of the monster. It was hard to imagine it being written by a woman. And, of course, they were most happy to be at Olivia’s house with Jeff on hand, so charmingly attentive.

  When the women left that evening, tapping out into the cold, clear night beneath the few stars visible in Chiswick’s busy skies, Olivia loaded the dishwasher, wiped all the worktops down, and went up to bed. Jacqueline had lingered; was taking a particularly long time to finish the oily Chardonnay Jeff had so thoughtfully provided, still simpering with spectacular adoration at his jokes. Olivia didn’t worry that they’d think her rude for slipping off; her husband would be happy to see Jacqueline out.

  Upstairs Olivia peeped in at her daughter, cleaned her teeth and then checked her son. Her heart turned over to see he’d slipped his thumb into his mouth, a habit long fought. His hair was slightly damp and his face flushed. Olivia turned the radiator down and gently tried to disengage his thumb, checking quickly over her shoulder. By the time Jeff had managed to steer an equally flushed Jacqueline out towards her enormous car, Olivia was asleep. He didn’t want to have to, but Jeff woke her anyway. He was off on business for ten days early the next morning.

  ~ * ~

  If you keep still for long enough, do you cease to exist? Olivia wondered as she stared out of the kitchen window. The late snow was melting slowly on the small green lawn until the patch looked rather like the Pacer mints she used to steal from Woolworths as a child. Absently Olivia rinsed the last plate until it shone, gazing at the pathetic leaning ball of raisin eyes and carrots that had once been a snowman, the radio beside her rattling with a phone-in about women being ignored in the bedroom.

  ‘If he doesn’t see me as I want to be seen, do I not exist?’ moaned a well-spoken academic-type called Miriam. ‘Do I simply not count in his eyes?’

  The presenter murmured sympathetically and moved on swiftly.

  Olivia felt a sudden urge to scream loudly. Instead she staunched the hot tap, sealing off the heat that aggravated the deep welts on her left hand. She stared down at the marks, labels of her own weakness. Her youngest wandered in, treading neat muddy footprints across the spotless floor.

  ‘Can I have some crisps?’ she asked, but she was already rifling through the cupboard where they lived, her auburn ponytail sleek against her back.

  ‘Can you see me?’ Olivia asked her daughter curiously.

  ‘Dur!’ her daughter replied, rustling plastic. ‘I’m not blind, Mum, you know. I don’t have a white stick.’ She chose a packet of prawn cocktail and wandered off again. They were ridiculously pink, Olivia observed vaguely, wiping down the sink. Prawns weren’t naturally that pink, were they?

  He came home early, before Olivia had a chance to clean the mud off the back step. ‘Hello,’ she said nervously. ‘Good trip?’ He checked the kitchen in silence. She held her breath; she thought she’d got away with it - then he opened the back door to check. He looked at her just once, his handsome face inscrutable. In silence, he went upstairs; in silence he came down again, out of his shirt and tie now, wearing a blue tracksuit with white stripes down the side that showed off his tall frame nicely but was frankly horrible in Olivia’s eyes. He wasn’t the young boy she’d fancied from afar in the refectory any more; he’d taken up running recently to fight his paunch. She wondered if he thought the stripes would make him go faster. Not that she would offer such a frivolous opinion these days.

  Olivia had cleaned the mud up now but it was too late, she knew. She also knew that if she crouched in the corner she only enflamed his rage, enflamed it ‘til it bubbled; he saw her rather like a dog, cowering from its master. Well, she was a dog, to him.

  ‘Bitch,’ he would snarl, his face contorted until he was positively ugly. So instead she chose to stay still when she recognized the signs.

  Now she lay flat on the gleaming kitchen floor. She lay flat but her head felt fuzzy.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ he scoffed, opening the fridge and helping himself to a pork pie. It was very sturdy and compact, Olivia noted from her horizontal position. A small, tight structure of pastry, meat and fat.

  ‘I thought I’d save you the bother,’ she answered her husband quietly. She could see dirt, some old cat hairs, a bit of fluff stuck in strange yellow muck on the skirting-board. Luckily he never got this low.

  Her eldest walked into the room and stopped when he saw her. ‘Have you hurt your back again, Mummy?’ he asked, but his eyes were anxious. He moved towards her.

  ‘It’s a bit sore, sweetie, yes. You go on now,’ she forced a smile. ‘Get on with your maths. I’ll be up in a minute.’

  Her husband laughed mirthlessly, throwing his head back, spraying tiny fragments of pork pie across the sparkling worktop.

  ‘Your mother’s a daft bint,’ he spluttered to his son, eventually recovering himself. When he laughed, his tracksuit top rode up, showing the top of wiry dark red pubic hair. Olivia felt quite nauseous. ‘Did you know that, Dan? A daft fucking bint.’

  ‘You shouldn’t call her that,’ her eldest muttered, his eyes stead
fastly on the floor.

  Her husband stopped laughing. He stared at his son.

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t,’ Dan said, a little louder now, his pale face flushing with the effort of challenging his father. ‘It’s horrible.’ He looked up this time, directly at the older man.

  ‘Get out, Dan,’ Olivia said quickly, scrambling to her feet. She knew what came next.

  As her husband made a lunge for Dan, the remnants of the pork pie smashing on to the shining tiles, Olivia thrust herself in front of her ten-year-old son. ‘Go,’ she shouted at him. With a stifled sob, he went.

  ~ * ~

  After the beating, a hot-eyed Olivia struggled to hold back the tears - but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Long gone were the days when he held her and cried himself, begging for forgiveness. Long long gone.