Authors: Robert Ryan
‘Buller and Farleigh, yes. But worse than that—’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Gregson, replacing the knife in its compartment. ‘She took the keys to the locks from Buller. Miss Pillbody’s gone.’
The tower stood bleak and forlorn, its grey concrete walls seeming black in the low winter light. It was a few hundred yards inside German territory, beyond two sets of wire
fences and a good half a kilometre or more from any other building. Once it had looked east, watching for invaders seeking to take land from the Dutch. And that had come to pass, albeit by
opportunistic political not military means, so that now the watchtower lay stranded in enemy – or at least, potentially hostile – territory.
Captain Carlisle, Sergeant Balsom and Ernst Bloch stood staring at the monolith from the Dutch side, beside the Ford that had come over with them on the ferry from England. Each smoked a
cigarette, lost in his own thoughts for a few moments. To their left, a kilometre away, was the bridge over the Meuse where the exchange would take place. To the south, the town of Venlo and ahead,
beyond the muddy river, lay the country and the woman that Bloch longed to rejoin.
In time they were joined by a fourth man who introduced himself as Jasper. He was in his twenties, dressed in coarse clothes and with workers’ hands and fingernails. His English, though,
was surprisingly good and unaccented.
‘That’s where you want to go?’ the Dutchman asked as he lit his own cigarette and inclined his head towards the watchtower. ‘The
uitkijktoren
?’
‘It is,’ said Carlisle. ‘Is it inhabited?’
‘By crows and bats,’ said Jasper. ‘We
spoken
use it as a landmark when crossing. Head down in some of the drainage ditches around here, you can become very
disoriented.’
‘
Spoken
?’ asked Bloch, unfamiliar with the word.
‘
Geister
. Ghosts. The men who cross the border. The men who stop Germany from starving.’
‘For a price,’ said Bloch.
Jasper stopped the cigarette halfway to his lips. He looked at Carlisle. ‘This one is German?’
‘He’s the package.’
‘The price will have to increase.’
‘Now look here—’ Balsom began, stepping forward as if to grab the man’s lapels.
‘As you were, Sergeant,’ snapped Carlisle. ‘Jasper comes highly recommended by our people. He’s got many British escapees over that water and back home. Isn’t that
right, Jasper?’
The Dutchman didn’t answer, apart from a confirming raise of the eyebrows as he puffed on his cigarette.
‘I am sure there is a valid reason for the price increase,’ Carlisle said, although an edge to his voice suggested a qualifier of:
there’d better be
.
‘I assume you have good reason for him not just turning up at a crossing post. There’s plenty to choose from.’
‘We have,’ agreed Carlisle. ‘There might be too many questions. He might be detained. We don’t want him detained.’
‘Understandable. If they even suspect he might have been turned around by British Intelligence he will be shipped straight to Dusseldorf for interrogation.’
‘I have not been turned around,’ Bloch protested.
‘Of course not. All German POWs spend time with British officers and NCOs at the border, looking up at the single vantage point that gives an overview of the whole area. Look, I’m
not interested in what you are doing. But it is in my interest that you do it and get clean away. It helps my reputation . . .’ He glanced at Carlisle. ‘With potential employers.
Furthermore, if you were captured you might mention this name – not my real one, but nevertheless – and give a description. I don’t want some German kill squad coming over to
shoot me while I sleep. Or setting up a trap so they can get me on the other side and take me to those cells in Dusseldorf. From what I hear, they are none too pleasant.’
All that made sense to Bloch, so he said nothing.
Jasper returned his attention to Carlisle. ‘He has his identification papers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good ones?’ asked Jasper.
‘Very good – they are the ones he was captured with. The mud and blood on them tell their own story.’
‘And a documented reason for release from British custody?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Which is?’
Carlisle cleared his throat. He hadn’t shared this with Bloch yet. Balsom had a grin on his face. ‘Mental health problems.’
‘What?’ asked Bloch. ‘I’m mad now, am I?’
‘We can still do the scooping out of the eye if you’d rather,’ said Balsom, with another little pantomime. ‘Not too late.’
But Bloch already knew why they had gone down that route. If anything went wrong and he fell into German hands before the execution of Holmes – or indeed immediately afterwards – the
British would claim the man was clearly more insane than they had thought. As if they would release someone they thought was going to shoot their own man.
‘The price goes up,’ said Jasper, more to Balsom than anybody else, ‘because his papers must include a border stamp on the German side, to explain why he is over that side of
the river. Preferably from the crossing point at Aachen. That’s so busy, nobody would remember who stamped what. But that will take time and money. You haven’t got much time, so we need
to throw more money at it. Understood?’
The three others nodded.
‘Luggage?’
‘Yes,’ said Carlisle. ‘Two bags.’
‘Money?’
‘Not excessive.’
‘So no gold or silver or any valuables?’ ‘No.’
‘That makes it easier. Some people get mighty greedy when they know a package is being carried. Weapons?’
‘Yes.’
Jasper paused and stroked his stubble. ‘There is a crossing at midnight plus twenty. We can add you to that. It is mostly food being taken across, black-market stuff, and we leave some for
the German patrols, so they rarely bother us. They’ll be there, but they’ll have their blind eyes on. It takes place three kilometres down there, at a spot called Grubbenvorst, so
you’ll have to work your way back without being seen, then climb that tower in darkness. It is on the other side of the border fence, but we can get you through there. Can you do
that?’
Bloch said he could.
‘We meet at Grubbenvorst church, the eastern side. In the graveyard. I’ll have crossing papers, you have an extra fifteen per cent to cover that. All clear?’
When they said it was, Jasper, without a goodbye or a handshake, turned and walked off, shoulders hunched, puffing on the last of his cigarette.
‘What now?’ asked Bloch.
‘You rest up.’
‘I must check the weapon.’
‘As you wish. Check the weapon, rest up, have something to eat. At midnight we’ll be at the church. Within eight or nine hours, with any luck, you’ll be a free man.’
‘And Sherlock Holmes will be dead,’ Bloch added, just in case there was a misunderstanding.
Carlisle grimaced a little. He didn’t like mission objectives voiced. It was bad luck. He shaded his eyes and looked back down river to the spindly bridge. ‘Yes. I suppose Sherlock
Holmes will be dead.’
It was probably a very foolish response, but Watson could think of no other course of action and time was short. He stormed, as best he could with a stick and through thick
snow, across to Colonel Critchley’s office, where the senior camp officer was in conversation with a lieutenant whom Watson didn’t recognize.
‘The game is up, Critchley,’ he announced.
‘Lieutenant, can you excuse us a moment?’
‘Sir.’ The man left and closed the door behind him.
‘I thought you were on your way, Watson?’
‘You despicable man. How can you sanction this?’
Critchley took out a block of tobacco from his desk, broke a piece off and began rubbing it between his palms. ‘What are you talking about, Major?’
‘This so-called Escape Committee. There are no escapes. Nobody makes it home.’
Satisfied with the pile of shreds before him, Critchley fetched his pipe from a rack. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I don’t know the details, but I know I shall be reporting this as soon as I get anywhere near the British authorities. You’ll hang for this, Critchley.’
‘Now look here, Watson. I don’t know what has caused this outburst, but I would appreciate it if you tempered your language. Hang? What the devil are you talking about?’
‘I am talking about a cruel deception. I am talking about greed. Avarice. I am talking about the murder of your fellow countrymen.’
Critchley lit the pipe and gave a condescending smile. ‘Nobody has been murdered. We have had a successful subterfuge operating here—’
‘Do you deny that Lincoln-Chance and Steigler know each other of old?’
A puzzled frown. ‘No. I don’t deny it. The British and Germans did mix before the war. Especially the officer class. You know that. I do believe you had some dealings with the King
of Bohemia.’
‘Never mind that. The hotel is no longer called the Coburg.’
‘What?’
‘The Coburg has changed its name to the Connaught. How can Brevette’s card have come from there?’
‘I—’
‘Who received the card?’
‘Why, Link of course.’
‘Of course,’ Watson sneered. ‘And Archer had to die, because he knew that Brevette was dead.’
Critchley’s face flushed. ‘Listen to yourself, man. Archer knew Brevette was dead? How? Through a séance? You are basing all this on a piece of charlatanism being reliable?
You believe, do you? That voices speak from the other side?’
Watson found his jaw working but no words coming. The wind dropped from his sails somewhat. ‘I . . . no, but I am sure that you are deceiving the escapees.’
Critchley waved the stem of the pipe at him. ‘I am proud that we have got men home, Watson. Damned proud. And you come in here, making wild accusations. I thought you were some sort of
detective. But no, I think you have shown where the talent in your partnership with Mr Holmes lay. And it wasn’t with you.’
The anger, Watson appreciated, seemed quite genuine. Either Critchley didn’t know what was going on right under his nose – and feet – or he was a brilliant actor.
‘I think you should stop Peacock going. Just in case.’
‘Just in case of what? Who knows when we can next send someone out, what with the change of, um, management? And Cocky needs to get home, or there will be a death. His own. Do you
understand?’
‘I understand that you are not willing to listen—’
‘I am not prepared to listen to tosh and misguided speculation. Why would someone set up an escape route and kill the people they send down the line?’
‘Money. The escapees pay through the nose.’
‘Link is a very rich man. He has no need of money. All that cash goes in bribes and expenses.’
‘There are no bribes. No expenses.’
‘So you claim.’
Watson banged the desk in frustration, as if he could knock some sense into the man. ‘And the escapees make out a new will. And give power of probate and attorney. They are executors. Once
they are home, Link can strip the family fortune.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. These are Englishmen you are talking about. Englishmen! Get out, man. Get out and get to Holland and go home. Your mind has gone.’
‘But—’
‘No more, Watson. Do you hear? No more. If you wish to make your wild accusations, so be it. But make them somewhere else.’
Critchley clamped the pipe between his teeth and began a self-conscious study of the papers on his desk. After a few moments he looked up, as if surprised to see Watson still there. ‘Safe
journey, Major. I’m afraid I can no longer guarantee your story will appear in the next issue of the magazine.’
‘You are either very naïve or very stupid, Colonel.’
Possibly both, Watson.
Watson turned and left. As he walked across the snow he could see Lincoln-Chance and Boxhall watching his progress from the shadow of a hut. Link raised a hand as if in farewell, but Watson
simply glowered and carried on towards his hut to collect his things. It was time to leave the field, to fight another day.
The right thing to do, my old friend.
That’s as maybe, thought Watson, but it doesn’t make it feel any less wrong. Or cowardly.
Waiting for him at the gate were a number of familiar faces. Steigler was there, as if to see him off the premises, but also the young guard with the missing fingers, and
Gunther, the older man – the pair responsible for Sayer’s death – and, at idle, the Horch lorry, with its wheezing and grumbling at tick-over seemingly worse than a few days
before. The driver – if it was the same one – had clearly overcome his fear of typhoid and had brought the truck all the way up to the camp entrance. The snowfall had slackened but it
was still thick underfoot and Watson had to be careful not to slip. He wanted to depart with some dignity at least.
‘Dr Watson!’
He turned to see Harry standing at the gate, a German soldier blocking his way. ‘I just wanted you to sign this for me.’ The orderly held up a battered copy of
A Study in
Scarlet
.
‘Let him through,’ said Steigler. ‘Get a move on, Harry. Major Watson has to be going.’
‘Do you know what you are doing?’ Watson asked under his breath. ‘Getting involved with Lincoln-Chance’s schemes?’
‘He is paying me handsomely,’ said the German. ‘The game is up here, Watson. You know that. You can take that look off your face.
Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo, Ipse
domi stimul ac nummos contemplar in arca.
’
‘Don’t quote my own epigrams back at me,’ Watson replied curtly.
‘Thank you, Dr Watson,’ said a breathless Harry, holding up the book. ‘I have a pen.’
‘What do you want me to write?’
‘Not what he said anyway. My Latin isn’t that clever.’
Watson obliged. ‘The public hiss at me, but I cheer myself when in my own house I contemplate the coins in my strong-box.’
Harry shook his head. ‘I don’t want that.’
Steigler laughed. ‘
Es könnte am besten geeignet
.’
‘No it isn’t,’ said Harry with some irritation.
‘No. It’s a despicable sentiment.’ Watson thought for a moment and wrote: ‘What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence. The question is what you can make
people believe you have done.’ And then he signed it and handed his first novel back to Harry.