Blackstone and the Great War (20 page)

Patterson's grin broadened. ‘Pop is more properly known as the Eton Society,' he said. ‘Its members are entitled to wear checked spongebag trousers – though why anybody would want to is beyond me – and design their own waistcoats. They're allowed to administer beatings to younger boys – which we'll probably come back to later. They're the only members of the college who can furl their umbrellas within school grounds or sit on the wall in the Long Walk. It's every boy's ambition to be a member of Pop, or, to put it another way, they spend their entire school lives striving to earn privileges that no one in their right mind would want in the first place. Have I got that about right?'

‘I can't say I care for your attitude, but you've certainly done your research,' Cardew admitted. ‘At any rate, now that I've made it clear to you what splendid chaps they all are, I think we can draw this interview to a close.'

‘In case you've forgotten, I'm conducting a criminal investigation,' Patterson said. ‘I don't need to be told what it is about these particular boys which makes them such “splendid chaps”. I'd rather hear about the sides of their characters that make them complete bloody bounders.'

‘A bounder would not last a
week
in this college!' Cardew said, outraged. ‘In fact, in EHC, my house, he would not last a
day
!'

‘Ah,
your
house!' Patterson exclaimed. ‘Am I right in thinking that when parents apply to Eton, they put their son's name down for a specific house?'

‘You are.'

‘And should I assume that there is some competition to be admitted into your house.'

‘
Considerable
competition,' Cardew said, complacently.

‘The better the raw material, the better the end product,' Patterson mused, ‘You measure your own worth by the quality of the splendid chaps you turn out, don't you?'

‘To a certain extent,' Cardew agreed, cautiously. ‘What schoolmaster does not?'

‘And if they do well in life, some of that glory is reflected on you?'

‘Yes, and that is just as it should be. I mould them. Half of what they become is a result of my efforts'

‘But what if they
don't
do well? Is some of the opprobrium then reflected on you?'

‘The question simply does not arise.'

Patterson chuckled again. ‘Of course it does. What about Hadley Featherington Gore?'

Cardew paled. ‘Who?'

‘Good try,' Patterson told him, ‘but not quite good enough. You said I'd done my research well – and so I have. Featherington Gore was in your house from 1903 to 1910. And now, as a result of him trying to pass off one bad cheque too many, he's in quite another kind of house – one with bars on the windows.'

‘One bad apple,' Cardew said miserably. ‘One bad apple in a whole life dedicated to excellence.'

‘Is it time for me to make my threat now, do you think?' Patterson asked casually.

‘Threat?' Cardew repeated. ‘You dare sit there and say you're going to
threaten
me?'

‘Well, I suppose I could call it something nicer, if that would make you any happier,' Patterson conceded. ‘I could say it was an inducement. Or perhaps an incentive.' He shook his head. ‘No, on the whole, I think threat would be by far the most appropriate word.'

‘You can't seriously expect—' Cardew began.

‘I want you to be quite frank about the little weaknesses of the boys I'm interested in,' Patterson interrupted. ‘And if you're not prepared to cooperate, then I'll dig up all the dirt I can on every other boy who's passed through EHC. It wouldn't take much to make your name mud – I'd only have to come up with a few sordid disclosures before parents start putting their boys' names down for every other house but yours.'

‘This is outrageous,' Cardew said.

‘Ain't it, though,' Patterson agreed.

Cardew gulped. ‘Some of the boys thought Fortesque was too soft to be considered a great President of Pop,' he said. ‘Is that  . . . is that the sort of thing you're interested in?'

‘It may be,' Patterson said. ‘
Why
did they think he was soft?'

‘I suppose it was mainly because he never held a Pop-Tanning during his whole term of office.'

‘Pop-Tanning,' Patterson repeated, rolling the word slowly around in his mouth. ‘Now, I have to admit, that
is
a new one on me. What exactly is a Pop-Tanning?'

‘It's a beating which the President is permitted to inflict on a miscreant from lower in the school,' Cardew said.

‘Oh, it's a bare-arsed tanning, is it?' Patterson asked.

‘Of course not,' Cardew said disdainfully. ‘Only masters are allowed to thrash naked buttocks. In a Pop-Tanning, the boy is told to report to Pop wearing an old pair of trousers.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Isn't it obvious?' Cardew asked, slightly shiftily.

‘No, but I expect it will be once you've explained it to me,' Patterson said firmly.

‘The boy wears old trousers because, during the course of the beating, the trousers will become shredded.'

‘It'll shred the trousers, will it?' Patterson said thoughtfully. ‘If there's enough force behind it for that, it'll cut through the flesh and make his buttocks bleed as well, don't you think?'

‘Most probably.'

‘And Fortesque disapproved of it?'

‘Of course he did not disapprove of it! He respected our traditions as much as the next boy. He merely chose not to enact one of them.'

‘He disapproved of it,' Patterson insisted.

‘In many ways, he was a rather gentle boy,' Cardew admitted reluctantly. ‘Not on the rugby field – there, he was a lion who would crush anyone who got in his way – but certainly when he was not playing sports  . . .'

‘What about the others?' Patterson asked.

‘Soames was all for giving a boy a good beating when he deserved it. He thought it would make a man of him – and so it does.'

‘Maude?'

‘Maude went through his whole school career without being beaten once himself. I believe that may make him unique.'

‘But did he enjoy seeing other boys beaten?'

‘He certainly did not shrink away from observing it.'

‘And Hatfield?'

‘If the others thought something was a good idea, so did he. If they were against something, he opposed it. Since his friends were divided on the question of beating, he tried to sit on the fence – which is typical of his class! He was never truly respected here, you know. Even his own fag despised him.'

‘Did Fortesque and Soames ever argue about their different attitudes to beating?' Patterson asked.

‘Never. They were always the very best of friends.'

‘Did Soames resent the fact that Fortesque was elected President of Pop, rather than him?'

‘Not at all. He thought that Fortesque truly deserved the honour, and would have been most distressed if he
hadn't
been elected.'

‘So, as far as you understand the situation, Soames had no reason at all for hating Charles Fortesque?'

‘For hating him?' Cardew repeated, with an incredulity which Patterson was sure was entirely genuine. ‘Soames didn't hate Fortesque. Quite the contrary – he admired him tremendously, and would have laid down his life for him without a moment's thought.'

SIXTEEN

T
hey stood there, side by side, in front of Calais Town Hall. Their heads were shaved, and – to make the executioner's job easier – they had already placed nooses around their own necks.

They really
had
expected to die, Blackstone thought, examining the bronze statue first from one angle and then from another. It was obvious, not just from the expressions on their faces, but from the tension in their muscles and the tightness of their chests. These Six Burghers of Calais had accepted that someone would have to pay the price for resisting the siege, imposed by Edward the Third of England, for eleven long months. And when they walked through the city gates – barefoot, and naked except for their long simple shirts – they were praying that their deaths alone would be enough to satisfy King Edward, and that their city might yet be spared.

At the last moment, they'd been saved. Touched by their willingness to sacrifice themselves for the greater good of their town, Philippa of Hanault, Edward's queen, had interceded with her husband on their behalf, and Edward had proved willing to forego what he saw as his just revenge.

It was sacrifice that
this
war was all about, too, Blackstone thought, as he turned away from the statue – not conquests or spoils, or any of the other things that war was normally concerned with – but sacrifice. The young men at the front were being asked to throw away their own lives in order that their country – as they knew it – might go on living.

And as much as he might personally despise the three lieutenants who Patterson had called the three musketeers – as much as it would give him satisfaction to see them swinging from the end of a rope – he had no doubt that they were just as willing to make the sacrifice as the Six Burghers of Calais had been.

‘Mr Blackstone!' said a voice behind him. ‘What a great pleasure it is to see you, sir.'

Blackstone turned, and shook the hand of the new arrival. ‘It's good to see you, Bob,' he said.

‘Did you have a comfortable journey, sir?' the corporal asked.

‘It was
tedious
,' Blackstone replied. ‘I lost track of the number of times we were shunted into the sidings in order to let another train through. And two or three times – for some inexplicable reason – we actually went into reverse. As a result, it took me nearly twenty-four hours to complete a journey that probably wouldn't have taken more than four or five by road.'

‘Well, that's the war for you,' Baker said. ‘You should have asked for a car and driver.'

Good idea – at least on paper – Blackstone thought.

But he doubted that Captain Carstairs would have been at all receptive to the request. Besides, just making the request would have meant telling the captain where he was going – and why he was going there – and he suspected that Carstairs wouldn't have liked that one bit.

‘Well, well, well,' Baker said, enthusiastically, ‘who would ever have thought that, after all this time, you and me would end up meeting like this, in the centre of Calais.'

The enthusiasm seemed forced, and was perhaps being used to mask anxiety, Blackstone thought.

But
why
was Baker anxious? It was true that a body had gone missing, but that neither explained his nervousness now, nor his unwillingness to talk about it over the phone.

‘Yes, it's certainly funny the way things turn out,' Baker said, more to fill the silence than for any other reason.

‘You're making it sound like a
chance
meeting, Bob,' Blackstone said. ‘But it isn't, is it? We're not just two old mates getting together for a drink – we're here for a purpose.'

Baker gave up all pretence of jollity, and his face immediately darkened.

‘Yes, I suppose, in a way, we are here for a purpose,' he admitted.

‘And we both know what that purpose is,' Blackstone prodded.

Baker glanced over his shoulder, and – for a moment – Blackstone thought he was about to run away.

Then the corporal took a deep breath, and said, ‘Shall we go for a stroll, Mr Blackstone? I think I might find this a lot easier if we were on the move.'

The two men walked along the sea front. Across the water – a mere twenty-one miles away – Blackstone could see the White Cliffs of Dover, and found himself wishing that instead of seeing England from France, he was seeing France from England.

They paused to light a cigarette.

‘So what's this information you've got for me?' Blackstone asked.

Baker looked worried again. ‘You have to promise that if I tell you what
really
happened to Lieutenant Fortesque's body, you won't let anybody know that you got it from me,' he said.

‘What
really
happened to it?' Blackstone repeated, quizzically. ‘What really
happened
to it?'

‘Promise,' Baker said urgently. ‘You have to promise.'

‘I promise.'

‘We didn't lose it,' Baker said, in a rush. ‘It wasn't like that at all.'

‘So what
was
it like?'

‘The coffin arrived here too late to catch the last sailing of the day, so it was taken to the main warehouse, which is where we keep the supplies for the troops on the front line,' Baker said. ‘Now, that warehouse is crammed with all kinds of good stuff that the Frog wide-boys would just love to nick and sell on the black market, so there's always a sentry posted outside at night, and  . . . and on this particular night, it was me.'

‘Go on,' Blackstone said.

‘I was patrolling the perimeter, like I was supposed to, and at around midnight this bloke came up to me, and asked me for a light. Well, like a fool, I reached for my matches – and that's when his mate hit me from behind.'

‘You don't strike me as the kind of man who'd be as careless as to be taken in by a simple trick like that,' Blackstone said.

‘You're right, I normally wouldn't be,' Baker agreed, ‘but, you see, the bloke who asked me for a light was wearing an officer's uniform.'

‘Was he, by God!'

‘Anyway, I was out cold for at least half an hour. When I came to again, I had a bump on the back of my skull as big as a duck egg. I had a massive headache, too, but I knew that the first thing I had to do was check the warehouse – and that's when I discovered that the coffin was gone.'

‘It was stolen?' Blackstone asked incredulously.