Blackstone and the Great War (27 page)

Madness has broken out over No Man's Land, with the troops in both lines firing wildly into the darkness. And soon, when the two sides are organized enough, there will be machine-gun fire raking the ground – because while no one knows exactly what is out here, everyone knows it needs killing.

Through the pain, Mitchell becomes aware that someone is talking to him.

‘Are you hit, Mitchell?'

The speaker is Lieutenant Soames, now no longer standing like a man, but flat out on the ground next to him.

‘I asked you if you'd been hit,' Soames repeats.

‘Shoulder,' Mitchell grunts.

‘Can you make it back to the trench unaided?'

‘Don't think so, sir.'

A pause.

‘I'm going to have to drag you,' Soames says. ‘It'll hurt like hell, but it's better than leaving you out here.'

‘It
did
hurt like hell,' Mitchell told Blackstone. ‘It took three times as long to get back to the trenches as it had taken to get into No Man's Land, and every inch was pure bloody agony.'

Blackstone nodded curtly. It was a nod which said that he might eventually show Mitchell some sympathy – but he was not going to show it yet.

‘Who was it who had a quiet word with you when you were back in the trench?' he asked.

‘I don't know what—' Mitchell began.

‘Was it Lieutenant Maude?' Blackstone demanded.

‘Yes, it was Maude,' Mitchell admitted.

‘You look like you could use some fresh air,' Maude says to the two orderlies in the dressing station.

The orderlies look at each other, and then at the officer.

‘We're supposed to be watching the patient, in case there are any complications, sir,' one of them says.

‘Did you hear me?' Maude barks. ‘I said you could use some fresh air. And you could use it right it now!'

Reluctantly, the orderlies step out into the trench, and the moment they have gone, Maude sits down opposite Mitchell.

A smile comes to the lieutenant's face, though it is totally devoid of either warmth or sympathy.

‘You've had a bit of a rough time,' he says.

‘Yes, sir,' Mitchell agrees.

‘Would you like a cigarette? I'll light it for you, if you can't manage yourself.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

Maude lights the cigarette, and hands it to Mitchell.

‘You do realize that Lieutenant Soames saved your life out there, don't you?' Maude asks.

So he did, Mitchell agrees silently, but if he hadn't made me stand up, he wouldn't have bloody needed to!

‘I can read what you're thinking,' Maude says.

‘Can you, sir?'

‘Yes, and you're quite right. If we were being totally honest with each other, we'd both have to admit that what Lieutenant Soames did out there was a big mistake, wouldn't we?'

‘It's not my place to say, sir,' Mitchell replies cautiously.

‘A big mistake,' Maude repeats. ‘But you will also admit, won't you, that despite that mistake, he remains a courageous and gallant officer?'

There is only one permissible answer, and Mitchell gives it.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Private Danvers is dead, and there's nothing we can do to bring him back to life, however much we might wish to,' Maude continues, ‘so it's the living we have to consider now. You wouldn't want to see the career of a fine officer ruined by one momentary misjudgement, would you?'

‘No, sir.'

Maude nodded, sagely. ‘And neither would I,' he says. ‘So if anyone asks you what happened out in No Man's Land – and it doesn't matter whether that person is an officer or whether he is just an enlisted man – it might be wise not to mention the fact you were standing up when you were shot. Do you understand what I'm saying? What I've just done is give you my permission to lie to an officer. You
do
understand that, don't you?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Good,' Maude says. ‘And in return for your cooperation, I will see to it personally that, for the remainder of the war, you are given a cushy billet, and never have to go out on the front line again.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

Maude walks to the door, then turns around again.

‘You will remember what I said about telling no one what really happened, won't you?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘That applies
particularly
to Lieutenant Fortesque. If he questions you – and he is almost bound to – you are to be
especially
careful with your answer. Understood?'

‘Understood, sir.'

‘He had a point though, that Lieutenant Maude, didn't he?' Mitchell asked Blackstone, defensively. ‘Everybody's entitled to one little mistake, and it would have been a shame if it ruined Lieutenant Soames' career.'

‘Besides, you were frightened about what might happen if you didn't cooperate, weren't you?' Blackstone asked.

‘It's never a good idea to cross an officer,' Mitchell admitted, ‘specially a cold bastard like Lieutenant Maude.'

‘And the idea of a cushy number really appealed to you, because you saw it as your chance to get through this whole bloody war in one piece.'

‘There's that as well,' Mitchell agreed.

‘So you agreed to lie.'

‘What would you have done in my place?' Mitchell demanded.

‘I'd like to think that I would have refused,' Blackstone said. ‘But I can't be absolutely certain that I wouldn't have acted in exactly the same way as you did.'

The reserve trench zigzagged, in much the same way as the front-line trench did, and it was not until Blackstone had turned the first corner beyond the quartermaster's outpost that he saw Lieutenant Maude.

The young lieutenant was standing in the very centre of the trench, waiting for him. He had no weapon in his hand at that moment, but he was far enough away to have easily drawn his pistol by the time Blackstone reached him.

‘I was rather hoping it wouldn't come to this,' Maude said.

They'd been watching Mitchell, Blackstone thought.

He should have considered that possibility.

He should have taken more care.

‘When you're already in a hole, the best thing to do is to stop digging,' he advised Maude.

The lieutenant laughed. ‘
Au contraire
,' he said, ‘the best thing to do is
keep on
digging, so you'll have plenty of space to bury your mistakes.'

‘It's over,' Blackstone said.

‘Indeed it is,' Maude agreed, looking beyond the other man's shoulder.

And as Blackstone realized that what he should have been wondering was where Soames was, Soames himself swung a sock full of sand and hit the inspector squarely on the back of the head.

TWENTY-TWO

H
is return to consciousness was slow, erratic and uncertain – like a fire which is catching hold, but may still yet die back.

At first, all he could focus on was the angry buzz which was coming from somewhere in the back of his brain.

Next, he became aware of himself as a physical presence – a presence which, moreover, was sitting down, and did not seem to be able to move either its arms or its legs.

A minute passed, and the angry buzz transformed itself into what he recognized was a stream of words, though each word followed on so rapidly from the one which preceded it that they still meant nothing to him.

Another minute ticked by, and the words – spoken from the bottom of a deep metal jug – began to make sense.

‘What are we going to do with him?'

‘What we
have
to do!'

And what they have to do is kill me, he thought. Now they've gone this far, they have no choice.

He kept his eyes closed, knowing that the moment they realized he was back with them, they would rob him of what little freedom he still had.

‘We
can't
kill him. Not like this – not in cold blood!'

Hatfield!

‘Of course we can. He's nothing – a piece of working-class scum, who thinks that just because he's employed by Scotland Yard, he has the right to ride roughshod over his betters – and if it comes to it, I'll crush him in much the same way I might crush a cockroach.'

Soames!

‘When you talk about the honour of the regiment, Benjamin, it's just words, isn't it? I suppose we shouldn't expect any more of you. I, on the other hand, am prepared to do whatever it takes to avoid tarnishing its proud reputation.'

Maude!

They were all there – the three musketeers.

But exactly where
was
there?

Even though his head had cleared, the three men's words still had a slightly hollow sound, which would suggest that they were in a small, enclosed space.

A dugout – probably in a trench which had long since been abandoned, and thus was the perfect place to commit a murder!

His hopes of survival were slim, Blackstone told himself, but if he could find a way to turn the musketeers against each other, there was still a small chance that he might come out of all this alive.

He opened his eyes. Just as he had suspected, he was in a dugout, and was tied to a chair.

And there they all were, revealed in the flickering light of an oil lamp – Maude sitting across the table from him; Soames standing behind Maude; and Hatfield uncertainly hovering near the entrance to the dugout, as if he would rather not be there at all.

‘Welcome back, Inspector Blackstone,' Maude said sardonically. ‘It was rather inconsiderate of you to keep us waiting for quite so long.'

‘If you didn't want me to keep you waiting, then you shouldn't have hit me quite so bloody hard, should you?' Blackstone replied.

Maude laughed. ‘That was Lieutenant Soames' doing, I'm afraid. He's a fine chap, our Roger – but he can be a little heavy-handed sometimes.' He paused. ‘Would you like a drink of water?'

‘If it's no trouble,' Blackstone said.

‘It's absolutely no trouble at all,' Maude said graciously. ‘Give him a drink, Hatfield.'

Hatfield crossed the dugout, picked up the jug which was easily within Maude's reach, poured some water into a tin cup, and held the cup up to Blackstone's lips.

‘Is that better?' Maude asked.

‘Yes.'

Maude nodded. ‘Good – because, before we've finished, you have a lot of talking to do.'

‘Is that right?'

‘Indeed it is. Before we've finished, you're going to tell us exactly what it is that you know.'

‘I know a great deal,' Blackstone told Maude.

‘A great deal, you say. Would you care to give me an example of that knowledge?'

‘I know, for one thing, that I've been on the wrong track for most of this investigation, and that the three of you
didn't
kill Lieutenant Fortesque.'

‘Are you  . . . are you prepared to swear to that?' Hatfield gasped.

‘Yes,' Blackstone said.

‘Oh, for God's sake, does it matter whether he's willing to swear to it or not?' Soames asked exasperatedly. ‘He's not a gentleman – his word is not worth the breath it takes to give it.'

‘He doesn't have to be a gentleman if he's willing to swear to it with his hand on the Bible,' Hatfield said desperately. ‘And if he really doesn't believe we killed Charlie, we can let him go.'

‘And give him the opportunity to file charges against us for assault?' Soames asked. ‘Have a worthless creature like him appearing as a witness against us at our court martial? I'd rather die.'

‘But if he was
also
willing to promise that he'll say nothing about what happened here today  . . .'

‘He'll promise anything that you want him to promise,' Soames said, with obvious disgust. ‘Don't you see that? He'll tell any amount of lies in order to save his own miserable life.'

‘They're fools, aren't they, Blackstone?' Maude asked mildly. ‘Complete bloody idiots.' He turned to his two friends – if they
were
his friends, if his huge ego had ever been capable of encompassing friendship – and continued, ‘The reason that Blackstone has reached the conclusion that we didn't kill Charlie is because he knows what we really
did
.'

‘Do you, Blackstone!' Hatfield screamed. ‘Do you?'

‘As I told you earlier, I know a great deal,' Blackstone replied. ‘I know why you put those two privates – Clay and Jones – on a charge, Lieutenant Hatfield, even though you knew that by doing so you were making yourself look weak and incompetent.' He grinned. ‘It was
always
going to be you who was going to put them on the charge, wasn't it? There was never really any question of it being Soames or Maude?'

‘There  . . . there were good reasons why I was the one chosen to do it,' Hatfield said.

‘I'm sure they
sounded
good, when Maude explained them to you,' Blackstone replied. ‘We both know how persuasive he can be. But whatever he said to you, it simply wasn't true. The
real
reason you were chosen was that you were the one with the least amount of honour to lose – and deep down inside yourself, you know that.'

‘You're wrong,' Hatfield protested. ‘We discussed it, and we decided that I should  . . .'

‘All right, all right, have it your own way,' Blackstone said dismissively. ‘What else do I know? I know why Maude went to see Fortesque shortly before he died. I know why Soames smashed in Fortesque's skull half an hour before stand-to, and I know why you felt it was vital to steal the coffin from the warehouse in Calais.' He paused for a second. ‘I also know, Lieutenant Hatfield, why Maude ordered you to attack me with the tent peg mallet.'