She watched the chauffeur get out and limp round to open the rear door. The road accident that had broken Legge’s limbs and scarred his face had been a godsend. Nobody would ask about why he wasn’t serving now. It had saved his life. She waited for the newcomer to emerge from the vehicle. It was a shock when the person who emerged turned out to be a
boy
.
But no, there was another figure, struggling to get out. First came a stout walking stick, followed by the long, spindly fingers of the free hand, which the boy took. The man shuffled to the edge of the seat and, with assistance from Legge, struggled upright.
He stood for a few moments, the effort having taken something from him.
He was even older than she had imagined on the telephone. Stooped and frail. Who at that age gallivanted about the country in taxicabs and on trains? However, it suggested to her that whatever this man had to say, he believed it important. Why else put himself to what was clearly a great deal of trouble?
Lady Stanwood watched as he positioned himself between the boy and his stick and began a slow but stately progress towards the hall. It was his back that troubled him, she could tell from the tiny steps he took. After a few yards he stopped and used his walking stick to point at the oleanders. Legge nodded the answer to his question, whatever it was.
The man bent down, cautiously, and whispered something in the lad’s ear, then the strange entourage continued on its way towards the house. She had arranged for Mrs Talbot and Mr Steen the butler to greet him. She herself would be in the library when he entered. Time to take position.
She had misgivings now. Had she done the right thing? Bimmy’s death had been terrible to behold, but nothing this ancient crock could say would bring him back now. She would listen politely and send him on his way. After all, her primary concern – her only concern now – was to make sure Robinson de Griffon, Lord Stanwood, survived this war to enjoy his inheritance.
Ernst Bloch heard the rasp of the Mercedes engines and looked up at the sky. A flight of Albatros two-seaters burst out from behind the trees, almost low enough to do some impromptu pollarding with their undercarriages. They had taken off from the airfield to the east of the sniper camp. As they wobbled overhead, wings dipping in the crosswind, he could see the racks of hand-bombs sitting on the fuselage next to the observer. They were on a combined spotting and bombing mission over enemy lines.
Once they had spiralled into a climb to gain altitude, he went back to the trestle table in front of him, on which was laid a captured British SMLE rifle attached to a peculiar contraption. It was known as a periscope rifle. Such was the accuracy of Bloch and his counterparts, it appeared the British had been forced to adopt this remote firing device.
The rifle was more or less standard. Not as accurate as the Mauser, but with a very good action that made for a rate of fire the German weapon could not match. However, it had been modified with a long brass tube housing the telescopic sights, which fed into a prismatic device. That formed into a box periscope, with, some 50 centimetres below the rifle, the eyepiece. It meant that a Tommy could poke the gun over the parapet and line up a target without showing himself. There was even a lever device for pulling the trigger remotely.
Lux had asked him to evaluate the weapon. He had seen similar devices from Kahles. This model, the inscription told him, was made by E. R. Watts and Son of Camberwell Road, London.
Well, he would tell Lux, he wouldn’t order any sights from Mr Watts. The system was ingenious, but calibrating it for accurate fire would be a nightmare. It was hard enough to make sure a standard telescopic sight was properly set up. This was too complex for anything other than random fire in the general direction of the enemy. Still, he thought, he could give it to young Lothar Breuchtal to try on the range. A whole day of tests. Don’t come back until you have hit six bulls in a row. That would keep him out of his hair.
Bloch lit a cigarette and stared up at the circling specks of the biplanes. They formed up into three separate wings and moved off to the west.
Lothar was getting under his skin. He was like a young puppy, or perhaps a cousin that idolizes his older relative. There was no escape from him. Bloch might even be on the latrine and Lothar would come and plonk himself down next to him and start with the questions. What sights did he prefer? Goerz or Kahles? And why? How important was crosswind? How often should you recalibrate a scope? What were the British trench loopholes made of? How did he rate the penetrating power of the Krupp ammunition versus the
S.m.K.
?
On and on it went. Much as he had enjoyed helping devise the school curriculum with Loewenhardt, he couldn’t wait for no man’s land, where the rule was enforced silence. Perhaps Lothar would explode like a landmine with the effort of staying quiet. They would find out soon enough.
He could see the lad coming towards him now, one hand held on his cap to stop it blowing away, the other holding a piece of paper, a smile on his face.
Bloch puffed on the cigarette and kept his features neutral.
‘Unteroffizier Bloch!’
He remained impassive in the face of the grinning ball of enthusiasm heading his way.
The boy stopped before him, breathless and flushed.
‘Orders from Lux. The British have just moved in an untried unit to the front line in our sector.’
‘Our’ sector. He liked that. Kid hadn’t even seen it yet.
‘What are they called?’
‘Part of . . .’ he looked at the paper, ‘. . . the Lancashire Fusiliers. The Leigh Friends.’
Bloch nodded, dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out. ‘Chums’ was a more accurate translation. Well, he thought, whatever they called themselves, they wouldn’t be chums for much longer. Not living ones, anyway.
Watson had just read the telegram from Egypt and was digesting the contents when Lieutenant Tobias Gregson arrived. The major had been anticipating this all morning. Staff Nurse Jennings had suggested that the man must be a relation of Mrs Gregson, but Watson had assured her this was unlikely, once he had discovered the man’s Christian name. He knew Tobias Gregson of old. He must be almost the same age as Watson, certainly no more than ten years younger – what a gap in age and experience that had seemed at the time.
Miss Pippery ushered the policeman into the transfusion tent where, in the absence of any major offensives or hate bombardments, Watson was still the only patient. ‘Major Watson, sir,’ Gregson said, as he took off his red cap.
Watson was confounded. The man was thirty years junior to the chap he had expected. He had a young, unlined face and a handsome black moustache. His eyes were bright and unclouded, with dark hair swept back from the beginnings of a widow’s peak. This was certainly not the Tobias Gregson he had once known.
‘Lieutenant Tobias Gregson of the Military Foot Police, Investigations Division. Are you all right, sir?’ He glanced at the VAD. ‘I can come back.’
‘No, no. Miss Pippery, some water, please.’ He took the glass and gulped. ‘And tea? Lieutenant?’
‘Splendid, yes.’ He waited until they were alone. ‘How are you, sir?’
‘Well,’ said Watson. ‘They tell me every day from now on I should treat as bonus. I’ve won the tontine. Lucky to be alive.’
‘We are all pleased you are, Major.’ He unbuttoned his top pocket and took out a notebook. He adopted a more formal tone. ‘I am here to investigate the exact circumstances that led to the death of a soldier at Suffolk Farm.’
‘Which soldier?’
‘And also, I am afraid, to evaluate your role in the proceedings.’
‘Why afraid?’
Lieutenant Gregson sighed. ‘My superiors feel that you should have involved the RMP earlier, sir.’
‘Do they? And been laughed at?’
The policeman shook his head in a grave manner. ‘We take this very seriously.’
‘Only now there has been a casualty you can’t blame on blood transfusion.’
He looked puzzled. ‘You’ve lost me there, sir.’
‘Pull up that chair, Lieutenant.’ The policeman did so and Watson gave a quick recap of the deaths of Hornby and Shipobottom, and the near-demise of de Griffon.
‘I see,’ he said in a manner that suggested he had no such insight.
‘And had I suggested that in the midst of the carnage of the Western Front, someone was taking the time to murder fellow soldiers, I would have been given short shrift. I get the distinct impression you MPs are more concerned with AWOLs, desertions and traffic control than actual crime.’
Gregson looked offended by the slur. ‘That’s primarily the mounted division. At the beginning of 1915 twenty of us were seconded from Scotland Yard—’
‘You’re from the Yard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Now he was really confused. ‘I knew a Tobias Gregson. Of the Yard.’
‘I know, sir. He told me all about you. My father.’
‘Really?’ He couldn’t help feeling a warm glow at such a connection to his old life. ‘Holmes always said he was the best of the Scotland Yarders.’
Gregson nodded, then added with a twinkle, ‘He also said that wasn’t actually saying all that much.’
Watson, who had been the real author of that comment, said, ‘Nonsense. We always liked him. How is he?’
‘He passed away just before war broke out.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes. Although in a way, a blessing. He would have hated,’ Gregson waved his notebook around the ward, ‘all this. All this noble sacrifice, as they call it. He would even hate me being here. But I must get back to the matter in hand.’
‘You can begin by telling me the identity of the man shot by Captain de Griffon.’
The lieutenant flipped a few pages in the book. ‘It was a sergeant. Man called Platt.’
‘Platt?’ Watson almost shouted the name.
‘You’d met, apparently.’
‘Yes, he helped me saddle poor Lord Lockie. The horse that had to be put down. Why on earth . . . ?’
‘We think the reason he killed Sergeant Shipobottom was to take his place. Promotion.’
‘Promotion? And de Griffon? The man who promoted him?’
‘Perhaps he was afraid the captain would change his mind. Or discover the murder. He also had a written undertaking from de Griffon that he would have a position as a tattler in the mills once hostilities had ceased. It’s some kind of overlooker, by all accounts.’
Watson grunted his assent. ‘Oversees the looms, I believe.’
‘Well, with the captain out of the way, I have no doubt that the family would have honoured the appointment.’
Watson didn’t feel the usual excitement that came when a solution presented itself. Instead, he heard the swirl of waters being muddied. ‘And me? Why try to kill me?’
‘Perhaps you were getting close to the truth.’
It wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. ‘Not to that truth, Lieutenant. That truth wasn’t even a twinkle in my eye.’
The tea arrived. Watson was glad of the interruption. The whole business didn’t make any kind of sense to him. There was an inevitability about, an elegance to, the correct interpretation of a series of events. He had seen it time and time again, a golden thread running through a Gordian knot of dead ends and diversions. Not in this case. ‘You’ve spoken to de Griffon?’
‘Yes. Something of a broken man, sir,’ said Gregson.
‘After shooting Platt? Understandable.’
A slight raise of the eyebrow. ‘After shooting the horse, I think.’
‘Ahh. Of course,’ said Watson. ‘So, will the Military Police take action against de Griffon for the killing? Of the soldier, not the horse.’ Although with the British Army, one could never be sure. Sometimes there were more tears shed over one dead pony than a thousand slaughtered men.
Gregson shook his head. ‘Good officers are in short supply. He acted in self-defence. And to rescue you. We are assuming the balance of Sergeant Platt’s mind was disturbed.’
Watson picked up the telegram and handed it to the policeman. ‘Read that.’
‘Sugar?’ Miss Pippery asked.
‘Two please,’ said Gregson, as he read. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘My friend Anwar in Egypt. A doctor who helped me with the transfusion experiments. I asked him to investigate the death of a captain in Egypt. Leverton. He died sometime after I left the country.’
‘Cyanosis,’ the policeman read.
‘A blue colour to the skin.’
‘Thank you. Terrible grin. Spastic limbs . . .’
‘And?’
‘A roman numeral carved on one arm. Post mortem.’
‘Which numeral?’ Watson prompted.
‘The number two.’
‘Two. Which suggests this man was the second victim. If Platt was the murderer, this little spree began back in Egypt. Perhaps before. We still have no idea who number one might be. You’ll need a motive to explain all that. A promotion to sergeant and the promise of a foreman’s position just won’t do.’
‘You don’t suspect who number one might be?’
‘No. And we aren’t certain yet that Hornby is three.’
‘And could you be mistaken about Shipobottom’s mark?’
‘I could be mistaken about a great many things. But I’m sure that was a number four on Shipobottom, not random scratches.’
‘And Captain de Griffon . . . if he was a potential victim?’
‘He should have a “V”, a Roman five. But remember, Shipobottom’s marks were post mortem. The poisoner might have intended to score de Griffon once the toxins had done their work.’
‘I see.’ Gregson looked thoughtful. ‘Does that not suggest the murderer might be someone who would know he would have access to the body?’
‘Such as?’ Watson asked.
‘A doctor. A nurse.’
‘An orderly, a stretcher-bearer or a gravedigger,’ Watson completed. Talking of which, where was Brindle? he wondered. ‘Possibly. We don’t tend to guard our dead as well as we might, though.’
‘Thank you,’ the policeman said to Miss Pippery as she handed him the tea. He took a sip and smiled. ‘Perfect.’
‘Sir, I hope you don’t mind me interrupting, but we have a Mrs Gregson here. Or did have until recently,’ said Miss Pippery.
‘I have interviewed her. At Bailleul hospital.’