The First Casualty (36 page)

‘Punish a dead man? Why?’

There was a long pause before Stamford replied.

‘For not loving me the way he loved that damned Golden Boy! For not loving me
at all
.’

‘Was that why you quarrelled with him, that night in his room? The night he died?’

‘I told you it wasn’t me
…
I’d left…I wasn’t there…I…’ Kingsley waited. It was clear that Stamford was about to break and, sure enough, moments later the young man gave up all pretence. He might have been a good actor on the stage but in a real-life drama he had neither the wit nor the spirit to dissemble further.

‘Yes. I was there. And we quarrelled. I tried to keep my voice down but I was so…
angry
with him.’

‘Because he didn’t love you?’

‘He
used me
.’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ It was Nurse Murray who spoke. She had followed them and stood looking at them now, wiping the rain from her glasses on her nurse’s apron, squinting short-sightedly as the rain dripped from the tip of her nose. ‘You gave him what it was that he wanted from you but he was incapable of giving you what you wanted from him. That is not the same as using someone.

‘He didn’t give me anything!’

‘He gave you his poems,’ Murray replied. ‘And it appears to me that the man who wrote those poems had nothing more to give to anybody, Lieutenant. He was hollow inside.
An empty cup
, as he wrote himself,
drained to the dregs:
A man with a broken heart.’

‘
But not about me
,’ Stamford wailed. ‘His heart wasn’t broken about me! I worshipped him. He was my hero.’

‘He didn’t want to be
anybody’s
hero, Stamford,’ Nurse Murray explained. ‘Can’t you see that? You’ve read his poems. It’s obvious that he’d come to hate the very
idea
of heroes. He hated the fact that his poems had played their part in making people want to
be
heroes.’

‘He was
my
hero. That’s different. I loved him.’

‘And is that why you shot him?’ Kingsley asked. ‘Because he didn’t love you back?’

‘I did not shoot him! I never would have hurt him! I tell you, I loved him.’

‘In my experience love is easily the equal of hate when it comes to provoking murder.’

‘No!’

‘You wanted to steal his poems.

‘No. Never! That came afterwards. After I left…After he’d gone. I wanted revenge because
he’d left me!
’

‘Stamford, he was
murdered
,’ Kingsley pressed.

‘
I know that!
Who was in his room?
Why
was there another man in his room? Had Alan been looking for comfort again? That was his taste, Captain Marlowe, a new fellow, no strings, no attachments — believe me, I know it. Loveless comfort! That was what he took from me. Perhaps he went looking for loveless comfort again? Not every man is as obliging as I was!’

‘You think Viscount Abercrombie was murdered by an angry lover?’

‘Yes! ‘

‘But not you?’

‘No. It was a private, they say. Hopkins. Some poor shell-shocked fellow. I expect Alan couldn’t resist him. Or perhaps Hopkins was blackmailing him and they fought. Alan was in terror that anyone would ever know that he…that he was…’

‘The love that dare not speak its name,’ Nurse Murray said quietly.

‘Yes,’ Stamford replied, ‘the love that dare not speak its name.’ Stamford was shivering now and he began to sneeze, snot adding to the mix of rain, tears and sweat on his waxen face. Nurse Murray was shivering too.

‘We should talk inside,’ she said, ‘get some tea.’

The three of them returned to the conservatory, wet through yet again. Kingsley reflected that no one was ever truly dry in Flanders.

Once towels had been brought and tea made, it seemed that Stamford had collected himself somewhat. At least he had stopped crying.

‘Private Hopkins did not kill your friend,’ Kingsley said.

‘Well, it wasn’t me, I swear.’

‘You were the last person to see him alive.’

‘Except his killer.’

‘Unless you are his killer.’

‘I’m not!’

‘Look at it from my point of view, Stamford, the point of view of the investigating officer. You visit Abercrombie, you have a furious row with him, you are seen sneaking out of his room long after you were supposed to have left the building. Shortly thereafter he is found dead, and now you turn up claiming his work as your own. It doesn’t look good, does it?’

‘No,’ Nurse Murray chimed in, ‘it jolly well doesn’t.’

Stamford’s face had gone from ashen to deathly.

‘Tell me exactly what happened on the night of Abercrombie’s death,’ Kingsley said.

‘I came to visit him during normal hours,’ Stamford said. Then he added defiantly, ‘We had been lovers before, you know.’

‘Yes. I think I had gathered as much.’

‘At first he was friendly. He asked me to stay and for a while I think it helped him that I was there. He was quite shell-shocked and we…we hugged.’

‘But then you quarrelled?’

‘Yes, because I felt used, and also because he had asked me to burn his poems. It made me so angry! I hated the way he’d turned against his writing. Then Nurse Murray made her rounds and I hid under the bed until she had gone. After that I tried to make up with Alan and asked to stay the night, but he was too angry and strange by then and he made me leave.’

‘And you did?’

‘Yes, I did. I swear I did, I swear I never hurt him.’ Kingsley looked long and hard at the shivering young lieutenant.

‘No. No, I doubt that you would. You don’t seem the type to me, not for violence. Besides, my witness recalled that he saw you carrying a music case. He would have noticed if you’d been carrying one of Abercrombie’s boots as well.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing. It’s not your concern.’

‘Can I go then?’

‘Just one other thing. Did Viscount Abercrombie ever mention a green envelope to you?’

Stamford’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘How did you know…? Yes. Yes, he did. But I didn’t have one to give him…I said I’d do my best to get one, but they’re non-transferable, you know, you can’t swap them around.’

‘Very well then, Lieutenant,’ Kingsley said. ‘That will be all for the time being.’

Stamford rose to leave.

‘May I have my poems back?’ he asked Nurse Murray.

‘No. No, I don’t think so,’ she replied.

‘But he…he gave them to me.’

‘He gave them to you to burn. You didn’t do it when he asked you to and I don’t believe I can trust you to do it now.’

‘Surely you can’t mean that you’re actually going to burn them yourself?’

‘Of course.’

‘But they’re beautiful, they’re too good…’

‘And they are also the work of a man who trusted you to dispose of them. It was, as it turned out, his dying wish. I intend to honour that wish.’

Defeated, Stamford walked to the door.

‘It’s funny,’ he said. ‘Do you know, if Alan had let me stay that night, when I asked him, perhaps he’d be alive today.’

‘I rather think not, Lieutenant,’ Kingsley said. ‘You’re a good Charlie Chaplin but I doubt you’d be much of a bodyguard. If you had spent the night with Abercrombie, I believe you would have been killed alongside him. Look at it that way, if you like. He saved your life.’

FOURTY-EIGHT

A rough ride

After Stamford had left, the first thing Kingsley did was to visit the château wireless office and send a telegram to Sir Mansfield Cumming in London:

I believe that the case is drawing to its conclusion. I intend shortly to produce your murderer. Please advise all interested parties
.

Having seen this safely dispatched, Kingsley returned to the main entrance hall intent on once more beginning the weary journey up to the front. On his way out he encountered Nurse Murray, all dressed up for heavy weather in rubber boots and an ankle-length oilskin coat.

‘I presume you’re off investigating again?’ she said.

‘I have to visit Abercrombie’s colonel,’ Kingsley replied. ‘If he tells me what I think he will tell me, then I believe the case will draw to its close. I have telegraphed London to tell them so.’

‘Well, the battalion’s back in the line, as you know, so time is of the essence,’ Nurse Murray said, and with that she handed Kingsley a leather helmet and goggles. Having donned a similar set herself, she led him round to the stable block of the château, where stood a magnificent 500cc BSA motorcycle.

‘Yours?’ Kingsley enquired.

‘Of course it’s mine, you oaf,’ Nurse Murray replied. ‘You don’t suppose I go about the place pinching bikes, do you? I’d pretty soon be collared — girls stand out like sore thumbs around here anyway, especially girls on bikes. Besides, if I
had
pinched it, do you really think I’d tell
you?
’

‘No. I suppose not.’

‘Don’t like coppers. Told you that. Never have. Her name’s Jemima — ’ she indicated the motorcycle — ‘I can’t take her out much any more because she’s a thirsty girl and these days petrol’s dearer than champagne and a damn sight harder to come by. Just let me get her started and then hop on.

She mounted the machine and after only a couple of tries managed to kick-start it. No easy thing to achieve with a cold, wet, 1911 machine, Kingsley thought, particularly for a person of Nurse Murray’s small size. It was obvious she was a fairly experienced rider, a fact which occasioned him considerable relief since the weather conditions were appalling and Murray’s goggles were already thickly filmed with rain.

‘Come on!’ Nurse Murray shouted above the roar as she revved the engine in neutral to warm it up.

The bike had no passenger seat but there was a small luggage rack on which Nurse Murray had placed a rolled-up blanket to create an improvised pillion. Kingsley climbed aboard. As there were no handles, he leaned forward and put his arms around Murray.

‘When I lean, you lean, all right?’ she shouted. ‘Now hang on!’

The engine roared and they were off down the gravel drive. Suddenly the wind and the rain flew into Kingsley’s face and for a third of a mile or so they made quite the fastest progress Kingsley had done with any means of transport since disembarking from the Waterloo boat train. Soon, however, the gravel road ran out and they found themselves riding over the dreaded French cobblestones.

‘Keep your teeth together,’ Nurse Murray shouted as they bounced along, ‘or you’ll bite your tongue off.’

The BSA was bumping and slipping about on the deeply indented wet cobbles and Kingsley could feel the tension in Murray’s body as she struggled to maintain a steady course. She certainly was an athletic type and, although not hugely strong, she clearly knew how to control the power of the machine and harness its erratic and ungainly motion to her best advantage. The road was of course very crowded, and Murray had constantly to stop or swerve to avoid parties of soldiers engaged in what seemed to Kingsley to be the same meaningless two-way scurrying that had continued without pause since first he arrived at the front. There were also numerous potholes and huge puddles to negotiate and Kingsley felt that they would be upset at every moment, but somehow Murray kept the machine upright. Before long, to Kingsley’s great relief, for he had been rattled and shaken to the point where he feared that his joints would be dislocated, they came to the end of the cobbled road.

‘Fifth Battalion East Lancs,’ Murray shouted at a road marshal, who looked as if he had been constructed entirely from mud. ‘Colonel Hilton commanding.’

The man could only wave them forward towards the guns, for the battle was still raging and the confusion everywhere within its orbit was considerable.

Kingsley was about to dismount and thank Nurse Murray for having got him thus far, but before he could do so she had twisted the throttle and launched the machine off the end of the cobbles and on to the chicken wire and planking which was all that lay between the army and the glutinous, sucking mud beneath it.

‘You can’t take this thing any further!’ Kingsley shouted.

‘Captain,’ Murray shouted back, ‘if they can get nine-inch howitzers further forward than this, I think Jemima should be able to make some progress.’

And sure enough, with Kingsley hanging on to Murray with all his might, they slithered, slipped and roared their way forward, forcing a path through trudging men and weary horses, constantly in danger of leaving the road (such as it was) and descending into the swamp on either side.

They passed a tank, the first Kingsley had ever seen. Wiping the mud from his goggles (as he and, more particularly, Nurse Murray had constantly to do), he could see that it had thrown one of its tracks and was now hopelessly bogged. In a ditch, almost upended, its nose was in the air and its two side-mounted guns pointing impotently skywards. It was like some great beached whale in armour plating, at once mighty and pathetic, its very size and strength mocked by its hopeless position. The eight-man crew, filthy, wretched troglodytes, were desperately attempting to commandeer horses in an effort to drag the helpless iron beast out of the hole into which it had sunk.

Finally they came upon the artillery line, those sombre rows of cannon amongst which Kingsley had snatched a few hours’ sleep two nights before. The line was now a hundred yards or so further east, having crept a tiny step or two towards Germany. The men and horses of the Royal Artillery had laboured mightily to move their massive guns forward over the corpses of the infantry in order to consolidate the gains that those dead men had made. At the rate they were progressing, Kingsley realized, the exhausted gunners would not reach Berlin for several hundred years.

‘This really is it for Jemima, I’m afraid,’ Murray said, bringing the machine to a halt. ‘Not even horses move beyond here, only men and rats.’

They both dismounted and could not help but laugh to see each other so entirely and utterly caked in mud. When they removed their goggles, Nurse Murray laughed even more.

‘You look like a panda,’ she said. ‘A very nice but rather startled old panda.’

Artillerymen turned to look at her. Neither laughter nor a woman’s voice was commonly heard in that terrible place. She waved at them and some returned her salutation with a grin, but they looked too exhausted to engage in further communication.

‘You’ll have to wait here till dark,’ she said, turning once more to Kingsley. ‘Can’t move forward in the light. Ping! Bang!
Dead!
Boche snipers are the most dreadful cads but awfully good at their job, you know. Our boys too, of course.’

‘Of course.’

There was a pause. Then Nurse Murray continued.

‘I don’t suppose…I don’t suppose you’d let me come with you? You know, to find Hilton? I’m sure I could make myself useful.’

‘I’m sure that if anybody could, you could, Kitty,’ Kingsley replied. ‘But I don’t think the colonel would appreciate me arriving with a woman in tow.’

‘Not the done thing, eh?’

‘No. Not the done thing at all.’

‘You know there’s two Englishwomen in Ypres who’ve been running a dressing station there since 1915, right through all the battles? Organized it all themselves and everybody’s jolly glad they did.’

‘Kitty, I can’t take you.’

‘Rightly-ho. Only asking.’

Nonetheless, as there were about three hours of daylight remaining, she insisted on staying with Kingsley for at least part of the time.

‘Damned cold,’ she said. ‘We can cuddle.’

They parked the motorcycle and crawled beneath an ammunition limber, huddling together against the chill and damp.

‘So who did it then?’ Murray asked, having struggled for some minutes to light a cigarette for them to share. ‘Who killed Abercrombie ?’

‘I’d rather not say at the moment,’ he replied. ‘Not until I have gathered all the information that I can.’

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘It has nothing to do with trust.’

‘If you get shot, which the chances are you will, no one will ever know the truth.’

‘That’s a chance I shall have to take. Quite frankly, I’m not sure that it matters very much anyway.’

The two of them smoked in silence for a while.

‘Christopher,’ Murray said finally, which confused Kingsley for a moment. ‘I just want to say something and I shan’t say it again so don’t worry.’

Although Kingsley’s considerable vanity did not stretch to matters of the heart, he could tell what was coming and he wished fervently that it wouldn’t.

‘The thing is,’ Murray continued, ‘I know you love your wife and all that, and I think that’s terrif’. No, honestly, I really do. I
love
love. But you know, damn it all, she’s
left you
, silly thing that she must be, and well, here
we
are and…’

‘Kitty…’ Kingsley began.

‘No, let me finish. I’ve told you I shan’t say it again, so you have to listen this once. The awful thing is that I’ve fallen in love with you. Stupid, I know, and dreadfully soppy of me, but there it is. Can’t be helped. And what I wanted to say was…please
do
let’s give it a try. I mean, why not? We have fun together, you must admit, and you did say you think I’m pretty, which I’m sure I’m not but you said it all the same and when you made love to me I rather felt that you meant it, and even if you’re not
in
love with me surely we could just…

‘Kitty, please. You’re twenty-two, I’m thirty-five.’

‘Ha! That’s about right then. It’s well known girls mature earlier than chaps. I could never love a boy.’

‘Look…’

‘I’m sure that girls aren’t supposed to be as forward as this but I am a new woman, you know, and I
told
you that I always speak my mind and…’

Kingsley was so very sad to cause her pain.

‘If I were ever to love a woman other than my wife,’ he began, ‘it would be…

‘
Please, Christopher
. I know you like me, I felt it.’ She turned to him and there were tears running down her cheeks.

‘Don’t run away from this.
I love you
.’

‘Kitty.
I love my wife
. I told you. That’s the point. You’re right, I do like you, I like you hugely. I like you far too much to deceive you.’

She threw her cigarette into a puddle.

‘Fine. Enough said,’ she replied, attempting to sound as if they had been discussing nothing of great importance. ‘No need to dwell. Just wanted to get things straight, that’s all.’

‘I think you’re wonderful, I really do, and…’

Nurse Murray struggled out from under the limber. ‘Look, sorry and all that, but I really should be getting back now. Don’t want to do that journey in the dark, do I? You
will
come back and tell me how it went with the colonel, won’t you? And that you’re all right?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I’m part of this investigation too, you know. I want to see it through.’

The tears were still rolling down her cheeks but she was aggressively ignoring them.

‘Right,’ she said, pulling on her leather helmet. ‘Toodle-oo then. Chin chin.’

‘One thing, Kitty,’ Kingsley said. ‘I don’t want you to burn Abercrombie’s poems. I know how you feel about it but for the time being I want you to keep them safe.’

‘All right,’ Nurse Murray replied. ‘Whatever you say. She mounted her motorcycle, kicked down with angry force, the engine leaped into life and she was gone..