A Study in Murder (15 page)

But the woman had let slip the weakness in her plan. The look in her eyes told Miss Pillbody that Mrs Gregson was acting out of sentiment. Miss Pillbody knew the feeling of old. She herself had
enrolled in the Sie Wölfe because of a mixture of love for her dead husband and the desire to avenge him. That had been expunged during the training. There had been no sentiment left; even
when she began an affair with Hersch it had been a pragmatic choice, a way of getting the best assignments. Oddly, it was Hersch who had shown worrying signs of emotion when it came to her
deployment abroad. He had even offered her an administrative post in Berlin instead, as if that would have satisfied her after all those months of training. The putty at the core of even so-called
Iron Men never failed to amaze and sicken her.

But Mrs Gregson was also pliant and malleable at heart, for she was proposing something even a She-Wolf would consider insane or suicidal or both. Still, Miss Pillbody thought, if she could turn
the tables, use this deranged woman for her own purposes . . .

Lost in her thoughts, Miss Pillbody heard the rustle of feet on coconut matting just a moment too late to react. A splayed-out hand pressed down on her head, the pressure irresistible, and she
was quickly under the water, fighting for breath, her limbs thrashing, fingers scrabbling for a grip on the sides of the bath. She could feel other hands on her, holding her ankles and wrists. She
opened her eyes, and through the distorting lens of the broiling surface, she could just make out three figures, each with swollen, dark heads. Golliwogs were drowning her, she thought, as her
airways filled with the bath’s contents.

One of the trio took a fistful of her hair and she was yanked clear into the air. She expelled the lungful of water with a series of barking coughs. Before she could recover her composure, an
open palm stung her face and the flannelette rag was forced into her mouth. Miss Pillbody could see now that the three attackers had pulled thick prison-issue black stockings over their heads to
disguise their features; all that she could see were the eyes, burning with hatred through hastily ripped holes. She gagged against the rag in her mouth, sure she must suffocate. A sense of panic
rose in her, and a silent scream filled her head.

One of the three held a pottery bottle and she cracked it against the rim of the bath until it shattered, causing a series of razor-edged shards to drop onto the tiled floor. The woman picked up
one of them, a long, tapering triangle, and leaned over Miss Pillbody, who tried to twist, to kick and scream, but it was useless. She was held fast. All she could do was close her eyes once more
as the tip of the improvised dagger approached her skin.

So they weren’t out to kill her. Just disfigure her, as she had the Dryden woman.

A woman or man without clothes is exquisitely vulnerable. Any training is forgotten in an attempt to protect their modesty and their private parts. It was why Hersch had insisted the Sie
Wölfe at his camp wrestle, run and fight naked for a good proportion of the time. Hence Miss Pillbody had few inhibitions, not once her training kicked in. And the moment it did so, the scream
in her skull stopped dead.

She pulled one hand free, oblivious to the friction burns on her wrist as she twisted it from the grip. The blade hidden between her buttocks needed a few more sessions before it was a perfect
prison weapon. But needs must.

The point sliced through the wrist of the attacker who was twisting her hair. As the grip loosened, Miss Pillbody yanked away, ignoring the splinters of pain rippling across her scalp as a
fistful of hair came away. The eyes staring from the stockings made perfect targets and she jabbed at the woman’s left one. She fell back with a squeal. Eyes had always been a Pillbody
speciality.

Now for the one with the pottery shard. Miss Pillbody grabbed the wrist, pulled the woman close, felt her slap against her breasts, and stabbed up and under the ribs, before pushing her back
towards the third woman. Blood was pooling and streaking the water now. She reared up from the bath, crouched slightly, ready to parry the next thrust. Miss Pillbody pulled the rag from her mouth
and took in several deep lungfuls of air. The cry she let out, the howl of the She-Wolf they had practised, was amplified into something unworldly by the room’s tiled surfaces.

Then, as quickly as it had started, the assault was over. The pack of imbecilic would-be assassins and mutilators were stumbling out of the door. No matter, she would be able to find at least
two of them later from the wounds. And she would deal with them then.

She looked down at her glistening body. Some of that blood swirling in the bath was hers. She had a gash running from the side of her left breast almost to her navel that she didn’t recall
receiving. It was only now beginning to sting. She replayed the frenzied moments of the attack in her mind, but could not isolate the moment she received the cut or who inflicted it. She would have
lost marks for that at the academy.

Miss Pillbody stepped from the bath, careful not to pick up any splinters in the soles of her feet from the shattered pottery, and used the linen square to dab at the bleeding. Red globules
continued to well from along the break, as if someone was blowing tiny bubbles from beneath her skin. It would need a dressing.

She dropped the towel and went next door to fetch a larger piece of material. In the far corner was Gray, the bathing wardress, wrists and ankles tied and a laundry bag over her head. Miss
Pillbody contemplated cutting the ropes, but that would reveal her weapon. Instead, she secreted the knife above the doorframe, pulled off the bag, removed a gag, and set about the knots.

‘Miss Pillbody, thank you,’ gasped Mrs Gray, blinking hard. ‘But you are hurt.’

The curtain of blood busy pooling around her groin certainly looked spectacular, but Miss Pillbody knew it was a superficial injury. Still, she permitted herself a theatrical wince. ‘It
can wait, ma’am. Let’s get you free from these first. Must be cutting off the circulation,’ she said, unthreading the bindings.

From the grateful look in Mrs Gray’s eyes she knew she had just gained an ally. Perhaps Mrs Gregson’s
verrückt
plan might work after all.

Silk on skin. A hot bath, with some of those new Radox salts in it. A glass of something rich, a tawny port perhaps, or a glass of Bristol cream or . . . a brandy. A warming
cognac or a Solera Gran Reserva. Or a hot toddy, a Laphroaig, a slice of lemon peel, hot water and a spoonful of demerara. One of Holmes’s favourites. Even in his febrile sleep,
Watson’s lips smacked at the thought of these choices.

Next, clean underwear, nothing too fancy, just freshly laundered cotton next to the skin. Oh, why not something fancy? It was all a dream anyway. Why not push the boat out? So, perhaps a
Smedley’s Anglo-Indian combination, the softest merino wool and white silk. Like being kissed all over by Maude Fealy’s lips. And new socks, straight from the packet, a pair of
Morley’s cashmere would do nicely and . . .

He groaned, like a man who has gorged on too much of Simpson’s game pie, and turned over, his delusional state suggesting the ticking pillowcase was caressing his cheek like the softest of
fingertips.

His eyes snapped open. It
was
the softest of fingertips, or at least his face was resting on gloriously fine-threaded cotton, made plump by duck down, not shredded paper. Now Watson
understood, now he knew the truth. He had died and gone to heaven, or at least the place his dying mind had wished for. Perhaps these were the final few seconds on earth, before the blackest of
curtains fell for ever. If so, he thought, closing his eyes once again and relishing the cool touch of the material, there were worse ways to go.

‘You are awake, I see, Major.’

Watson opened an eye. There was a vast plain of white as far as he could see. He raised his head slightly and opened the other eye. Before him was a pillow, an enormous, fat, soft pillow,
stretching away, like a sea of cotton he could sail across. He was aware that his legs were swaddled in something cool and caressing. Up above was a billowing canopy, sporting a family crest in the
centre. He was in a bed, a four-poster. On top of his covers was a heavily embroidered eiderdown, adorned with the same family crest, writ large in gold and red thread. He lifted the top layer up,
taking the sheet with it. Underneath, he had on clean underwear. Not the Smedley of his dreams, but white and laundry-fresh.

The room was bright enough to hurt his eyes after the cell and he had to squint to take in an over-ornate wardrobe, a dressing table and the man standing next to the washstand.

Watson blinked away the tears from his watering eyes until he could focus on the figure. He still wasn’t certain that he hadn’t passed over. This could be an antechamber, a prelude
to heaven, hell or purgatory. But the rumble in his stomach and the dryness of his mouth suggested he wasn’t yet beyond all earthly woes.

‘Where am I?’ he croaked.

‘Alive, at least. Be thankful for that.’ The accent was slight but unmistakable. The German had on an impeccably tailored uniform of the
Sanitätswesen
, the German medical
corps. His face was sharp and sallow, and his black hair sparse. He had bags under his eyes the size of steamer trunks. He took out a packet of cigarettes and moved across to the bed. He offered
one to Watson, who shuffled up in the enormous bed until he was upright and accepted it. The man lit it, then passed him a porcelain ash-tray, again with that crest, which featured two bears
holding a shield that bore a maiden with flowing locks. The motto underneath was in Latin:
Aut suavitate aut vi
– either by gentleness or force. Watson thought that if it referred to
the bears’ intentions towards the young woman, it was in very poor taste. It was the kind of crest Hugo Baskerville might approve of.

‘Your uniform has been fumigated and laundered, Major Watson. You’ll be free of those little friends. For a while, at least.’ Watson took a lungful of the dark tobacco and held
it in his lungs for a moment. Not dead and gone to heaven, but close enough.

‘I’m sorry,’ Watson said, once he had exhaled. ‘You have the advantage of me.’

‘Dr Ernst Steigler, late of the Kaiser Wilhelm Bavarian Respiratory Clinic. Your heart and lungs, by the way, are in decent shape, considering. There is some inflammation in the left lung,
perhaps, but I can give you something for that.’

‘What I am doing here?’ Watson looked at the doctor. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Me? For my sins, I am a medical inspector for the Army Group that runs this and several other camps in this district. I was on a tour of the ones around Einbeck but was summoned back here
somewhat urgently and told there were two things to take care of. A patient who must be brought back from the brink . . .’

So he was still in Harzgrund. This must be a room in the big house. ‘Medical inspector? Have you been out there?’ He pointed to the window. ‘There is much that needs your
attention.’

Steigler nodded, sadness and possibly shame in his eyes. ‘I know that. And it offends me mightily,’ he added defensively. ‘I can only offer recommendations to the High Command
and make protests to the commandants. If you saw the conditions at some other camps . . .’

‘I have never really been convinced by that argument.
If you think we treat our servants badly, you should see how the Monroes down the street beat theirs . . . if you think our gas is
bad, wait until you see German flame-throwers.
That someone is worse doesn’t wash as an excuse for cruelty and neglect.’

‘I repeat,’ said the doctor more forcefully, ‘it is out of my hands. I simply make my reports and obey orders.’

‘So why am I here? Why have I been pulled out of Stubby to . . .’ a wave of the arm took in the ridiculous opulence of his surroundings, ‘. . . all this?’

Steigler puffed on his cigarette. As he did so, Watson noticed how red and raw the skin was on the back of his hand. It was a common affliction among medical staff, given the powerful carbolics
and bleaches used, but rare in a senior doctor. Steigler caught the appraisal. ‘I am afraid the medical facilities at some of the camps are very crude. I have no nurses or orderlies to
assist. I do, literally, get my hands dirty. And bloodied.’

Watson nodded. He, too, had found himself at the ‘sharp end’ of the medical war when he had been in Flanders and knew the niceties of the peacetime ward quickly went by the wayside.
‘So what is this all about? Why am I no longer in a cell?’

‘All will be revealed, I am sure, when you see the commandant.’

‘Mad Bill?’

The use of the nickname didn’t seem to surprise the doctor. ‘Mad? Mad like a fox. You be careful. I’ve never known anyone be given such accommodations before. You must be a
very valuable prisoner.’

‘How long have I been here, in this room?’

‘Two days. I gave you a sleeping draught to allow your body to recover. I shall send up some coffee. I think the commandant wants to see you. Perhaps he will feed you some of his fine
pork. If you are strong enough.’

‘I’m strong enough,’ Watson admitted.

‘Be careful. A little at a time. And chew well.’

‘I am fully aware of how easy it is to overwhelm the deprived body,’ Watson replied stiffly.

‘Of course you are.’ Steigler stood. ‘You know, I don’t like this situation any more than you do. I had a teaching position before the war. I would have it still, but for
. . .’ he paused. ‘I made enemies. A few indiscretions here and there. But for those, I would still be in Munich instead of trudging from charnel house to . . .’

‘What was the second?’ asked Watson, recognizing an imminent dose of self-pity coming his way.

‘What?’

‘You said you were summoned here for two reasons. One was to treat me. The other was . . . ?’

‘Death certificates. We have been reclassified as a category B camp by those meddlers at the Red Cross. They have begun insisting on death certificates for all inmates. So they can notify
relatives and also to prevent summary executions, or so they say.’