A Study in Murder (22 page)

The admiral put down his glass and glowered at Von Bork. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that I can’t keep a secret?’ he growled.

‘No, not at all, it’s just that—’ he stumbled.

Hersch let out a roar of laughter. ‘I am joking. You are right, of course. Keep it secure. I’ll use handpicked men.’

Von Bork shifted uneasily in his seat. He didn’t like the way this was going. Why was Hersch interested in Von Bork’s little act of revenge? The spymaster played on far bigger
stages. ‘Handpicked for what, sir?’

‘The cinematic film crew.’

‘The . . . you want to film the exchange?’ He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. ‘Watson for Holmes?’

‘Yes. It would be an excellent first outing for the UFA. The Universum Film AG. Our new propaganda arm.’

‘You plan to use this to Germany’s advantage?’

Hersch beamed. ‘Of course. Why else would I let you run with it?’

‘But to what end?’

Hersch managed to look as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. ‘My goodness. You have grown rusty. I knew you needed lubricating, but really . . .’

‘Holmes is a retired old man.’

‘Holmes is an icon. A legend. People follow him, believe in him. If we can have the great detective declaring the war has been a terrible, futile waste of British lives and should be
halted at once . . .’

‘Yes, yes, I see that. But I have met the man. He won’t do that.’

Hersch held a steady gaze.

‘Not unless . . .’

‘Precisely. Not unless we break him.’ The admiral drained his Sekt. ‘And break him totally. Now, where is that Lemberger?’

It was a particularly grim second
Appell
that day. A slanting, icy rain was falling from the sky, hitting the skin like a shower of needles. Men shuffled over the mud
into line, tempers ready to flare at any slight, intended or not. The guards, too, snarled and snapped more than usual and prodded and poked with butts and bayonets. Everyone on that parade ground
wanted to be off it as soon as possible. Kügel, of course, did not appear on his terrace. Roll call was left to his deputy, the flute-voiced Hauptmann Musser, who had the efficient manner of a
librarian who worried about his books being out of alphabetical order.

As he stood shivering, Watson thanked providence for the return of his boots. Cosy feet – thanks also to the unfortunate
Sayer’s socks – counted for plenty on such a miserable, objectionable day. As soon as the roll call was completed, Watson hurried as quickly as he could to the makeshift canvas marquee
outside the kitchen block, where he was one of the first in line for a tin mug of the fatty globules that was the lunchtime soup. He helped himself to a large crust of bread and, as he crossed over
towards the rec hut, wolfed down both elements, unconcerned about taste or texture. Fuel, he told himself, that’s all it was, although pretty low-grade stuff, to be sure.

Watson knew he was being manipulated. Once back in his billet, the whole incident with the soft sheets and the wonderfully seductive bed had seemed like a strange dream. There had to be more to
that whole . . . he struggled for the word . . . charade. That’s what it had been: a charade. He recalled how it often took an oblique approach to ignite Holmes’s curiosity. Watson had
on many occasions pointed out in the newspaper over breakfast a tale that he thought might snap Holmes out of some torpor or other, only to be dismissed with a curt
aperçu
, which put
the potential case into context or, just as often, the dustbin. However, leave the same piece of journalism lying around or, indeed, dismiss it oneself, and Holmes might just turn his beady gaze
upon it and Watson would almost feel the vibrations of that great brain cranking into action.

Watson could not boast of such a brilliant mind, but he recognized an attempt by Kügel to engage such faculties as he possessed. The talk of the supernatural, the strange method of dying,
the hasty burials. Kügel and Steigler suspected foul play in their camp but assumed – correctly, Watson thought – that it would be impossible for any German to get to the bottom of
it. They also gambled on the fact that considering such a case might help Watson pass the time until his release, minutes and hours that were otherwise sure to drag their feet, as if they had been
snapped into manacles.

There is something not quite right here, Watson. Can you smell it? Feel it? An air of corruption, of decay pervades this place.

Watson ignored the fanciful ghost in his head and entered the recreation hut. He was pleased to find he had it to himself. His fellow prisoners were still waiting in line for their meal or had
retreated to their billets to eat in the relative warm and dry. There were signs of recent occupation, hastily abandoned cards, a chess set frozen in something close to the endgame, although he
resisted the temptation to move to checkmate. The hut contained a home-made dartboard, studded with wooden darts, a ping-pong table, a library of well-thumbed books – Verne, Childers, Scott,
Conrad, Hardy, Stevenson, Dickens, Collins and, as Peacock had said, a scattering of his own works.

There were four smallish round tables with matching chairs, all rough-hewn but well constructed. Three of the tables had been in use, but the fourth was bare of any evidence of games or other
occupation. This, he surmised, must be the site of the séance and death.

A close look at the surface confirmed that thought. The wood was stained with something the colour of aged claret. Blood, he assumed. When he had first met Holmes at St Barts, the detective had
been working on a method for detecting bloodstains. Watson remembered him running towards him shouting: ‘I have found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing
else.’ Sadly, the re-agent had proved unstable and, therefore, unsuitable for everyday police work, but Watson wished he had some of it with him at that moment.

He carefully examined the tabletop, then the chairs and finally dropped to his knees and put his nose close to the floor, as if he were a supplicant, praying to his god.

‘Major Watson, are we disturbing you?’

Watson banged his head on the table as he struggled to his feet. It was Lieutenant-Colonel Critchley and two other men, one of whom he recognized as Henry Lincoln-Chance, boot thief. Watson
straightened his clothes. ‘Gentlemen.’

‘Might I ask what you are doing?’ Critchley demanded.

Watson cleared his throat. ‘I heard that three men passed away here a few nights ago. As camp doctor—’

‘Look, Watson, I don’t have to tell you what being in a place like this does to the minds of some men.’

‘Pickering and the like,’ said the unknown newcomer. ‘Forgive me, Major, I’m Rupert Boxhall, Royal Flying Corps. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
He held out his hand and Watson took it.

As they shook Watson gave a quick appraisal. He certainly looked like a flyer; he had the floppy hair and swagger of the newest service. Pilots often reminded Watson of over-enthusiastic cocker
spaniels. ‘Boxhall of the furniture makers?’

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

Watson pointed at the tables and chairs. ‘These are your work?’

‘They are. Although not quite up to Father’s standards, I am afraid. Been a while since I was on the shop floor. How . . . ?’

It was an educated guess, given the fresh calluses on his right hand, as if he had been gripping a hammer or similar implement. ‘Oh, we used to have a Boxhall desk at one of my practices.
Very sturdy. And it’s not a common name.’

Lincoln-Chance stepped in and also offered to shake, his eyes glancing down to Watson’s boots. ‘And I’d just like to say I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. We’d
been bowled a bit of a googly when you arrived. If we’d known then who you were . . .’

‘Yes, well,’ said Watson, taking the man’s hand without too much enthusiasm. ‘I’m just glad to have them back.’

‘They were damn fine boots. Sorry to see them go,’ he said with a winning smile that dimpled his chin. The man must have broken plenty of hearts back home, Watson thought.

‘I will have to ask you not to investigate this matter any further, Major,’ said Critchley once the pleasantries were concluded.

‘Why is that?’

‘Morale,’ said Lincoln-Chance. ‘Such mania as these three had,’ he pointed to the empty chairs, ‘can be as contagious as typhus. As you know from Colonel Critchley,
me, Rupert here and a chap called Hulpett make up the Escape Committee. Nobody really escapes, but we work as if they do.’

‘And one day,’ said Boxhall, ‘when Kügel and his thugs are on the back foot, we’ll have a mass break-out.’

‘But at the moment, we simply plan,’ said Critchley.

‘That’s all very well—’ Watson began.

‘Major, as senior officer in the camp I am ordering you to desist. We all know your background, but I am afraid we don’t want any of your Sherlock Holmes shenanigans. These three men
believed they could talk to the dead, which as we all agree, I hope, is complete tommyrot.’ Critchley had grown red in the face. ‘I hear you will be leaving us shortly. So please do us
the courtesy of not interfering with the smooth running of the camp. We’ll still be here when you have your feet up in front of the fire in Holland sucking on a Sumatran cigar.’

Lincoln-Chance and Boxhall nodded their agreement.

‘Well, if you put it like that . . .’ said Watson.

‘I do,’ said Critchley, relaxing. ‘Sorry to pull rank. I have a couple of favours to ask. Do you think you can still run your surgeries for the next few days? It would be a
great help, clear up the minor complaints.’

‘Of course.’

‘Splendid. I’ll circulate a book, see who needs an appointment, eh? I’ll have it delivered to your hut this evening and you can sort out a roster.’

‘And the second?’ Watson snapped, impatient to be away now he could no longer continue with his inspection.

‘Bit embarrassing this, Major. But had I known who you are, I would have jumped at the chance of a story for the
Harz and Minds
magazine. I can’t believe I hesitated. Like
asking Charles Dickens to take a written test before accepting anything by him.’

‘I’m hardly in—’ Watson began.

‘Before you set off for Holland, do you think you could leave us something?’

‘Most of us have read everything there at least two or three times,’ said Boxhall, pointing to the sad library. ‘And some of the blighters who get books from home simply
won’t share them around.’

‘Something fresh would be most welcome,’ agreed Lincoln-Chance. ‘From a real writer, like yourself.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Watson, still stinging. He wasn’t about to be paid off so easily with some flattering remarks. But he could see there was nothing
else he could achieve in the hut. His mind ran through his next moves. First, find out if Steigler was still on site. He had something he needed. Second, get the money he owed to the German in the
solitary block – one never knew when one might need the good graces of such a man again – and thirdly, task Harry with catching him a couple of rats. ‘Can’t be hard in a
place like this.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Critchley.

Watson discovered he had spoken out loud and quickly said: ‘Finishing a story. Can’t be hard in a place like this. Not much else to do.’

‘Very good,’ said Critchley.

‘If you’ll excuse me then, gentlemen, I have work to attend to.’

But not the sort they imagine, eh, Watson?

In fact, back in his billet Watson did take up his pen once more, allowing time to slip, so that he was catapulted back into the long-lost world of the 1890s.

Watson had some trouble with the end of this section, trying hard to create something that might, for instance, make a reader of the
Strand
instantly crave the next
issue. In the end he settled on:
At that moment I heard the slamming of the door and looked around to see that Sherlock Holmes had left the carriage.

Watson stopped the account when Harry came back with a jute sack that was twisting and spinning in his hands. ‘Blimey,’ he said, holding it at arm’s length so Watson could see
for himself the turmoil within. ‘I reckon they’ll kill each other if you don’t get ’em out of there soon.’

‘Much trouble catching them?’ Watson asked.

‘Best you don’t know about that, sir. There’s more around that kitchen hut than might make you comfortable, if you get my drift. You know those days when meat suddenly appears
in the soup? I reckon—’

‘Yes, quite, Harry,’ said Watson quickly, not wishing to dwell on the fact that he had found tiny bones in the bottom of his dish on more than one occasion. ‘I want you to ask
Peacock out there if we can borrow one of the wicker baskets he gets sent from home.’

‘Righty-oh.’ Harry expertly knotted the neck of the sack and laid it on the floor, where it continued to writhe.

‘And some sugar, if he has any, Harry.’

‘Sugar? I’m sure he has.’ Harry left and Watson looked back over what he had written. Just one more chapter, he estimated, with the denouement and it would be done. Not quite a
classic Holmes story, perhaps, and not one where the detective produced the solution with a flourish. But that might act as a corrective. He was only too aware that he had celebrated
successes and relegated most of the failures to his locked files, now with Cox & Co. He stood and looked out of the grimy window. The sleet has coalesced into snow, falling lazily with a
seesawing motion. The churned ground was already covered in a fresh blanket and he could see it settling on the roof of the rec room, the tin hut and the other barracks. As before, he marvelled at
how that flattering dusting could transform even the meanest of scenes into something approaching beauty. But his breath against the pane told him there would be a sting in this
snow-fall’s tail as the thermometer dropped further.