Blackstone and the Great War (17 page)

‘Are you rebuking an old man for his self-pity?' the General asked sharply.

‘No, sir, I'm simply stating a fact,' Patterson replied.

‘Yes, I suppose you are,' the General said, reflectively. ‘Why do you want to know about those three young lieutenants?' he continued, suddenly switching tack.

‘Because they may be pertinent to our enquiries,' Patterson said, in his official voice.

‘In other words, you're not going to tell me.'

‘That's right, sir.'

The General nodded.

‘They were all three at Eton with Charlie. Two of them – Maude and Soames – attended a number of my house parties, but Hatfield was never invited, for some reason, so all I can tell you about him is that his grandfather was a brewer who eventually bought himself a title.'

Patterson chuckled. ‘You sound as if you disapprove,' he said.

‘Why would I disapprove?' the General asked. ‘If a tradesman wants to spend a fortune to gain the ermine robes, then good luck to him. After all, it will probably impress his friends – and it's not as if he's fooling anyone who really matters.'

‘Tell me about the other two,' Patterson suggested.

‘I'm not quite sure what it is you want me to say,' Fortesque replied. ‘They are both – in their own ways – fine young men.'

‘In their own ways?' Patterson asked, pouncing on the qualification.

‘What I mean by that is that if I was still on active service, I would have no hesitation in having them on my staff. They both love their country and would die for it without a second thought – and a commander can ask no more than that from his officers. However, I cannot say that I actually
like
either of them.'

‘Why is that?'

‘William Maude is something of an intellectual. I expect that, if he survives the war, he will go up to Cambridge and do quite brilliantly.'

‘And what's wrong with that?'

‘Nothing at all. We need our deep thinkers, just as much as we need our men of action. But, in my opinion, Maude values his intellect just a little
too
highly. He's a little like a cat that has caught a mouse.'

‘I beg your pardon, sir.'

‘He plays games with other people's minds, for the same reason that a cat plays with its prey – for his own cruel amusement. No doubt it's all very clever, but it does not sit well with me.'

‘And Soames?'

‘Roger Soames is quite a different case. He's a big strapping lad, which you would have thought would give him all the confidence in the world, but he used to follow Charlie around like a devoted puppy.'

And yet, according to Blackstone's telegram, he was the one most likely to have murdered Lieutenant Fortesque, Patterson thought.

‘You sound as if you disapprove of his devotion,' he said aloud.

‘It was more that I felt sorry for the boy,' the General confessed. ‘We all have our heroes – we wouldn't be human if we didn't – but it seems to me that the heroes we choose should be an inspiration to us, someone who we might strive to be like ourselves one day. And much as I loved my young Charlie, he was still only a boy, who had yet to make his mark on the world.'

Perhaps that was the key to the whole investigation, Patterson thought. Perhaps Fortesque had been Soames' hero, and when he had failed to live up to the image of him that was burned into his friend's mind, Soames had felt so betrayed that he had killed him.

But that still didn't explain how Hatfield and Maude had become part of the conspiracy – if, indeed, there had been a conspiracy at all.

An old gardener shuffled slowly past, pushing a wheelbarrow with evident signs of effort.

‘How are all the daffodils doing, Danvers?' General Fortesque called after him.

‘They're doing fine, sir,' the other old man called back.

Fortesque shook his head sadly, as if what he had just heard merely confirmed what he already knew.

‘There have been no daffodils for the last four months,' he said. ‘That man used to be the best head gardener in the county. I've lost count of the number of prizes he's won me. Now I have to employ two extra men to undo the damage he does to my gardens. I should have pensioned him off years ago, but I knew it would break his heart, and I simply couldn't bring myself to do it. And now, of course, I don't suppose I'll
ever
be able to do it, however bad he gets.'

‘Why's that?' Patterson asked.

‘I'm not the only one who's lost a grandson,' Fortesque said. ‘Danvers' grandson bought it in France, just a few hours before Charlie was murdered.' He paused for a moment. ‘As I told you, I was devastated when I learned they'd lost Charlie's body, but now I've come to realize that, in a curious way, I was also relieved.'

‘Oh!' Patterson said, non-committally.

‘You see, it didn't seem quite right to me that my own grandson should be brought back for burial, while Danvers' grandson – who was also a soldier – languished in a shallow grave in No Man's Land.' Fortesque smiled. ‘After my remarks about Hatfield's grandfather, I've surprised you, haven't I?'

‘Yes, I think you have,' Patterson admitted.

‘I've surprised myself,' the General said. ‘Whoever would have thought that an old dinosaur like me would speak about my grandson's body and my gardener's grandson's body in the same breath – almost as if they were of equal importance. It seems so modern – so democratic.' He sighed. ‘But then I suppose we're all going to have to get used to a lot more democracy once this war is over.'

FOURTEEN

S
ergeant Winfield beamed with both pleasure and anticipation when he saw Blackstone enter the telegraphy office.

‘You've had a reply from that Sergeant Patterson of yours,' he said. ‘Now there's a man who really knows how to write a telegraph. He says more in twenty words than most people manage to say in a hundred. And damn intriguing words, they are, too.'

‘Could I see the—' Blackstone began.

But Winfield was in full flow, and was not about to be interrupted. ‘I like to imagine what the writer looks like when I'm taking the message down,' he said, ‘and I see your sergeant as a tall, pale, handsome man, a bit like a poet, with flowing black hair. I'm right about him, aren't I?'

‘It's certainly a quite remarkable description – and one I'm sure he'd be very happy with,' Blackstone said, picturing Patterson's expanding girth and thinning ginger hair. ‘Do you think that I could possibly see my telegraph now, Sergeant Winfield?'

‘Of course you could,' Winfield said, reaching on to the desk and handing it to him.

The message was a short one, but very much to-the-point.

Body+went+missing​+in+Calais+stop+Bloody+funny​+business
if+you+ask+me+stop+More+on​+the+three+musketeers+to+​follow+stop+Archie​+stop+end

‘See what I mean,' Winfield said, tap-tapping away on his desk with his index finger. ‘Is that intriguing or what?'

It was intriguing, Blackstone thought. And Archie Patterson was quite right – even allowing for the fact that there was a war going on, it
was
still a bloody funny business.

‘I need to speak to the redcaps in Calais,' he told the sergeant.

‘To check up on your missing body, no doubt,' Winfield said.

‘That's right,' Blackstone agreed. ‘Is there a phone here?'

‘Well, there is – and there isn't,' the sergeant replied. ‘We've still got the connection from the old post office days, but it's not in use.'

‘I see,' Blackstone said. ‘Well, in that case—'

‘Now if you were a captain or a major, I'd look at you with a straight face and tell you it was a technical impossibility to reconnect it,' the sergeant said, ‘but since you're neither of those unpleasant beasts, I'll stick a few wires together and see what happens.'

It took twenty minutes – and a great deal of electrical sparking – before Winfield was able to contact an operator, and another ten minutes before Blackstone heard a scratchy voice at the other end of the line say, ‘Provost Marshal's Office, Corporal Baker speaking.'

‘This is Inspector Blackstone, of New Scotland Yard,' Blackstone said. ‘I wonder if you could help me with—'

‘Good Lord! Inspector Blackstone! Fancy hearing from you, sir!' the military policeman interrupted.

‘Do I know you?' Blackstone asked.

‘I should say you do, sir. I'm Corporal
Bob
Baker – though in happier times, I was
PC
Bob Baker, a member of the finest police force in the world.'

‘The East India Docks!' Blackstone exclaimed.

‘The East India Docks!' Baker agreed.

It is late one night in June 1911.

Blackstone is hot on the trail of a prostitute-slasher who leaves notes next to his victims signed ‘The New Ripper'.

But this man is no icy Jack. On two different occasions, he has vomited close to the scene of his grisly crime.

Ellie Carr says this combination of violence and revulsion is indicative of a certain serious type of psychological disorder with a long Latin name, and believes he probably can't help himself. Blackstone doesn't care about that – his sympathy is with the victims, and any disorder the killer might be suffering from will soon be cured by the hangman's rope.

He is crossing the dock, heading for the merchant ship on which he has been warned the murderer is attempting to stow away, when he hears the police whistle blowing.

It is not a normal measured blast, it is a frantic, panicked plea for help, and, without even thinking about it, he turns and sprints towards the distress call.

By the time he gets there, Bob Baker is already on the ground, bleeding copiously from a wound in his side, and the two drunken Lascar sailors, who are standing over him with evil-looking knives in their hands, are just about to finish him off.

Blackstone drops the first sailor before the man even knows he's there, but overcoming the second one – who is both a better fighter and forewarned – is trickier, and by the time he goes down, Blackstone is bleeding too.

‘You saved my life that night,' Baker's scratchy voice said.

‘I only did what any officer would have done for any other officer,' Blackstone replied awkwardly.

‘If it hadn't been for you, I'd have been a goner for sure,' Baker persisted. ‘So if there's anything I can do for you now – and I do mean anything at all – you only have to ask.'

‘That's good to know,' Blackstone said. ‘And, as it happens, Bob, you might be able to help me. I'm out at the front line at the moment, investigating a murder, and—'

‘Where exactly on the front line are you?' Baker interrupted, suddenly sounding much less enthusiastic and considerably more wary.

‘It's a little place called St Denis,' Blackstone replied.

‘Ah,' Baker said, ‘so the murder you're investigating is Lieutenant Fortesque's, is it?'

‘That's right,' Blackstone agreed. ‘It appears that his body went missing in Calais, and I was wondering if you could fill me in on the circumstances surrounding the disappearance.'

‘I'm not sure  . . . I don't think  . . .' Baker began.

And then he fell silent.

Blackstone slowly counted to ten, then, sensing that Baker was about to hang up, he said, ‘Are you still there, Bob?'

‘I'm still here,' Baker replied. ‘Is it  . . . is it really important to your investigation to know what happened to the body?'

‘I can't say for certain – but it may be.'

Another silence.

‘I'm in your debt, Inspector, but there's only so far I dare go,' Baker said, finally.

‘If there's anything you can do for me – and you do mean anything – then I only have to ask,' Blackstone quoted back at him.

‘We need to talk, sir,' Baker said.

‘We
are
talking,' Blackstone pointed out.

‘But not over the telephone,' Baker said firmly.

The soldier sitting on the collapsed wall close to Blackstone's billet was doing his best to assume the nonchalant air of a man who had nowhere in particular to go, and so had decided that where he was now was as good a place as any.

He didn't even come close to pulling the deception off. Instead, he resembled a puppy which had heard its master's key turn in the door, and is almost wetting itself in anticipation.

It was too soon – far too soon – for Mick to be making a report, Blackstone thought. He hadn't had nearly enough time to have done the spadework necessary to come up with anything useful.

But you can't come straight out and tell him that, can you, Sam? he asked himself.

It would be
cruel
to tell him. It would quite destroy the new self-assurance which Mick had found in his role as a police inspector's unofficial assistant. It would douse the enthusiasm which was so obviously bubbling up inside him.

No, he couldn't tell him. Instead, he would listen to what Mick had to say, express great interest, and then gently suggest that he might find something even more relevant if he followed a slightly different line of inquiry.

Blackstone glanced up and down the street to check they weren't being observed, then signalled that Mick should follow him into his billet.

The moment they were inside, Mick lit up a cigarette – and then started talking at nineteen to the dozen.

‘Cor blimey, but it's a different world out here from what it is in England, ain't it, Mr Blackstone?' he asked.

‘Yes,' Blackstone agreed. ‘It certainly is.'

‘It changes people, you know. I met a couple of blokes I used to knock around with down on the Old Kent Road. Well, they've been over here for a few months, and they're not the same blokes I knew at all.'