Blackstone and the Great War (26 page)

Oh no, it was more than that, Blackstone told himself –
much
more than that.

It was suddenly all clicking into place for him, and now he could not only see that he had been entirely wrong about almost everything, but
why
he had been wrong about it.

It was not Fortesque's threat to expose their racket that the three musketeers had thought would ruin them – because there had
been
no racket.

And it was not some kind of contraband – perhaps gold – that they had been trying to get their hands on when they stole the coffin from the warehouse in Calais, because the box had contained exactly what it was supposed to contain – the corpse of Lieutenant Fortesque.

He had speculated about why there was no blood on Soames' uniform when he had emerged from Fortesque's dugout to carry out the inspection – and reached a conclusion which he was now almost certain had been correct.

All he needed, he told himself, was a single confirmation with which to frame all the pieces, and then he would have the whole investigation wrapped up.

‘There was another soldier with Fortesque and Danvers on the night that Danvers was killed, wasn't there?' he asked Captain Carstairs.

‘Yes, there was. As I believe I told you, Lieutenant Soames risked his own life to drag the man back to our trench.'

‘And what happened to him?'

‘Happened to him?'

‘Once he was back in the trenches.'

‘I expect that if the bullet was still in his body, it was removed in the dressing station, and that after that extraction, the wound was dressed.'

Blackstone was managing to resist the urge to grab Carstairs by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled – but only just.

‘What happened after the wound was dressed?' he asked. ‘Was the man invalided out – or is he still here?'

‘Good God, you can't expect me to be aware of mundane little details like that. I have a whole company under my command.'

And maybe if you did
know
those mundane details, you might command it better than you do now, Blackstone thought. Maybe if you'd paid a little more attention to what was going on around you, both Private Danvers and Lieutenant Fortesque would still be alive.

‘Who will know what happened to the man who was wounded?' he asked.

‘Ask Lieutenant Soames' sergeant,' Carstairs said. ‘He's
bound
to know.'

TWENTY-ONE

T
he cavernous dugout was located in the reserve trench. It was an outpost – or perhaps a sub-branch – of the quartermaster's store, and it was where Blenkinsop, the hapless servant, had been waiting for the bottles of whisky to be delivered on the morning that Lieutenant Fortesque had died.

Blackstone had no idea who had been in charge of the store on that fateful morning, but the man who was running it now was a young private with his right arm in a sling, who went by the name of Mitchell.

‘I thought this might have bought me my papers back to Blighty,' Mitchell told him, pointing with his left hand at the sling. ‘But when the Doc examined me, he said it wasn't serious enough for that, and I suppose he was right.'

Had the decision that Private Mitchell should stay in France really been a medical one?

Blackstone didn't think so.

What was much more likely was that he was still there because the three musketeers
wanted
him there – where they could keep an eye on him – and that they had put some kind of pressure on the doctor to pronounce the man fit to continue his military service.

‘You must have been quite disappointed when you were first told you wouldn't be going home,' Blackstone said.

‘I was,' Mitchell admitted. ‘But I've no complaints now, because this job is a really cushy number, just like I was pro—'

His mouth slammed shut, trapping the dangerous words which had been just about to escape from it.

‘What were you about to say?' Blackstone asked.

Mitchell looked down at the counter.

‘Nothing,' he mumbled.

‘That's not true,' Blackstone countered. ‘You were going to say you'd been given a cushy job
just like you were
promised
. Isn't that right?'

A look of indecision crossed Mitchell's face as he debated whether to simply deny the obvious truth, or to tell an outright lie.

‘That's right,' he said finally, plumping for the lie. ‘That is what I was going to say. It was the doctor who promised it me, you see. He said he'd make sure I wasn't given any heavy work.'

‘How did you feel about going out on patrol, that night you got shot?' Blackstone asked, changing tack.

‘What do you mean?' Mitchell asked, suspiciously.

‘When your sergeant came up to you, and told you that Lieutenant Soames had selected you to go out on patrol with him, what were your feelings?'

‘I didn't really have any feelings, one way or the other,' Mitchell said, avoiding what he probably thought was one trap, and stepping right into the middle of another one.

‘So it
was
Lieutenant Soames – rather than the sergeant – who chose you,' Blackstone said.

‘I suppose so.'

‘When an officer makes the selection, he usually picks a man he thinks he can rely on, doesn't he?'

‘I wouldn't know. The sergeant doesn't tell you
why
you've got to do something – he just tells you to bloody well do it.'

‘But it makes sense that the officer would think that way, doesn't it?' Blackstone insisted. ‘No Man's Land's a dangerous place, and any officer worth his salt would want good men – men he could trust – covering his back.'

‘Maybe,' Mitchell said, non-committally.

‘So if you're a good man – and we've already both agreed that you are – Danvers, who was the third person on that patrol, must have been a good man, too, mustn't he?'

‘Yes,' Mitchell replied – far too quickly.

‘Listen,' Blackstone said, ‘I'm not trying to blame you or the lieutenant for Danvers' death – we all know that it was just a bit of bad luck that he was killed, and that it could have happened to anybody – but I really would like to know just what kind of soldier he was.'

Mitchell hesitated for quite a while, then said, ‘Well, to be honest with you, I was a bit surprised when the lieutenant chose him for the patrol.'

‘And why was that?'

‘I don't really know.'

‘Yes, you do.'

‘Danvers hadn't been in our platoon long. He was transferred from Lieutenant Fortesque's platoon.'

‘I know.'

‘And from the moment he arrived, Lieutenant Soames seemed to take a dislike to him. He was always picking on the poor lad, and telling him how completely bloody useless he was.'

‘You said
he
told Danvers how bloody useless he was.'

‘That's right.'

‘He told him
personally
– it didn't come from the sergeant?'

‘No.'

‘And did Lieutenant Soames speak to any of the other Tommies in the trench directly?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘
Did
he – or
didn't
he?'

‘He didn't.'

Now wasn't that interesting, Blackstone thought.

‘
Was
Danvers completely bloody useless?' he asked.

‘If I had to have somebody covering my back, Danvers wouldn't have been my first choice,' Mitchell admitted. ‘He was a bit too soft for my liking.'

‘Soft?'

‘Say you've got Fritz charging at you with a fixed bayonet, your first thought would be to stop him – to stab him in the guts – wouldn't it?'

‘It would,' Blackstone agreed. ‘And are you saying that that wouldn't have been Danvers' first thought?'

‘I know this might sound loony, but I don't think it would have been,' Mitchell said. ‘Danvers would have been more likely to look the bloke in the face, and start wondering if he had a wife and kids back home. Course, he'd
eventually
start worrying about himself  . . .'

‘But by then it would be too late.'

‘By then he'd be bloody well dead!' Mitchell paused for a second. ‘Still, he wasn't a bad soldier, in his own way, and he certainly didn't deserve the sort of treatment Lieutenant Soames meted out to him,' he concluded.

‘Tell me what happened out in No Man's Land,' Blackstone suggested.

Mitchell looked suddenly wary again.

‘Danvers got shot, and I got shot, and Lieutenant Soames dragged me back to the trench,' he said.

‘What position were you in when you got shot?'

‘I don't know what you mean,' Mitchell said – though it was perfectly plain that he did.

‘Were you on your knees?' Blackstone asked. ‘Were you bent over in a crouch?'

‘We were flat-out on our bellies. That's how you always cross No Man's Land.'

Blackstone took a step back, and examined Mitchell.

‘The wound's at the bottom of your left shoulder, isn't it?' he asked.

‘That's right,' Mitchell agreed, uneasily.

‘I don't see how you could have got shot there if you'd been lying on the ground.'

Mitchell gave a half-shrug, which was all that his injured shoulder would allow him.

‘Funny things happen in war,' he said. ‘You know that yourself.'

‘I'm investigating a murder,' Blackstone said, with a new harshness entering his voice. ‘If anybody gets in the way of that, I'll see to it that they're punished with the full rigour of the law – and since it's
military
law out here, that will probably mean the firing squad.'

‘But I don't see what Lieutenant Fortesque's murder could have to do with what happened out there in No Man's Land,' Mitchell said, in a voice so weak that it was almost a whimper.

‘Who said we were talking about
Lieutenant Fortesque's
murder?' Blackstone asked. ‘Tell me exactly what happened – while you've still got the chance.'

There is only one way to cross No Man's Land, and that is on your belly. It's easy at first – so easy that you feel you could keep going forever. But after a while, each extra few yards become an effort. And then it is every
single
yard you are struggling to cover, until you reach the point at which you feel that even one additional foot would be too much.

‘But you have to go on,' Mitchell tells himself.

Because that's what you've been ordered to do by your officer, and because you don't want to admit – even to yourself – that you might not be as tough as the next man.

This night, the three of them – Lieutenant Soames, Private Danvers and himself – have only gone a hundred yards or so when Soames says, ‘I'm heartily sick of this!'

Mitchell feels a surge of relief.

Soames has had enough, he tells himself. He's going to call it a night, and turn back.

But he soon learns that that is not what the lieutenant means at all.

‘Why should we crawl around like animals?' Soames asks. ‘We're men. We should walk on two legs, as God intended.'

Mitchell feels his stomach turn to water. ‘We'll be bigger targets if we stand up, sir,' he says.

‘Bigger targets?' Soames repeats. ‘It's the middle of the night, and it's pitch black out there. We could be dancing around a bloody maypole, and they still wouldn't see us.'

‘But, sir  . . .' Mitchell protests.

And then he is aware that the dark shape to his left – which is Lieutenant Soames – is suddenly upright.

‘Stand up, Private Mitchell,' Soames says. ‘You, too, Danvers. And that's an order.'

If he stands up, there is a chance a random shot in the dark will pick him off, Mitchell thinks, but if he disobeys a direct order, there is a certainty that he will be facing a firing squad by the end of the week.

He stands up, and, from the noises he hears next to him, knows that Danvers is doing the same.

That's when the flare goes off – a terrible crimson light, arcing through the sky.

The next moment, Mitchell feels a thud to his shoulder – as if he has been hit by the largest, heaviest sledgehammer that had ever been made. And then he is down on the ground.

‘Where was the flare fired from?' Blackstone asked.

‘It's hard to say,' Mitchell admits – and he is being honest, rather than evasive. ‘I didn't know anything about it until it was overhead.'

‘But once it's reached its zenith, it starts to fall to earth again, doesn't it?' Blackstone asked.

‘Its zenith?' Mitchell repeated.

‘Once it has gone as high as it's going,' Blackstone explained. ‘When it's reached that point, it comes down again, doesn't it?'

‘Yes.'

‘So which way was it falling? Was it going to land close to the enemy's trenches, or was it going to land close to ours.'

‘I wasn't really thinking about that,' Mitchell said. ‘I was much more interested in the fact that I'd been shot in the bloody shoulder.'

‘If you had to choose one or the other, which one would it be?' Blackstone persisted. ‘Come on, man – think!'

‘It was falling towards the Fritzes' trenches,' Mitchell said reluctantly.

It would have to have been, Blackstone thought. Given the timing, it would have been too much of a coincidence for it not to have been.

‘Tell me what happened next,' he said.

It feels as if a giant has taken hold of his arm, and is attempting to wrench it out of its socket, but at least there is some consolation to be drawn from the pain, because as long as he is hurting – and God, he is hurting – he is not dead.