The Dead Can Wait (30 page)

‘Hardly,’ she protested with a small snort of disbelief. ‘The famous Dr Watson? Quotidian?’

‘Oh, I was by then, save the occasional summons by my friend. I am sure her infatuation would have faded over time, but then . . . well, as you know, she was killed. But believe you me, the secret passion is harder than you think to keep just that. How did she react? The wife?’

‘She was perfectly pleasant to me. Polite. I had no inkling at the time. Then, she wrote a letter to the Director of Medical Services, copied to my hospital matron, accusing me of . . . Well, she made out I had gone to see her to gloat.’

It was difficult to condemn the widow, just as it was to censure Mrs Gregson. Such actions always seemed the right course at the time. He still regretted the occasion that he and Holmes had fallen out so badly over his own medical service, yet both of them had been convinced – were probably still certain – that they had been in the right. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I was dismissed from the VADs, of course. The family was well connected, after all. I thought never to nurse again. I tried to enroll in something more . . . mechanical, as you know.’

‘To my mind, you did nothing wrong. You did not confront the wife with evidence. I am sure you never confirmed her suspicions? No, I thought not. I would wager that, even now, she is wondering if she imagined it and did great harm to a good nurse.’

‘VAD’ she corrected automatically.

‘Mrs Gregson, you are as much a nurse as anyone with a piece of paper to show they are a Queen Alexandra sister. Now, I have a question.’

‘About Desmond?’

‘No. I think that is enough of that.’ Watson was ready to change the subject, to move on from her obvious pain. About Churchill. How do you get messages to him?’

She rubbed her forehead, as if shining away all thoughts of Desmond.

‘Through the delivery chap, Littlewood. He drives the grocery van that comes every morning. I use it to bring in medical supplies, but sometimes the list I give contains a message.’

‘And Littlewood radios or telephones that to Churchill?’

‘Not directly. He doesn’t know it’s coded. It goes through the postmistress to London, where I suppose it’s deciphered by Winston’s lot.’

‘I see. Can you get a message to her?’

‘Yes. I’ll send Ridley to the village.’

Watson took a piece of paper and a pencil from his pocket and began to write. ‘I need him to tell her to send an SOS through whatever channels she uses to contact London. In plain English. Churchill is to send a team of Kell’s men up here, double-quick. And for this man to come as well.’ He passed the note over. ‘And I want Coyle’s body shipped back to Ireland and his family. Then they have to seal that village and investigate what, exactly, the two Germans – if they
were
German citizens – were up to. I think you might be right, the spies hadn’t guessed what’s going on here. Hadn’t penetrated the estate, at least. But therein lies the puzzle.’

‘How do you mean?’ she asked.

‘If the Germans didn’t get in and do it, what exactly killed the men in that tank?’

‘And,’ Mrs Gregson said with great deliberation, ‘who was it who locked us in the ice house?’

Swinton was waiting for Watson at the foot of the stairs. ‘I have postponed the tank test for the time being.’ He held up a piece of paper. ‘I have a most extraordinary missive here from Mrs Gregson, about the goings-on last night. We’ve lost Booth. Booth! And her allegations—’

Watson cut him short. ‘She has told me all about it. You can trust Mrs Gregson.’

He looked doubtful. ‘If you say so.’

‘She had the presence of mind to report everything to you.’

‘Yes, well. Somewhat hysterically, I would say.’

Compared to standard army reports, perhaps,
Watson thought. But then it was incredible how dry the army could make the deaths of thousands of men seem.

‘I need you to brief us on exactly what happened in that village last night. I assume you know all the facts?’ Colonel Swinton said.

Watson looked over his shoulder, wondering if it was best that Mrs Gregson did it. After all, she had been there. But he decided not to make her relive it again. And, clearly, his account, even if second-hand, would be held in higher regard than any woman’s. ‘I know enough.’

‘And the business in the ice house?’

‘I can make informed guesses about who did that.’

Swinton rubbed his chin. Watson could see he had shaved – or had been shaved – hastily and that he was worrying at a few bristles on his jaw. ‘Watson, what the hell is going on? Are we compromised?’

‘Up to a point. The Germans will now be even more curious about what is happening at Elveden. I suggest you make security even tighter. This is your operation, Colonel, but my advice is to press on. After all this time and effort . . .’

‘Levass told me you were sceptical about our wonder weapon.’

‘Part of me still is. But I don’t want men such as Coyle to have died in vain, Colonel. If Churchill is right, if you, Levass and Cardew are right, and it will change things for the better, then I think we should proceed. What time was the tank test scheduled for?

‘Three o’clock.’

‘Then I suggest you reinstate it. I want you to gather together all your best tank crews, please. At the trench test site.’

‘Why?’

‘I need to ask for volunteers to restart and drive that damned tank. And I am going to see if I can coax Hitchcock to watch.’

‘Really? Is he up to that?’

Watson shrugged. ‘Last night I thought I saw something, a spark, as if I had broken through—’

He stopped when he heard shouts of alarm coming from outside.

‘What’s that?’ asked Swinton.

‘I don’t know,’ said Watson, as calmly as he could. ‘But it doesn’t sound like good news.’

‘In here, sir.’ The corporal, hoarse from all his yelling, stepped aside and let Watson walk into Hitchcock’s cell.

‘I brought him his breakfast,’ the soldier said, his voice shaking, ‘and he was like that. I didn’t—’

‘Hush now, Corporal. Nobody is blaming you. When did you last look in?’

‘Midnight or so. Sleeping soundly, he was.’

‘You brought him the blankets as I asked?’

‘Well before that, sir.’

‘Can you leave me?’ Watson asked. ‘Ten minutes.’

The corporal seemed glad to acquiesce and, when he had gone, Watson pulled the door almost closed. He crossed over and kneeled beside Hitchcock.

‘Poor Hugh,’ he said softly to the figure on the floor next to the bed. The dead man was lying on a pile of the blankets, curled up, his hands interlocked behind his head, knees drawn up to his chest. Hedgehogged, just like the others. ‘I let you down, didn’t I? I’m sorry, old chap. Looks like that bloody
Genevieve
has the full complement now. All eight of you.’

Watson touched the body. Still warm. He gently moved a limb. Rigor mortis hadn’t taken him yet, so if they moved quickly they should be able to uncurl him from that undignified posture.

He stood, wincing as one knee clicked, and looked around. Not sure what he was looking for, he began to examine every inch of Hitchcock’s cell.

After ten minutes the door swung open, but it wasn’t the corporal. Swinton exclaimed when he saw the coiled shape of the dead tankman: ‘For crying out loud. Hitchcock too? I thought you said you’d had a breakthrough, Watson!’

The major didn’t reply immediately, just licked his thumb where he had burned it on the paraffin heater.

‘Colonel, I want Hitchcock laid out in a cool cellar,’ he said eventually. ‘And I want him guarded, day and night, until I can organize a full post-mortem and pathological investigation. I’d like to do a preliminary examination within the hour.’

‘You don’t think he was . . . ?’

‘Murdered? I don’t know.’ Watson gave a last glance at Hitchcock, crunched up as if expecting a barrage to fall on his head any second. ‘But, for the moment, all I’d say was that this man died of very unnatural causes.’

While he was waiting for the body to be moved and straightened, Watson found time to examine the ground around the ice house. It was, as he expected, churned into mud from all the water that had flowed out of the doors when he and Mrs Gregson had been rescued. There was nothing to be gained from going over that ground. Stooping low, he moved away from the ice house, following the soggy ground until it dried a little, just before the flagging of the gravel path. There, he identified his own boots, but the rest of it was an incoherent riot of hobnails and heels, with only a severely square-toed imprint and Mrs Gregson’s Glastonbury motoring boots standing out from the rest.

‘Sir!’ It was the corporal, hailing him from the steps.

‘Yes?’ asked Watson, straightening.

‘Lieutenant Hitchcock is ready for your attentions now, sir. In the cellar of the main house.’

‘I’ll be right over. Someone with the body now?’

‘Sir.’

‘Good. Give me five minutes.’

The tankman was laid out in the wine cellars of Elveden Hall, a series of rooms that were secured by a heavy oak door. There was a guard outside, as requested, and the key to the area – which still held some of Lord Iveagh’s best bottles – was with Mrs Joyce, the housekeeper.

They had laid Hitchcock out on a gnarled old table, scarred from candle burns and the ring-marks of countless bottles and glasses. He was still dressed, but covered in a sheet. Although there were electric lamps, they were dull affairs, with a light reminiscent of a tallow candle, and Watson lit two ancient oil lanterns. He had looked for Mrs Gregson to assist, but she was nowhere to be found. No matter, he wasn’t going to do a full autopsy.

He pulled back the sheet and looked down at the husk of the tankman. Watson muttered a small prayer, but mainly from habit. He knew from his conversations with Mrs Gregson that they shared an increasing disbelief in any deity. Like every man at the front, he had prayed when he was in the trenches. Who wouldn’t call on help from a supreme being while hell was unleashed around you? And like almost every man at the front, he had come away wondering how God could allow such monstrous happenings. Unless it was pure malevolence on the part of a supreme being, who enjoyed watching his creations destroy themselves in evermore complex and ingenious ways. Perhaps, after all, it was the devil up there, pulling the strings of war.

Can you smell that?

Holmes was never one for pointless philosophical musings. He wanted
facts
, and facts about God’s motives were few and far between. And yes, Watson
could
smell something. Feeling like a self-conscious bloodhound, he sniffed at the corpse, running from head to toe. As he neared the feet he recoiled slightly. He knew that smell, even in its feeble form, as here. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? The damp and the paraffin heater in the cell, perhaps, the perfumed sticks in the music room, might have masked it.

Hitchcock had on Derby pattern shooting boots, rather than regulation issue ‘ammunition’ boots, but that was hardly surprising; many men – especially officers – customized their footwear if they could get away with it. Watson undid the laces, loosened the tongue and its gusset and eased one off. As he rolled the sock down he saw the telltale discolouration and now the smell made him hold his breath.

Gangrene.

Not gas gangrene, the curse of Flanders Field, thank the Lord, nor trench foot, but the old-fashioned sort, familiar from his kind of war in the last century.
But how did that form?
Hitchcock had not been wounded, had not been standing in a trench in icy, filthy water or wearing boots that had crushed his feet.

A thought occurred to him, and Watson looked at the man’s fingers. The tips were discoloured. Two of them were black. That was why he cried when he played the piano. The pain. Not the tune. The pain. Idiot!

Go easy on yourself. This isn’t what you were expecting.

Ha! Good of him to say so. But Holmes always expected the unexpected, thrived on the twists and turns of a case. Gangrene. How had
Genevieve
done that? He wished he had his medical books with him.

Not
Genevieve
. Not the tank.

There was a footfall behind him and he turned, startled. It was Thwaites. ‘Sorry to disturb you, I . . .’ His nose wrinkled. ‘Good Lord, what is that stink?’

‘You’ve never smelled gangrene before?’

Thwaites shook his head, his moustaches oscillating. ‘Not for a long time now. Festering bullet wounds, mostly.’

‘No bullet wounds here.’

Thwaites cleared his throat. ‘Colonel Swinton sends his regards and says, when you are ready, we can begin the new test of
Genevieve.’

‘Of course.’ He held up his hands close to his face. The aroma of necrosis seemed to have clung to his skin. ‘I’ll just go and clean up.’

Thwaites looked at Hitchcock’s body once more, at the swollen, blackened toes on the single uncovered foot. ‘Did that bloody tank really do
that
?

Watson flicked the sheet back over the corpse. ‘That’s what we are about to find out.’

THIRTY-ONE

Thirty-two men gathered in the shade of an oak on the edge of a partially cut field of rye, next to the trenched area that had been used to recreate a version of the Loos battlefield, and where the lozenge-shaped
G for Genevieve
now sat, an innocent, harmless lump of metal. Until someone fired her up. Watson had commented on the rye, it being an unusual crop in the district, but Swinton had told him that the maharajah had loved rye bread, and that the tradition of making it had continued. The harvest, though, had been abandoned for security reasons, and now the over-tall plants lolled drunkenly in the breeze.

Most of the group that gathered to hear Watson were dressed in the overalls that were most convenient for operating a tank. Many wore caps with their original unit badges on them: mostly Machine Gun Corps and Royal Artillery. It was clear that the ‘Heavy Branch’ had been put together in such a rush that nobody had had time to think of uniforms or badges. Yet in Watson’s experience, the
esprit de corps
of any new service – the Royal Flying Corps was a case in point – was vital to its success. And a singular identity was a vital part of that. From his conversations, it appeared everyone was working towards the one big ‘reveal’ when the tanks were unveiled in action. Few people, it seemed to him, had considered the weapon’s long-term future or the sort of unit that would man it, apart from Thwaites, the cavalryman.
Genevieve
and her ilk wouldn’t be a secret for ever. What did they do with them then?