The Dead Can Wait (7 page)

‘We’ll need to pay a visit to your home at some point, Major. We’ve asked your housekeeper to pack a bag,’ Gibson said as they crossed the river at Battersea.

‘I’ll need my copy of the
BMJ
, too.’ Watson said absentmindedly. He had been halfway through a fascinating article by a Swedish physician on the use of diet to treat particular forms of anaemia, and there was another on a new anticoagulant for use in blood transfusions he hadn’t even started to read. With medical science galloping headlong into new areas, spurred by the terrible casualties of war, it was imperative Watson kept up with the latest developments. ‘And my Empire medical kit. The letter asked specifically for it.’

‘Of course. But it makes sense to call at Mayfair first.’

‘Mayfair? Since when has Sherlock Holmes lodged in Mayfair?’

Gibson didn’t answer.

‘Shouldn’t be detained too long, and we can be on our way,’ said Coyle.

‘And how many days am I to be packed for?’

‘As long as it takes, Major.’ Gibson winked at Watson, just to let him know his evasiveness was nothing personal. In fact, Watson liked the chubby little ex-sapper. It was his current profession he found hard to swallow.

They were motoring along the King’s Road now and, with all the barracks nearby, there were plenty of soldiers on the street. A brass band comprising injured veterans was outside the Duke of York’s, and Watson marvelled at the dexterity of the maimed men in playing their instruments. The ensemble, known as the New Contemptibles, included Jack Tyler, the one-armed trombonist, who had been bought his instrument by readers of the
Daily Mail.
He, at least, had a future of sorts, gaining a fame he could capitalize on in the music halls and variety theatres.

Too many amputees, though, were already reduced to begging while the government bureaucracy sorted out its pension plans. Along with hundreds of other doctors, Watson had lobbied the Admiralty, Chelsea Hospital and the Army Council to have war neurosis or neurasthenia recognized as battlefield-derived damage. So far, they had been promised that the proposed Ministry of Pensions would look favourably upon such claims. But promises weren’t feeding families.

Watson turned to speak to Coyle when he heard a loud bang from over his shoulder. A black landau, of the sort he hadn’t seen for some years, appeared at their side, the sleek horses dangerously close to the bonnet of the Deasy, the wheels a blur as the polished body of the carriage drew level.

Gibson leaped at Watson, his hands grappling with his head and shoulders. Watson fought back, until he realized what the man was trying to do and allowed himself to be forced down into the footwell. Coyle was shouting something and Watson felt a jolt as the car mounted the pavement. It gave a shudder and halted.

Watson looked up at Gibson, his face inches from his own. He could smell peppermint on the man’s breath.

‘A little forward, perhaps, Gibson?’ Watson said.

The spy sat back up and Watson saw that Gibson had pulled a serious-looking revolver from beneath his jacket.

‘Sorry, Major,’ said Gibson, yanking him up and adjusting his lapels. Coyle was out of the car, a starting handle in his hand. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, alert for any change in the scene, scanning faces. The pedestrians all but ignored him. Cars were still an unpredictable nuisance to many people, and there were plenty of drivers who had trouble knowing where the road ended and the pavement began. Coyle, Watson suspected, wasn’t one of them. That had been an emergency defensive manoeuvre.

Around them traffic was flowing again. The landau was nowhere to be seen.

‘False alarm,’ said Gibson with a half-smile. ‘Everyone is a bit jumpy, what with one thing and another.’

Watson didn’t enquire what the one thing, or indeed the other, might be. He retrieved his hat and straightened his jacket, trying not to show his concern. Experience told him one thing: when men like Coyle and Gibson got jumpy, there was usually something worth getting jumpy about.

They drove down Mount Street, and Watson wondered if the Coburg Hotel was their destination, but they motored on by the grand frontage, watched by the doorman, who seemed disappointed such a grand conveyance was not turning in to deliver guests. They eventually parked outside the premises of James Purdey & Sons, at the corner of South Audley Street. The window still held an elaborately scrolled, matched pair of shotguns and several beautifully crafted hunting rifles, as well as all the accessories required for a good shoot, but Watson knew that most of the company’s expertise was being utilized by the War Department to create new weapons for the battlefields of Flanders. The pheasant, the grouse, the stag, the tiger and the elephant would have to wait. Purdeys were bagging Germans now.

Coyle was still tense as he turned off the engine and the Deasy shivered to a halt. The Irishman slipped out of the driver’s door and looked up and down the street, before he signalled Watson to step from the rear.

‘You all right, Coyle?’ he asked.

‘I will be, once we are away from here.’ He gave a crooked smile, and Watson could see he had chipped a front tooth since they had last met. There were deeper lines on his face, too, creases that bracketed his mouth, and his freckles appeared to have faded, as if bleached out. ‘But it looks quiet enough now. Off you go, Major.’

Coyle stayed with the car while Gibson led Watson back along Mount Street, past a variety of businesses trying to out-do each other with their floral displays, until he reached a recently constructed mansion block. He rang a bell and the concierge admitted them. A young concierge, Watson noted, of army service age. Unusual. There was no sign of anything that might have invalided him out of the army. And he seemed to know Gibson. Another of Kell’s spies?

In the lift taking them to the top floor, Watson remarked, ‘Coyle seems on edge.’

Gibson nodded. ‘That’s the way I like him.’

The former engineer, too, had changed since their first meeting in 1914: he seemed to have grown glummer, more careworn over the two years. They had come across each other when they had been involved in an elaborate subterfuge designed to draw out a German spy. That, and a concurrent piece of deception by Sherlock Holmes to try to keep Watson out of the army and out of harm’s way. It had caused a rift between the two old friends, although Watson now accepted that Holmes had acted from the best of intentions.

‘What have you been up to?’ he asked the secret agent.

Gibson looked up at him with a you-should-know-better-than-to-ask expression. Then he relaxed. ‘Mostly interviewing or tracking aliens.’

‘Looking for spies under the bed?’

‘Nothing quite so exciting.’ He laughed. ‘The vast majority are perfectly innocent, accused by jealous or suspicious neighbours. But Coyle has a nose for sorting the wheat of German agents from the chaff of gossip.’

‘I see he has had some dentistry since we last met.’ Watson pointed to his front tooth.

Gibson laughed again. ‘Yes. The dentist used a revolver barrel.’

‘Unconventional.’

‘Don’t worry. Coyle had the man’s licence to practise revoked.’

Watson could only imagine what that meant as the lift halted with a jolt and a bell pinged. He reached for the gate but Gibson gripped his wrist. ‘The dentist had a friend called Casement.’

Roger Casement had been instrumental in supplying weapons – Russian weapons sourced from Germany – for the Easter Uprising in Dublin. He had been arrested in Ireland – presumably Coyle had been there – and hanged at the Tower for treason just eleven days before.

‘Coyle was involved in detaining Casement?’

A nod. ‘Coyle’s had a few tussles with his conscience since then. As any man who still has friends and family among the revolutionaries would.’

‘Really?’

‘Every Irishman is just two removes from knowing a Fenian.’

‘But he’s sound?’ asked Watson.

Gibson looked annoyed at the question. ‘Sound as a bell, Major. Don’t you go doubting him. Now, I won’t be coming in with you.’

‘No? Why not?’

Gibson stepped in closer. ‘The thing is, Coyle and I have been up to our necks in secrets and not a few lies these past two years. But whatever this is here, today, I’m not privy to it. I am to deliver you and take my leave. So I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.’ The engineer didn’t sound too pleased about this.

‘Very well,’ replied Watson.

‘I’ve talked too much. I must be getting soft. All I’m saying, Major, is be careful.’

‘Why?’

Gibson let go of Watson’s wrist. ‘Coyle didn’t much care for that landau on the King’s Road. Truth be told, neither did I.’

‘You said that was a false alarm.’

Now Gibson gave a grin, and Watson could see the old mischievousness in his features. ‘Shall we go and see if anyone is in?’

He pulled back the metal gate and they stepped out into a cream-and-gold-decorated corridor, the red carpet thick under their feet, the electric lights on the walls glowing softly. There were three doors. Gibson knocked on Number 11 and waited, face before the inspection peephole.

‘You’ve been here before?’ Watson asked.

‘Once or twice.’

There was a scrabbling of a chain on the other side of the door and then it swung back. A cloud of smoke laced with brandy wafted over them.

‘Sir, Major Watson, as promised,’ said Gibson to the man before him. ‘I’ll be downstairs when you have finished, to take him on.’

If the resident of the apartment acknowledged Gibson at all, Watson didn’t catch it. Winston Churchill simply grabbed Watson by the arm and all but hauled him into the apartment, slamming the door behind them.

NINE

Miss Pillbody saw the American again later that day, as she sat at her easel in the evening shade. He was no longer so flamboyantly dressed, favouring a dark blazer and grey slacks. There was a tune on his lips, a straw trilby on his head and a book under his arm.

‘Miss Pillbody,’ he said, raising his hat as he stopped at her gate. ‘How was your meeting with the army guy? He’s not after your cottage now?’

‘No. Just some bureaucratic matters.’

‘I bet that’s what all the fellows say.’

She gave him a sharp look.

‘I’m sorry. Rude of me.’

‘No, not at all. Just that there aren’t that many fellows left to say anything of the sort.’

‘No, I suppose not. Just children, old men and we foreigners left now. May I see?’ He indicated her painting.

‘Just something to pass the time,’ she said, modestly.

He stepped through the gate and stood at her shoulder. ‘Nonsense. You have a good eye for perspective.’

‘What are you reading?’ she asked, hoping to distract him from her blushes.

‘Ah. This.’ He pulled the volume out from under his arm. ‘Tarkington. A novel called
Seventeen.’

‘About?’

‘It’s frivolous. A boy’s first love.’

‘American?’

‘Very.’

‘Wait here, Mr Ross.’

She went inside and quickly scanned her bookcase. Trollope? No. Dickens? Better. Buchan might do it. In the end she selected
Kim.
Kipling never let one down.

She went back outside and handed it to him. ‘If you are going to write about Great Britain, Kipling would be a better choice of reading material.’

‘Why, thank you.’ He took it and placed the two books together. ‘I am going to find the village pub. I don’t suppose you’d care—’

She shook her head vigorously.

‘No. Of course not. No women.’

‘No
respectable
women, anyway.’ She smiled. ‘There is a hotel in Thetford where the ladies might take a sherry without burning all social bridges.’

‘I’ll remember that. Anything else I should know? About the locals?’

‘Well, the menfolk are a bit rough and ready. They’ll be suspicious of you.’

‘Because I’m American?’

‘No. Because you aren’t from hereabouts. You don’t have to come from America to be foreign. Five miles down the road will do it.’

‘I was hoping to get some attitudes about the war from them. Candid and non-metropolitan.’

‘They’ll be very guarded, I am afraid.’

Ross thought about this. ‘What if I bought them all a drink?’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s against the law to buy other men drinks in pubs.’

‘What?’ This was one rule he hadn’t heard.

‘It’s true. Everyone ignores it round here, though. But under the emergency regulations, you can’t buy another man a drink. It’s to prevent excessive consumption. If you do decide to, you have to be careful. Have a word with Mr Sutton. Frederick Sutton. He’s the landlord. I teach his daughter Lottie. He’s not a bad sort.’

‘Thanks for the advice, Miss Pillbody.’

‘Nora,’ she said, her own name feeling awkward on her lips.

‘Nora. Perhaps I’ll report back on my adventure at The Plough.’

She nodded. ‘I’d like that, Mr Ross.’

‘Bradley. In fact, let’s go straight to Brad. Can we?’

‘I think we can,’ she said softly. ‘Brad.’

‘Swell.’

Miss Pillbody watched him stride down the lane, whistling, and she told her thumping heart not to be so stupid and to just calm right down. Handsome Americans weren’t part of her plans.

But this one could be,
she thought.

Lieutenant Booth was sitting in his office – a former woodman’s cottage, its living area stripped of furniture and refilled with a desk, chair, a safe and a gramophone – thinking about Miss Pillbody and Mr Bradley Ross. What were the odds that a writer would turn up on the edge of the most sensitive site in the United Kingdom? And then go a-calling on the ladies of the village, perhaps looking for gossip. What kind of writer? A ‘book’, Miss Pillbody had said.

He had sent an enquiry about Ross down to London, and expected a reply within twenty-four hours. It wasn’t hard to track foreigners these days. Most were interviewed at some point by Special Branch or MI5. Ross being an American citizen did make it slightly tricky if Booth were to order his removal, but the defence of the realm came first. He didn’t want a curious Yank poking around the forest.