The Dead Can Wait (9 page)

‘It could. But as I said, this is a great secret. Anyone who knows about it and is not actively involved is being detained at what they call a “safe and secure” location. Until the cat is out of the bag.’

‘Would that include me?’

Churchill glared at him. ‘It might, if I told you much more and you refused to help.’

Watson was offended. He was used to being trusted with affairs of state. In his day, Mycroft Holmes had told him things that could shake the Empire. ‘But I wouldn’t speak of it.’

Churchill looked annoyed. ‘Perhaps. But the story of our bigamist king made an appearance, didn’t it? Hmm?’

Holmes and Watson had helped refute an allegation that King George V had been married before, following a hasty affair with an admiral’s daughter in Malta, when he was in the navy. An article in a magazine had suggested that George had married his wife, Princess May, bigamously. The defence was able to insist that the King had never met the woman in question. In fact, there had been evidence they had attended balls together in Hampshire, but for the good of the nation, that had been suppressed. However, hints about that cover-up had recently surfaced in some of the more scurrilous newspapers.

‘That was not my doing.’

‘I would hope not, Watson,’ Churchill said, in a manner that suggested there was some doubt. ‘But, you see, the nature of this device need not concern you right at this very moment. What we want is for you to treat the eighth man. He won’t, or can’t, speak. Absolutely struck dumb. What’s it called . . . a-something?’

‘Aphasia.’

‘Quite. Nothing that has been tried, from kindness to cruelty, has broken his silence. To all intents and purposes it’s shell shock, just like the conditions you’ve been treating. Yes, I know all about your work.’

‘I’m not the only one in the field,’ Watson protested. ‘There are others—’

Churchill shook his head vigorously, his nascent jowls wobbling. ‘Communists, pacifists and homosexuals.’

‘Not all at once, surely, sir?’

Churchill ignored the barbed comment. ‘I am being accused of interfering in the project as it is. But someone has to shake things up. I need you to get this man to talk, to tell us what happened and get this war moving again.’

Watson shook his head. ‘I cannot get involved.’

Winston glowered. ‘Cannot? Or will not?’

‘You have seen conditions out there at the front. It is inhumane what we are asking our soldiers to do. Yes, I am dealing with shell shock. And you know what it has taught me? That men can be broken, snapped like autumn twigs. And we are doing it by the thousands. This wonder weapon, will it really shorten the war? Or will it heap misery upon misery?’ Churchill made to speak, but Watson waved a hand to silence him. ‘Gas was meant to break the deadlock, remember that? The new shells were meant to blast the Germans out of their bunkers. Remember that one, too? The only thing that will end this war is when men like you come to their senses and start talking peace.’

‘I don’t need a lesson in war from you, Major,’ growled Churchill, jutting his jaw in a belligerent fashion. ‘I count the dead every day and it never gets any easier. And what you say sounds dangerously like pacifism.’

‘Common sense.’

‘So you think. And I genuinely think this will shorten the war. You have my word on that.’

‘Your word that you believe it will bring about a rapid cessation of hostilities? But you can’t be certain?’

Churchill made a snorting sound. ‘Of course not. What guarantees are there in wartime?’

‘I see more broken men,’ said Watson, ‘on all sides. I will not be party to that.’

Churchill’s voice came from his boots. ‘There is one broken man you will be party to, though, I’ll wager.’

Watson felt a flame of anger flicker inside him. The reservoir of residual goodwill he felt towards the MP drained away, as if a tap had been opened. He suspected what was coming, but asked anyway. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Churchill picked a few strands of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. ‘Holmes has had to be detained, for his own safety.’

‘Detained?’ Watson half shouted in disgust. ‘Detained where? And why? He is not a well man.’

‘So I hear. Nevertheless, he has been detained and will remain detained until our weapon is deployed. The longer you delay—’

‘Are you blackmailing me?’ Watson spluttered. ‘With the health of an old man who has served his country well.’

Churchill considered this. ‘I suppose I am. For a good cause.’

Watson made a disparaging noise. ‘A war such as this is
never
a good cause.’

‘Sir!’ Churchill growled. ‘The freedom of this country, of our way of life, is at stake! And you worry about a few windy soldiers. Yes, I will let Holmes rot, and you and half of goddamned London, if it means we can strike a decisive blow.’

The MP had gone quite puce. Watson thought he might suffer a heart attack. Part of him wished it so. Watson took a breath and spoke as calmly as he could. ‘Free Holmes and I shall help you.’

‘Do I look like a fool?’ Churchill replied. ‘Where is your incentive then? Get to the bottom of this, I will tell you where he is. You can fetch him yourself.’

‘And what if I can’t solve the mystery?’

‘I think we’ll cross that bridge as and when we come to it.’ Churchill sensed an advantage and pushed it home. ‘But I am not an unreasonable man. Do this for me, Major, and I promise never to interfere in your life again.’

The clock ticked while Watson went through his options. He felt like a chess piece, blocked in whichever direction he moved.

‘Am I to be physician or detective?’ Watson asked at last.

Churchill gave a sly smile that Watson wanted to dash from his mouth. ‘There was a time when you were both.’

Holmes shook his head at this misconception of his role in the partnership. ‘Do they not have their own doctor at this . . . establishment?’

‘Their MO is one of the dead,’ grumbled Churchill. ‘Went along for the ride to study conditions in—’ He stopped himself. ‘He was the last to die. They have brought in other medical men, but no plausible theory has emerged so far. The doctors are baffled and the only witness remains stubbornly mute. So, as you can see, a peculiar set of skills is required. Your skills, Watson.’

‘When was all this?’

‘A week ago.’

‘A week?’

‘Yes. Time is pressing. How long do you normally need?’ asked Churchill. ‘To cure these types of people?’

These people.
Churchill, like so many commanders, didn’t understand what had happened to the damaged men. No doubt he, too, considered their affliction due to a lack of backbone. Even the word ‘cure’ was wrong. You could never take away their experiences; just get them to live alongside them without it destroying them any further.

‘Assuming he has some kind of battlefield trauma? Every case is different. Four weeks—’

‘You have five days,’ Churchill said in tones meant to brook no argument. ‘I heard you worked wonders with that Fairley.’

‘That was different, in that I had a previous relationship to build upon. You can’t put a time limit on this sort of thing,’ Watson said.

Churchill waved his cigar. ‘I can. We have to. There is a timetable. Five days, work recommences regardless. At gunpoint, if need be. And, Watson, I am not concerned about this mute’s sensibilities. You understand? Get him to speak of that day any way you can.

‘And the dead men? Will I have access to them?’ asked Watson.

‘The dead can wait,’ growled Churchill. ‘At least until you have made the living talk.’

‘In some cases the dead can tell us more than the living.’

‘I’m sure you can poke and prod the bodies to your heart’s content if you think it’ll help. Personally, I think we need our survivor’s testimony. You know Suffolk?’

‘Not well.’

‘We’ve requisitioned an estate; the work is being done there. Close to the RFC airfield at Thetford. We’ll fly you up—’

Watson’s stomach felt like it had been pushed off a cliff. ‘I prefer not to fly.’

‘Understandable’ said Churchill, well aware that Watson’s wife had died in an aeronautical accident, although he himself was a great believer in heavier-than-air machines, even if he had proven a less than capable pilot. ‘But, as I say, time is of the essence. There will be a chap called Swinton to brief you.’

‘Ernest Swinton? The writer?’ Watson knew his work from before the conflict – dashing jingoistic adventures – and his war journalism.

Churchill nodded. ‘Of course you’d know him. Fellow scribbler. Yes,
that
Swinton. He’s the colonel in charge of the installation.’

Watson took another gulp of vermouth and then, more to kill time than anything else, strolled across to try the brandy. ‘Do I have any choice in this matter?’

Churchill smiled. It wasn’t comforting in any way. ‘None.’

‘And you won’t tell me the nature of this weapon?’

‘Not until you reach the site. You’ll be briefed there.’

‘But you know our methods.’ The collective noun was cheeky, but Churchill must appreciate how Holmes liked to tease out every detail of a case, more often than not in the drawing room of 221B Baker Street, before racing off. ‘Some background, surely, is in order?’

‘Not until you are at the location,’ Churchill said stubbornly. ‘Unless you want to risk spending several months with your old friend on a speck in the North Sea waiting for the
Scourge
to become public knowledge.’

Watson felt another prick of anger. But Churchill had slipped up – at least he knew roughly where Holmes was now. But where in the North Sea? It was a vast expanse.

‘And of course,’ Churchill said slyly, ‘your friend isn’t getting any younger or fitter.’

A red mist descended on Watson at the implications of what Churchill was saying. ‘I’d like to assure you, sir, that if anything befalls Holmes—’ Watson stopped.

Churchill saw puzzlement and alarm flash across Watson’s face. ‘What is it?’ the MP asked.

Watson walked quickly to the window and undid the latch, pulling up the lower half of the sash. ‘It sounded like gunshots.’

TWELVE

There was but a cuticle of moon when Bradley Ross approached the ramshackle cottage of Jimmy Oxborrow, the part-time smithy and poacher who had boasted he could get into the estate. He trod carefully, knowing it would be easy to turn an ankle in the darkness. There were no lights showing, no smell of woodsmoke, but one of the looser-lipped lads had sworn Jimmy was living in there. Beer was delivered in pails, apparently, and the odd chicken by well-wishers, and all vanished. Oxborrow was in there. But something had scared him enough so he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.

Ross had to stop to relieve himself. He had drunk several pints of beer at The Plough, just to be sociable. It was thin, flat and warm. Horrible, but necessary. It wasn’t till the third pint of that piss that his new friends had relaxed in his company and chatted as if he was one of them.

He buttoned himself up and continued down the rough path to the door of the cottage. He had two bottles of Mackeson with him, one in each of his jacket pockets. He took them out and allowed the pair to clink together, a sound that would raise any serious drinker from the deepest slumber. Then he tapped on the door with a knuckle.

‘Jimmy?’ he hissed.

Nothing.

‘Jimmy? It’s Bradley Ross. I’m a friend of Cyril’s. He said you liked a drop of Mackeson.’ An ‘old woman’s drink’ the gnarled Cyril had called it, but Ross left that part out. ‘I’m just going to leave them here, outside. By the bootscrape. OK?’

He walked away, ears alert for any sounds coming from the cottage. There were only the noises of the night, the soft sighing of leaves, the rustle of the fields. He walked fifty yards down the lane and halted. A horse neighed nearby and restless insects sent out scratching and chirping calls. He stepped through a gap in the hedgerow, crouched down and lit a cigarette.

Squatting came easy to him. It had been a punishment at school, forced to crouch with hands on head until pins and needles rippled through your limbs. Later, such practised immobility had been useful when he had learned to hunt. He allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation and felt some of the tension ease from his neck and shoulders.

There was something interesting happening at Elveden, he was sure. He felt it in his waters. The only fly in the ointment was that young lieutenant, Booth. He hadn’t liked the way he had looked at him in Miss Pillbody’s garden. The man wore no regimental badge, which suggested he might be Intelligence. There were bound to be some of those around on a secret project of this size. And they all looked at you like that. Just like policemen. But Booth was a callow boy, not some wily old operative. Ross was sure he could dodge anything thrown at him by Lieutenant Booth. He had begun his book,
The Good War
, on the ruthless aggression of Germany and its barbarism in Belgium. If Booth should search his cottage, he would find nothing to suggest Ross was more interested in teasing out the secret of Elveden than Allied propaganda.

The cigarette had burned down to his fingers. He stubbed it out in the soil and stood, listening once more for any stray sounds. A fox called in the distance, strangulated and forlorn. Ross retraced his steps back to the cottage, careful to keep in the shadows. He stood at the base of an elm, a few yards from the cottage door, staring into the darkness until he could be certain. Yes, the two bottles of the milk stout had gone. The bait had been taken.

THIRTEEN

Coyle had half turned when the first of the bullets sang past his ear and raised a whorl of dust from the masonry behind him. The flash had come from the back seat of the Shelsey. He cleared the Smith & Wesson revolver from his belt and fired two rounds in return, while all the time heading for the shelter of a parked car.

How dare they?
he thought. In broad daylight. In the heart of the city. He fired again, and this time he was aware that two shots had been sent in reply. They weren’t sharpshooters, but both attempts had come close enough to snap the air like a ringmaster’s whip. He risked a look up the street. Harry was there, out on the pavement, also raising his pistol. Bystanders had frozen or ducked into shop doorways. Coyle heard a woman scream. A police whistle sounded, hoarse and feeble at first, now finding its fluting voice.