The First Casualty (19 page)

Cumming was no fool when it came to judging a man’s character and he could see that the biggest chink, probably the
only
chink, in Kingsley’s intellectual armour was his vanity.

‘I certainly do appear to be the logical candidate.’

‘So you’re game?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Of course, if you don’t think you’re up to the investigation…’

‘Don’t bother with that old trick, Sir Mansfield. I’m a little too long in the tooth to be cajoled with such simplistic psychology as that.’

But of course Kingsley wasn’t. The suggestion that he might not have the confidence to attempt the challenge had raised his hackles, no matter how much he might try to disguise the fact. Cumming continued to twist the knife.

‘I’m just saying that I’d understand if you thought you couldn’t crack it. The trail’s pretty cold after all.’

‘My decision has nothing to do with whether I can ‘crack it’ or not,’ Kingsley said, with some irritation. ‘If anybody can ‘crack it’, I can. Therefore were I to attempt to ‘crack it’ and fail I would know that the case was not ‘crackable’ and hence there’d be no shame in my having failed. I am merely taking time to consider the parameters of your proposal.’

‘Consider away then, always remembering that each minute increases the probability that whatever evidence and witnesses remain will be blown to Hades.’

‘I’d need authority to conduct inquiries, particularly in a military zone. I presume your plan would be to equip me with a new identity. A policeman?’

Cumming could see that he had hooked his man.

‘Absolutely: Captain Christopher Marlowe of the Royal Military Police.’

‘And if I
did
take on your job…at the end of it, what then?’

‘You and your new identity depart these shores, Inspector. For good. Australia, we think. Lots of openings for energetic men there, particularly considering how many they’ve lost in France and Turkey. Not a lot of questions asked either.’

‘My wife and son?’

‘Inspector, they were lost to you anyway. You would never have survived your prison sentence.’

Kingsley was under no illusions about the value the SIS would place on his life at the end of an assignment like the one proposed. Alive, he could cause a great deal of embarrassment.

Cumming could read his thoughts.

‘His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service does not deal in murder, Inspector.’

‘Millions are being killed. Why trouble yourself over one more?’

‘I suppose I must simply ask that you trust me.’

Kingsley stared at Cumming as the master spy busied himself clearing up the tea things. Perhaps it was best not to dwell on the future but to consider the present. He was a man whose old life had been over anyway. What did it matter what he did?

And then, of course, there was the thrill of the chase. Kingsley took out a little spiral notebook and pen that he had bought at WH Smith and Sons at Victoria Station. He could not help himself, he was a born policeman.

‘You spoke about ‘circumstances and witness statements’ which give you reason for doubt?’

Cumming smiled. A policeman with his notebook was surely getting down to work.

‘Well, the first question to be asked is what was this great hero doing in an NYDN centre in the first place, and what a coincidence it is that Hopkins was in the next-door room.

‘NYDN?’ Kingsley enquired.

‘Royal Army Medical Corps acronym for Not Yet Diagnosed — Nervous.’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I’m entirely serious. That’s what the army calls these places. They don’t like the term ‘shell shock’, don’t like it at all.’

‘And just how ‘nervous’ was Viscount Abercrombie?’

‘Well, this is the point: nobody knows. He’d only been at Château Beaurivage a week before he was shot.’

‘Was he in a ward?’

‘Sadly not. A few witnesses would be nice, but being aristocracy and famous to boot he had his own billet.’

‘And the theory is that Private Hopkins went in and shot him?’

‘Well, that’s how it
looks
. God knows he’s got the motive and he was found later with the gun, but as I say nobody actually saw him do it.’

‘So where do the doubts come in?’

‘Well, the first point is that Hopkins swears blind he didn’t do it.’

‘In my experience most murderers tend to take that line. What else?’

‘Rather more disturbingly, we have two eyewitness reports that suggest
somebody else
was in Abercrombie’s room shortly before he was found dead.’

‘Who? ‘

‘An officer, that’s all we know. He disappeared and has not been seen again.’

‘Are these witnesses reliable?’

‘One’s reliable and the other’s pretty dubious. The dubious one’s a private soldier, chap called McCroon, who had also just been admitted to Beaurivage and had in fact spent much of the earlier part of the evening with Hopkins doing raffia work. It seems to have been this fellow who first cried foul and got word of Hopkins’s arrest to his union.’

‘Did nobody else at the centre speak out when it was announced that Abercrombie died in battle?’

‘No, the incident had happened at night and only a few of the medical staff were aware of it. They are all military personnel and hence subject to military law, and they had been told to keep quiet.’

‘You say that this McCroon was a friend of Hopkins’s?’

‘Probably more of a comrade.’

‘You mean a political friend?’

‘Yes, McCroon was a political comrade. They were both avowed Socialists, in fact Bolsheviks.’

‘Well, such a figure might easily make up a story about shadowy officers to help a comrade and confuse the authorities.’

‘True, but the other witness is less easy to dismiss. A nurse.’

‘Male or female?’

‘A girl. Steady sort, only twenty-two but with over a year’s service behind her. All at the sharp end too, as close to the guns as girls are allowed to get, which is pretty close these days.’

‘The police told you that?’

‘No, we conducted cursory inquiries ourselves. Shannon has been over and spoken to her. We wanted to be able to provide you with as much information as possible in the short time available.’

‘You say that Hopkins had a motive for killing Abercrombie?’

‘Well, apart from him being a Bolshevik and Abercrombie being an aristocrat, a few days previous to the murder he’d got Field Punishment Number One for disobeying an order at the bathhouse.’

‘Field Punishment Number One?’

‘Most unpleasant, being lashed to a gun limber, and Abercrombie was in charge of the punishment detail.’

‘I see.’

‘Of course the same motive Hopkins has for killing Abercrombie gives the military a very real motive for wanting to railroad him straight to the gallows. As you know, the situation at the front is pretty desperate; nobody knows if the British army will go the way the French did, or, worse still, the Russians. General Staff are certainly very nervous. For them, the fewer Bolshies like Hopkins in the trenches the better.’

‘Are you saying that people think the army would execute an innocent man in order to rid themselves of a pithead revolutionary?’

‘Believe me, people will believe
anything
. What about the Angel of Mons, eh? The human capacity for superstition and theories of conspiracy is endless.
Particularly
if there’s a foundation for them, which in this case there is. Any number of people knew that Abercrombie was in that NYDN centre. Officers and men alike, there’s plenty of them wondering how a man with shell shock came to be killed in battle. Rumours fly around and before you know it the truth gets lost altogether — which can be all to the good — but in the meantime the tittle-tattle in the ranks is that Abercrombie was murdered, murdered by another officer. They believe that the toffs know the truth but won’t hang one of their own; far better and more convenient to frame the Bolshevik next door who’s suffering from shell shock.’

‘I can see that it might be an attractive theory to war-weary soldiers.’

‘Yes, well, fortunately at the moment these ideas are confined to the troops at the front. We control the press and currently the wider world believes that Abercrombie died a hero. They’ve never heard of Hopkins. But if we shoot an innocent man and it ever comes out, God knows what might happen. Don’t forget that Hopkins was a miner. Have you any idea what the miners could do to the war effort if their union decided to turn nasty? Practically the entire fleet is still coal-fuelled.’

‘You’re not trying to tell me they’d strike, surely?’

Cumming was about to respond but instead a loud and commanding voice answered from the door. A loud and commanding voice with a strong Welsh accent.

THIRTY-THREE

Illustrious company

‘Oh, I don’t think they’d do that. I bloody ‘ope not anyway, boyo! Do you see?’

Kingsley looked round and nearly fell off his chair with surprise. He was lucky not to upset his tea. The figure who had entered the room was the most instantly recognizable person in Britain, after the late Lord Kitchener and the King himself. A man who had dominated the House of Commons for over a decade, first as President of the Board of Trade, then as a revolutionary Chancellor of the Exchequer, a Minister of Munitions and finally, after Asquith’s career had been machine-gunned along with the flower of Kitchener’s army on the Somme, as Prime Minister. David Lloyd George was Britain’s most famous politician since Gladstone: ‘
Lloyd George knew my father
,’ the troops often sang, ‘
Father knew Lloyd George
.’ Or ‘Lord’ George, as the old and the poor had called him after his famous ‘People’s Budget’ had introduced to Britain the concept of state pensions and social security. Other names were whispered too, for it was generally accepted that Lloyd George’s famous energy did not stop at politics; he was the most incorrigible womanizer to hold high office since Henry VIII.

‘I must say, the rather splendid thing that this war ‘as demonstrated so far,’ the great man continued, entering the room — ‘No no, don’t get up, lads, I’m not the bloody Pope, am I now?’ but Kingsley and Cumming had already jumped to their feet — ‘is that the British working man and ‘is brother at the front puts ‘is country before class. Mind you, last year you could ‘ave said that about the Russians, couldn’t you? And look at them now! Confound the lot of ‘em. This is Thompson, by the way. Say ‘ello, Thompson.’

‘Hello, sir. Hello, sir.’

Lloyd George had been followed into the room by a rather harassed-looking young woman with ink on the cuffs of her blouse and her hair coming out of its fastenings. She was struggling to carry paper and pencils, a portable typewriter and a heavy briefcase.

‘One of my secretaries, do you see? Thought we might need some notes taken. Although perhaps this is all too ‘ush—’ush for that, eh, Cumming? I say, Thompson girl, have you an
invisible ink
ribbon for that typing machine of yours, ha ha!’

The young woman, who was flushed and perspiring slightly, made a half-hearted attempt at a smile while the great man laughed at his own joke. Cumming finally found a moment to stammer his greeting.

‘Good morning, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘I had rather supposed you would require me to bring Inspector Kingsley to you. I do hope you have not been inconvenienced.’

‘Not a bit of it, Sir Mansfield.’ The short, grey-haired man with the twinkling eye and bushy moustache was relieving his secretary of some of her burdens and placing them on Cumming’s desk. ‘Winston finished his daily
lecture
early. Now there’s a first, eh? I think that fellow’s the only chap in the country who’s more long-winded than I am. I often think we should ‘ave a contest, ‘im and me, see who can blow the most hot air! I reckon we could float a Zeppelin between us! Ha ha!’

The Prime Minister threw himself down into the armchair recently vacated by Kingsley and proceeded to prove his own point.

‘God love ‘im, Winston does meddle so! ‘E’d brought Jellicoe round to talk convoys, do you see? I swear ‘e still thinks ‘e’s First Lord. I says to ‘im, I says, ‘Winston, these days you’re Minister of Munitions, do you see? You
makes
shells, t’aint your job to worry
where to fire ‘em
.’ But ‘e won’t be told. Aristocrats never can stand that, can they? That’s what made this country great and also what’s buggered it up in the process. Ha ha! Pardon your young ears, Thompson, I keep forgettin’ we’ve a
lady
present. Anyway I fancied a stroll so I thought I’d come down to see you in your little
den of spies
. I ‘ave to be at the House later and you’re on the way. So make us a cup o’ tea, Sir Mansfield, and let’s be doin’. We’ve brought our own milk, ain’t we, Thompson?’

‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ the young woman said and duly produced a screw-top jar from her briefcase.

Despite the fact that Kingsley had gone to prison in protest at policies for which this man was now ultimately responsible, he could not help but enjoy this quite extraordinary encounter. He had always voted Liberal and the incredible energy of the little Welsh Wizard, as he was popularly known, seemed to fill the whole room with electricity. And his voice was as musical as he had heard it said to be, even though he seemed so far to have said nothing of consequence. It was exciting to be in the great man’s presence. Kingsley could quite understand why women found him so appealing.

Cumming had returned to his little gas ring and was boiling more water.

‘Uhm, perhaps Miss Thompson might be more comfortable in the adjoining room, Prime Minister,’ he said.

‘What? Do you think so? Oh well. Shame, there never was a room that wasn’t improved by ‘aving a
lady
in it. Still. Run along, Thompson. I shall call you when I need you.

The Prime Minister gave her a big friendly wink and the secretary gathered up her equipment and scuttled from the room. Kingsley could not help but wonder what the full extent of this personable but exhausted-looking young woman’s duties might be.

‘Now then, Prime Minister, I was just…’ Cumming began, but Lloyd George interrupted him and turned to Kingsley.

‘This Abercrombie business, do you see? We want you to clear it up. Either prove the Bolshevik is guilty so we can shoot ‘im fair and square without ‘avin’ George Bernard bloody Shaw writin’ to the papers about it, don’t you know, or else find out who
is
guilty so that we can shoot ‘
im
. I don’t care either way. What we need is the
truth
, do you see?
The truth
. Can’t have a
fudge
. Otherwise it’s goin’ to blow up into a real bloody scandal. You know that Abercrombie’s dah’s Tory Chief Whip in the Lords, don’t you?’

‘Yes, sir, I did,’ said Kingsley, speaking for the first time since the Prime Minister had entered the room.

‘Imagine that, the Tory Party on one side and the trades union movement on the other, and grim murder the cause of it. If I wasn’t stuck in the bloody middle I’d be
laughin
’, so I would. We have to nip this in the bud. They say you’re the best detective in Britain. If anybody has a chance of sortin’ it out, it’s you. The Home Secretary agreed. ‘Get that swine Kingsley,’ ‘e said, but of course you weren’t available, were you?’

‘Uhm…No, sir. I was…’

‘In prison. Yes, I do read the papers, Inspector. That’s why we had to have Cumming here
produce you
. Couldn’t just haul you out of the Scrubs, you’re too bloody notorious! I’d never have heard the end of it. HM Government using convicted felons and known traitors to sort out its affairs. The King would ‘ave chucked me out and called for Bonar Law before you could say
dissolution!
‘E might even ‘ave ‘ad Asquith back, God forbid.’

‘Hence my death while escaping.’

Lloyd George put his fingers in his ears in an exaggerated pantomime of innocent ignorance.

‘Don’t want to hear about it! Don’t want to know!
Men of Harlech come to Glory!
’ he roared, affecting to cover the sound of Kingsley’s voice by singing. ‘I shouldn’t even
be
‘ere! In
fact
, there is no ‘
ere
to
be
as it ‘appens because, as I think you know, Cumming and this whole department don’t exist any more than you do! Never ‘ave done, never will, ‘Is Majesty’s Government does not
stoop
to
spying
, do you see? I just couldn’t resist ‘ avin’ a look at you. You’ve caused quite a stir yourself after all.’

‘I am flattered, sir.’

‘So. Are you going to ‘elp us out then, lad?’

Kingsley had been hooked anyway but had he not been it was unlikely he would have held back now. Lloyd George was not a man it was easy to say no to; he could turn a hostile crowd or a lady’s head with a wink of his eye. The power of his voice and the content of his oratory had changed the social face of Britain. He had risen from poverty in Wales to control the interests of the British Empire. Kingsley,’ like much of the country before him, had been utterly seduced.

‘Yes,’ Prime Minister. Of course I shall help.’

‘Good. Quite a
lark
,’ eh? A dead man takes a job that don’t exist from a man who’s never met him, in a room of which we deny all knowledge! I
love
politics, so I do! Now then, I have ‘ad my look at you and I should be getting to the ‘Ouse. We’ll ‘ave that cup of tea another time, eh, Sir Mansfield?’

‘Of course, sir.’

Lloyd George jumped up from the chair.

‘Thompson!’ he cried as he headed for the door. ‘We’re off!’

And the great man was gone.

A moment later he was back.

‘Forgot my milk,’ he said, snatching up his jar before once more departing.

It was as if a whirlwind had passed through the building and for a moment or two both Kingsley and Cumming could do no more than catch their breath.

‘Well?’ said Cumming finally.

‘Well,’ Kingsley replied, ‘I wonder if you have anything stronger on offer than tea, Sir Mansfield?’

‘Good man! What is it, nearly noon?’ Cumming consulted his wristwatch. ‘Twenty past! Good lord, positively late in the day. Almost evening! And damn it, we’ve earned a snort. Not every day the Welsh Wizard casts his spell on you, is it? Scotch all right?

‘Better be, that’s all there is.’

Cumming opened the steel drawer of a filing cabinet and produced a bottle of Black and White, from which he poured two generous measures.

‘I think you’re all out of your minds,’ said Kingsley, lighting another cigarette while Cumming filled his pipe.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Well, think about it. This war is costing us on average a thousand casualties a day and we are discussing the fate of just two men, one of whom is already dead! You’re mad, Captain. The Prime Minister is mad, the Labour Party, the unions, the Tories and the army are all mad. The whole world is mad and I am a dead man brought to life to discuss a living man who is about to die. Clearly I must be mad also.’

‘A man has been murdered and another faces execution. You are a policeman. What’s mad about wanting to uncover the truth?’

‘Because the only ‘truth’ that matters is that this war has so far accounted for upwards of three quarters of a
million
casualties in Britain alone. Civilization is now entirely villainous, murdering its own, murdering all it sees. If I save this Private Hopkins, he’ll be executed anyway, in battle. If Abercrombie had not been murdered he would almost certainly have died in battle too. It does seem like something of a farce that the British army should hold a
murder
investigation, don’t you think? That any army or government involved in this lunacy should even
consider
such matters as innocence and guilt.’

‘It’s politics. Now then, let’s get you kitted out.’

Taking up his drink, Cumming led the way into the map room. There on the big central table lay the uniform and kit of a captain in the Military Police.

‘We measured you up while you were unconscious in Folkestone. Can’t send you to France in ill-fitting boots, eh?’

‘Very thorough,’ Kingsley commented. ‘You must have been pretty certain that I’d play ball.’

‘And we were right, weren’t we, Captain Marlowe?’ Kingsley put on the uniform. It felt good, he could not deny it; it felt very good to be in uniform once more. Yes, it was a soldier’s uniform, but it was the uniform of a military
policeman
and that was what mattered. All he had ever wanted in life, professionally, was to be a policeman. Three days earlier he had worn the uniform of a convict, now he was a policeman once more.

‘Very smart,’ said Cumming, nodding his approval. ‘Now, how about a spot of lunch?’