The First Casualty (27 page)

‘Ooh-la-la!’ she breathed as he smelt the clean aroma of her short bobbed hair and the rain-sodden grass around it. ‘Oooh-la-jolly well-la!’

And so they made love together in the pouring rain, with Nurse

Murray emitting a stream of girlish exclamations which seemed to indicate that she was enjoying herself. ‘Gosh’,’ ‘Golly’ and, as things moved towards a conclusion, even ‘Tally ho!’

When it was over she pushed him off, stood up and lit a cigarette. It was still too dark to see anything but the glow of the burning tip, and by the way that was moving about Kingsley sensed that she was buttoning herself up.

‘Jolly nice,’ she said, ‘
most
invigorating. Lovely. Gasper? They’re yours anyway.’

‘I’ll wait a moment.

‘Suit yourself. Excuse me,’ she said.

Then the little red dot descended and once more he felt her hand upon him.

‘Just grab this if that’s all right with you,’ she said and pulled the sheath from his collapsed manhood. ‘I forgot to take it back once, from an American doctor who was here studying our work. Had to go round and ask for it in the morning. Most awkward.’

‘I can imagine. So you, uhm, do this often?’

‘When I feel like it. I’m very fond of sex. Does that surprise you?’

‘Not now.’

‘It surprises some men, particularly Englishmen. They think that women don’t really like it at all and just put up with it. What’s the old joke? Marriage is the price men pay for sex and sex is the price women pay for marriage.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard that one.’

‘Load of tommyrot. Women need sex as much as men. Intellectually, of course,’ I’d definitely prefer it to be sapphic but frankly the idea revolts me. I love women in every sense except for sex and I feel
exactly
the opposite about men.’

‘And when you meet a man who attracts you, you make love to him? ‘

‘If he’s interested and it’s convenient and I’ve got my trusty baby-barrier handy.’

‘Captain Shannon?’

‘I did not
make love
to Captain Shannon. I was momentarily attracted to him but I very soon lost interest. Beastly fellow. There was an altercation.’

‘An altercation?’

‘He wished to stick it where I did not wish it to be stuck.’

‘Ah.’

‘We did not part as friends.’

‘I imagine not.’

‘Unlike tonight, I hope.’

‘Oh, definitely. I should be honoured to consider myself your friend, Kitty.’

‘Good, then that’s done, Christopher…Christopher Marlowe,’ she mused. ‘Funny sort of name to choose. But then you’re a funny sort of chap, aren’t you? Toodle-pip.’

And Staff Nurse Kitty Murray disappeared into the night. Kingsley lay on the grass for a little while, letting the rain fall on him. Perhaps hoping that it would somehow wash away his sin. For he was suffused with post-coital guilt. What had moments before felt ecstatic now felt miserable. He still loved Agnes,’ even though she was lost to him, and he felt the pain and guilt of having been unfaithful to her. Something he had never in his life intended to be. In vain did he argue with himself that Agnes had treated him cruelly and failed to stand by him in his hour of greatest need. He didn’t care; he loved her. She was his Agnes,’ the sweetest girl he ever knew, all the sweeter perhaps because she was not perfect and never pretended to be. He missed her terribly and now he had betrayed her utterly. He found himself caressing the wedding ring that Agnes had returned to him at Brixton Prison and which he had worn upon his little finger ever since. The rain on his face mingled with sudden tears.

FOURTY

The Military Police

The following day Kingsley set out for Armentières, to visit the Military Police station that had responded to the emergency at the château on the night of Abercrombie’s death. There was plenty of motor transport on the roads and once more Kingsley’s captain’s pips guaranteed him a lift, but it was heavy going. Every possible byway was swollen with military traffic. The enormous British offensive was continuing unabated, despite the startling lack of progress.

‘We were supposed to be in Passchendaele on the first day,’ Kingsley’s driver said. ‘It’s been a fortnight and we aren’t there yet.’

The troops considered Armentières to be an unattractive, dirty little town but that did not stop them visiting it, and over the previous three years it had become little more than a military camp. On occasions it had been within range of the German guns and had suffered accordingly, but the house in which the Military Police unit was accommodated was undamaged. Kingsley had managed to telephone ahead and so he was expected. The most senior soldier in the unit, a sergeant, greeted him at the door.

‘Sergeant Bill Banks, Royal Military Police, sah!’ he said, coming to attention, saluting smartly and stamping loudly.

‘At ease, Sergeant,’ Kingsley replied. ‘We shan’t be able to chat very comfortably with you stamping and saluting the whole time.’

‘I don’t do it all the time, sir. Only when it’s prescribed.’

‘By the book?’ asked Kingsley, remembering his prison doctor.

‘Yes, sir, by the book.’

Kingsley was shown into what had once been the parlour of the house but was now the sergeant’s office. He was given a most welcome mug of sweet tea, served with fresh milk. The Café Cavell had had coffee only, and it was coffee that resembled no coffee he had ever drunk.

Kingsley got straight down to business.

‘So, Sergeant. You attended the scene of the murder?’

‘That’s right, sir, I did.’

‘So might I see your scene-of-crime report?’

‘My what, sir?’

‘Your report. The report you and your men assembled at the scene of the crime.’

‘Do you mean the Incident Notification, sir?’

‘Possibly.’

The sergeant reached into a cabinet and produced a sheet of paper.

‘Here are you are, sir,’ he said proudly. ‘There’s a copy with Division and two here on file. In my filing drawer, which is where I keep my files. I have considered destroying them, seeing as how the incident which they describe has been officially designated as not having happened, but I would not wish to destroy an official file without having filed an official request to do so. But I can’t file this request since the file describes an incident which officially did not happen and hence clearly cannot be on file. It’s all most confusing, sir.’

Kingsley glanced at the sheet. Beneath the date and time, the report was brief:

Attended Chateau Beaurivage RAMC NYD(N) Facility after being alerted to incident over telephone by Medical Officer in charge
.

Discovered Viscount Alan Abercrombie in bed, shot in the head. Called to next-door room where Nurses had discovered patient Private Thomas Hopkins in possession of Abercrombie’s service revolver which had recently been discharged. Arrested Hopkins for murder
.

Kingsley handed back the piece of paper.

‘That’s it? That’s all you wrote?’

‘That’s all that happened, sir.’

Kingsley sighed. There was no point getting angry; it was not his business to teach the Military Police rules of procedure that would have been obvious to an eight-year-old who had read
The Hound of the Baskervilles
.

‘I visited the crime scene myself yesterday. There was no bullet hole in the bed or the floor so I’m presuming that the bullet did not pass through his head.’

‘That sounds right, sir,’ Sergeant Banks replied rather doubtfully.

‘No autopsy was performed on the corpse,’ I believe?’

‘Not that I know of, sir. We certainly never asked for one. What would have been the point? We could see he was dead.’

For a moment Kingsley wondered if the man was joking. But he wasn’t.

‘Besides which, the following day we were told that the viscount’s death was to be reported as ‘killed in action’ anyway, sir. So that was sort of that.’

‘The bullet, I presume, is still in the head of the corpse?’

‘Very likely, sir.’

‘And where is the corpse?’

‘I think they buried it, sir. In the grounds of the château. They have a small cemetery,’ I believe.’

‘Well, what I want you and your men to do, Sergeant, is to unbury it. Dig him up.’

‘Very well, sir,’ the sergeant said, clearly uneasy. ‘I shall prepare a letter of instruction for you to sign, sir, if that’s all right. Just so things are done by — ’

‘The book, yes, I expected no less of you, Sergeant. Now, though I dread to ask, do you know the whereabouts of the gun that fired the bullet?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Wonderful. Where is it?’

‘Back in the line. We returned it to the Brigade.’

‘Returned it. You mean for service?’

‘Yes, sir. Guns after all are guns, sir, and we need all of them we can get. There’s always a shortage, you know.’

‘You gave the
murder weapon
back?’

‘Yes, sir. To the Brigade armourer.’

‘Right, well, I want you to get on your field telephone immediately and find out who the armourer gave it to,’ all right?’

‘As you wish, sir.’

‘Also I want you to locate the witness McCroon. The private soldier who claims to have seen an officer in the corridor on the night of the murder. I believe that, like the murder weapon, he has been returned to the line. Please find out if he is still alive and, if he is, where he is.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Now then, I should like to meet your prisoner.’

‘Yes, sir!’

The sergeant rose to his feet, came to attention, stamped his foot,’ spun around, stamped his foot again and then marched from the room.

Kingsley had not expected to learn much from the unfortunate Private Hopkins and his pessimism proved well founded. The man was being held alone in a makeshift cell in the basement of the house. He was thin and haggard and at first appeared not to notice Kingsley’s presence, continuing instead to sit fidgeting with some invisible irritant that appeared to be located on his trouser leg.

‘Stand up when an officer enters the room, you little shit!’ the sergeant barked and Hopkins rose slowly to his feet.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Kingsley said gently. ‘That will be all.’

When the sergeant had stamped his way out of the room Kingsley offered Hopkins a cigarette and, lighting one himself, asked the prisoner to talk about the evening of the murder.

‘Nothing to t-tell,’ the man replied. He had developed a stutter since his experiences on the first day of the third battle. ‘Me and McC-C-Croon played a bit o’ cards, that was all. Did our b-basket-making. Nice of him to sit with me. I was f-feeling very low. What with the bangin’ in my head and all.’

‘Did you know that Viscount Abercrombie was in the next room?’

‘I didn’t even know there
was
a next room till that evening. Mind you, I’d have known th-then because whoever it was was having a terrible row with s-someone. They was shouting and everything.’

‘A row? Are you sure? Nobody’s mentioned this to me before.’

‘Well, in-maybe they never heard it. I was n-next door after all.’

‘Do you know who the row was with?’

‘No, never saw him. L-l-ike I say, I never even knew it was Abercrombie, the bastard that 1-lashed me to a g-gun limber.’

They sat and smoked together for a moment, listening to the sound of the not-too-distant artillery.

‘So you did not shoot Viscount Abercrombie then?’ Kingsley said, breaking the silence.

Hopkins finished his cigarette and cadged another before replying.

‘Course I f-f-fucking didn’t,’ he stammered. ‘What would I w-want to f-fucking do a silly thing like that for?’

‘He was an aristocrat. I believe that you are a Bolshevik.’

‘If every Bolshevik shot an aristocrat we’d have had a revol-l-lution long ago.’

‘I suppose that’s true.’

‘Sides, we ain’t going to sh-shoot the gentry, we’re going to put ‘em to w-work ‘longside us.’

Kingsley had read enough Lenin to wonder whether this would in fact be the case, but he was not there to discuss politics.

‘I reckon they’d r-rather be shot than work though,’ Hopkins added, finishing his second cigarette and asking for a third.

‘You were found with Abercrombie’s gun.’

‘That’s what they say. I d-don’t remember.’

‘You should try to remember. It might save your life.’

‘How could I? I was asleep. I woke up when they all came in shouting. The g-gun was in my lap.’

And try as Kingsley might, Hopkins could tell him nothing more.

When Kingsley returned to the sergeant’s office he discovered that the policemen he was dealing with were not entirely useless; given proper guidance they could get things done quickly enough and Kingsley was informed that Abercrombie’s revolver had been located. It had indeed been returned to active service and issued to a Captain Edmonds, who was currently in a trench in the middle of the Ypres salient. McCroon had been pronounced fit for duty and returned to the line; he too was on the Ypres salient, where currently there was a brief lull in the battle except directly around Passchendaele itself.

The sergeant had only two constables available to him and there were of course other duties to be carried out, so Kingsley decided that the sergeant should organize the exhumation of Abercrombie’s corpse while he himself would go in search of the alleged murder weapon. McCroon would have to wait.

‘Oh, by the way, Sergeant,’ Kingsley enquired casually, ‘were you aware that the viscount had requested a green envelope?’

‘No, sir, I was not.’