The Return of Captain John Emmett (22 page)

'What a bugger.'

'Yes. I expect he thought so,' said Charles. 'Beastly business. God knows what it did to Emmett. Mind you, what was he thinking? Once Hart was wounded he should have just finished him off. It makes it all much worse for the men who misfired. Everyone has the jitters in these sorts of situations but he was the officer. And as for Tucker, he should have been sorted out way back, it seems to me. Insolence, abuse of power, bullying, contravention of King's Regs. Weak leadership there, letting a rogue NCO call the tune.'

'And now I'm going to have to go and confront the man himself,' said Laurence.

'What?'

'Well, something set John and Tucker against each other and that something apparently culminated in the fiasco at the execution. They obviously loathed each other. And Byers hinted that Tucker's ministrations to his own friend after the trench accident were murderous rather than medical. Though his actions were vague and Byers hated the man, so it may be wishful thinking.'

'So you think you can track down Tucker, wherever he might have got to?' Charles spoke slowly. And might I add that Tucker is hardly in the same league as Tresham Brabourne when it comes to distinctive names? Then you're going to tell him that the man he persecuted, by the sound of it, was your chum, whom he drove to his death, and then he's obligingly going to tell you exactly what it was all about, man to man, and you can bear the news to the fair Mary Emmett and set her mind at rest and ensure her everlasting gratitude. Is that how you see it?'

'Well, no, obviously not. But I don't have to show Tucker how partisan I am. I can think of some legitimate reason for seeing him. If he's fallen on hard times he might even talk in exchange for money. And actually I do know how to find him. He's in Birmingham.'

'Ah, that rural hamlet. Should be easy, then. And I expect he has war heroes, brimming with derring-do, travelling up from London to ask his opinion on this and that every day of the week?'

'I know exactly where he is. At least I know how to find him. In a public house.'

Charles gave him a long look. 'Of course. Simple. Apart from anything else, Tucker could be dangerous. He doesn't sound like a man to cross. My cousin says the final wartime death toll is going to be a loss of about one in four or five officers and rather less than that for other ranks, one in eight, say. Mind you, that doesn't include poor buggers with half-lives like John and Bolitho. Maybe a third of us were casualties of some sort. Some outfits were hit badly, obviously some got off lightly, but what we're talking about here is a complete reversal of that ratio: almost everybody connected with Tucker is dead. Some died well after the hostilities.'

'Well, the soldiers died in action. Byers' cousin can hardly be counted and policemen do, occasionally, die on duty. John made his own decision. Probably.'

Charles looked thoughtful. 'What do we know about the death of the police officer, late APM, then? Mullins, was it? When was it for a start? Have the police got anybody for it?'

'I don't know. No idea,' said Laurence. 'I vaguely remember seeing a headline. I suppose I can find out but it must have been weeks, maybe even months ago.'

'My point exactly. If it's a question of killing their own, the police won't rest until he's caught and hanged. Not a casual crook, I'd say, if he's managed to elude them. Anyway, when did you last hear of the death of any senior policeman?'

Laurence shook his head.

'I'm not being overly dramatic,' said Charles, 'but think about it. Even Byers' cousin's death could have been someone wanting to get back at Leonard Byers, someone with a nasty line in vindictiveness, and from everything you've told me about Tucker, he seems to fit the bill.'

'Charles...' Laurence began.

'You think it's improbable? I think it's improbable but it still makes me cautious about you tootling off to track Tucker down. Think, man, what was really shocking about Tucker's behaviour over Hart's death? He shot him in the face. Unnecessary. Maximum damage. Maximum impact for onlookers plus public contempt for John.'

'I know what you're getting at,' Laurence interrupted, 'that whoever it was deliberately shot Byers' cousin in the face. Whom do we know who has a taste for that kind of thing? Who might want to send a message to Leonard Byers? Tucker. That's why I'm going. All roads lead to Tucker.'

'But I don't think yours should. He strikes me as one of those men who hated all officers on principle.'

'John wasn't shot in the face,' Laurence said. 'He didn't even shoot himself in the head like most suicides.'

'No,' said Charles, 'but you've already started to wonder whether it really was suicide. Could you still put your hand on your heart and tell Miss Emmett her brother killed himself?'

Laurence's optimism was flagging, yet it had all seemed to be coming together less than a week ago. Not perfect, but approaching coherence.

'It simply makes it more important that I try to see Tucker,' he said. 'Why would anyone disguise John's death to look like suicide? If there is a single killer he certainly didn't bother to do so with Byers and Mullins.' He felt foolish even articulating it. 'And I keep asking myself, why would anyone be doing this?'

'Any chance you've still got your gun?' Charles asked, and then, seeing the look on Laurence's face, went on, 'No, of course you haven't.'

'I'm not getting on a train at St Pancras armed to the teeth anyway, if that's what you've got in mind. I'm not a gangster. This isn't America,' Laurence retorted. After a moment's hesitation he added, 'But I'll tell you what. I won't go rushing up there just yet. Before I do, I'll check the archives for the story of that policeman's death. No danger there and it's easily done.'

And I'll try to track down Brabourne,' said Charles. 'Then if, and only if, we feel it's necessary to head north, we'll both go. No, don't protest,' he interrupted as Laurence started to speak. 'Safety in numbers. Tucker's a maniac. Don't want to find myself buying back your tenderest parts pickled in a bottle, do I?'

'You think Tucker's more likely to talk to two strangers than one?' said Laurence. 'I don't.'

'No. But I think he's less likely to attack two than one. His sort go for the safe bet. Anyway, I'd like to look the man in the eye.'

They finished their dinner, Laurence turning down the offer of brandy and cigars. Charles walked with him to get his coat. Impulsively, Laurence shook his hand, holding it with both his own.

'Thank you,' he said. 'You've been more of a help than you know.'

Charles looked simultaneously pleased and embarrassed.

'I was getting bored, you know. Before. At least with the war you knew where you were.'

When he arrived home his rooms felt cold and unwelcoming even when he'd lit the fire. He made some thick, bitter cocoa and warmed his hands on the cup. There were things he thought he'd never know for sure but the biggest remaining question mark, apart from Tucker's role in all this, was why Gwen Lovell had been left money by a stranger and why they couldn't find Harry Lovell's records.

But then another thought struck him. They'd all made the assumption that Lovell was an officer. He had done it from the start himself. Mrs Lovell had never said so but he'd taken it for granted because, although in visibly reduced circumstances, she was a lady and also because of her assumption that John, a captain, might plausibly have been her son's friend. Friendships were rare across the ranks. But whether or not you went into the ranks wasn't always a matter of class. Sometimes it was one of preference.

He'd read of a famous headmaster's son who'd set out to be a conscientious objector, but when half the young men in his village had died he had finally joined up, refusing the commission his education entitled him to. Eventually he had won the Victoria Cross. There were plenty of others. One school friend, he'd heard, had gone into the Royal Flying Corps as a mechanic, simply because he was fascinated by the engines.

It was much rarer the other way. A costermonger or a miner didn't get a commission, however good a soldier or however bravely he fought. Although an exceptionally able bank clerk or a seed merchant might work his way up to major if casualties were sufficiently high, he doubted they'd find an unstinting welcome in the mess. Even in the face of imminent death and conditions of massive discomfort, the nuances were always there. Snobbery, prejudice, bullying: all of it transported straight from the playing fields and drawing rooms of English society. He had been guilty of it himself, assuming the son of the well-spoken Mrs Lovell would automatically have held a commission.

If young Lovell was the link between John Emmett and the bequest to Mrs Lovell, and Lovell was a private soldier, not an officer, the puzzle became more complex still, simply in terms of numbers. It was just possible that the man his mother had described as sensitive and music-loving might have refused a commission despite his background. He cast back to the events that people had described to him over the last few weeks and thought how often he'd heard the phrase 'some corporal' or been told of 'a young soldier' or 'a private—I don't think I ever knew his name'. He felt momentarily dispirited but then recalled that Lovell, though an interesting loose end, didn't seem to be at the centre of his enquiry. Why was he making everything so complicated?

As he got ready for bed, he thought about seeing Mary again. Tomorrow, no, he tipped his watch to the light, today, she'd be here, in London. Yet since her unexplained encounter with Charles in Tunbridge Wells and that fleeting exchange with a stranger at the Wigmore Hall, he was wary. He could hardly ask her to explain herself.

Several hours later, when she appeared waving vigorously from the far end of the platform, so that the pompons on the ends of her scarf danced on her coat, the minutiae of his concerns about her fled away. She tucked her arm in his as if they were the oldest friends in the world. Her other arm clutched a bag to her body.

'Gosh, it's cold,' she said. 'Do you think it's going to snow early this year? It'll make the winter seem awfully long.'

She had put on a little weight, he thought, and it suited her. Today the cold had also flushed her cheeks and her eyes sparkled.

'How've you been?' he asked once they were settled on the bus, knowing that he really wanted to ask what she had been doing.

'Oh, all right. You know. Up and down but I think, on the whole, more up than down. It's not so easy for my mother.'

'But she's still got you,' said Laurence.

'Maybe you always count the cost of what you've lost more than what you still have,' she said. Anyway, she was always trying to get rid of me—marry me off. Ghastly men. Whiskery bachelor academics, mournful widowers.' She looked mortified. 'Oh Laurence, how frightful of me. I'm dreadfully sorry.' She put her warm, gloveless hand over his. 'I didn't mean you or anyone like you. It was just a joke. I talk too much, always have, especially when I'm trying to impress someone. Say things I shouldn't even think.'

He was more amused than anything else, though glad she might want to impress him.

As he helped her down from the bus he said, 'Perhaps she's eager for grandchildren. Another generation to live for.' He added swiftly, 'There, that sounds awfully clumsy too. I don't mean to suggest your only purpose is to produce babies as her consolation.'

'You're probably right, though,' said Mary. 'Ideally they'd be boys and the oldest one could be called John. The youngest too, possibly. That should do it. A girl called Johanna in the middle. But I need to find the right man first.' He knew she was teasing him as she squeezed his arm a little more tightly.

'Let's get out of the cold and have tea,' he said, already turning up a street in the direction of the British Museum. They were walking too fast to talk easily.

It was the same small place that he had used to meet Eleanor. The waitress who took their order seemed completely indifferent to them. Her cap was pinned far back on her crimped yellow hair and with her lips coloured into a surprised-looking bow, she looked like a large, rather peevish doll. In any case she was too busy watching the door, waiting for somebody she evidently expected. But nobody else ever arrived; the room was theirs. Laurence curved his cold fingers round his cup.

Before he could start to tell Mary of what he still thought of as his detective work, she took out a brown envelope from her bag.

'Look,' she said, 'these were things I found in the bedside cupboard in John's room. They were just odds and ends that came back with his things from Holmwood, so we shoved them in there and forgot about them. Nothing very exciting. A couple of laundry lists, notes of some birds he'd seen in the garden. You see,' she said, pulling out a lined sheet, 'he did have some interest in what was going on.'

Laurence took the bit of paper. The writing was uncontrolled but the content was clear:

H'wood

Blackbird.
Mistle thrush,
M. and F.
Great tit.
Blue tit
(nesting in garage wall?)

Beside it John had sketched a blue tit, a coal tit and a great tit, and labelled them.

Chaffinches.
Woodpecker
(heard, but never seen).
Hedge sparrow
—lots.
Pipit? Chiffchaff.
Wren
(in honeysuckle outside music-room window)

Red kite.
A pair. Just once, walking out. Mewling over the river valley. Wonderful. N. was a little frightened at first. Larks. 'All the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.' Went as far as river watching them through Dr C's glasses. As agreed did not throw myself in!

Another, much neater hand, had added:

Greater puff-chested yellow fiddler.
Fine plumage; watchful demeanour. Mates prolifically with weaker females. Harsh and irritating repetitive cry. Minemineminemine. Moneemoneemonee. Rarely leaves his natural habitat, where he is king of his tattered little flock, for the open countryside where the woodland animals might tear him apart.