A Study in Stone

by Michael Campling

  “Ah, I see what you’re getting at.” Dan chewed on his lower lip, unsure what to say.

  “We idealise people in the past,” Doctor Harrison went on, “but they were just like us, just as fallible. They couldn’t have known how we’d judge them, nor did they know what we’d find important. So you might find what you’re looking for, but there are no guarantees.”

  “Except, that I just have,” Alan said, his voice unnaturally loud in the quiet room. “I’ve found exactly what we’re looking for.”

  Dan and Doctor Harrison hurried to his side, and huddling together, they stared down at the single sheet of writing paper that Alan had pulled towards him.

  To Captain G. Kenning, 24th March 1919, Dan read, but when his eyes went to the uneven handwriting on the next line, a chill ran down his spine.

  I’m supposed to be writing to my dad, but he can’t hardly read, and anyway, I wanted you to know that whatever they say about your brother, it most likely isn’t true.

  Dan’s chest tightened as he read on:

  We was both in the Calais hospital with the flu, but I was in a bad way. The doctors had a name for it, but all I know is, I wasn’t myself, wasn’t right in my mind. I had the fear of God in me. Not just scared, but something else. Something worse. I couldn’t stop it, but Lieutenant Kenning, he took me under his wing. We’d both been in the 2nd Battalion, the Devonshires, you see, and there weren’t many of us left. He tried to jolly me along, keep my spirits up. We’d have a fine time after the fighting was over, he’d say. I knew a gentleman such as him wouldn’t want to be seen with someone like me when we got back to Blighty, but he’d have none of it. Things will be different, he’d say.

  Dan reached the end of the page. “Can we turn it over?”

  “Yes, yes,” Alan replied, and with deft fingers, Doctor Harrison flipped the sheet of paper over.

  I don’t know how long I was in that place, but we were lucky, and we pulled through. It was more down to your brother than the doctors if you ask me, but at any rate, they reckoned we was fit for duty, and we got our orders around the same time. Lieutenant Kenning said it would be all right, but I went to pieces all over again. It shames me, but I ran away. He shouldn’t have done it, but your brother came after me. He found me hiding in a barn, but I wouldn’t go back with him. I’d stolen some clothes, thrown my uniform in a ditch, but he tried to talk some sense into me. He was a very patient man. Brave too. I told him to leave me there, but he wouldn’t do it.

  When the patrol found us, we’d only been away for a few hours, just talking. I wanted to own up, but your brother shouldered the blame, said it was all his fault. I tried to explain but nobody would listen. They said we were as bad as each other. Deserters.

  In the morning, I’m to be shot, and that’s that, but I fear for your poor brother because the guards won’t tell me what’s happening to him. The chaplain came to visit, and I begged him to tell me the truth, but he just said that things don’t look good.

  They’re saying your brother was an officer and knew the score, so the chaplain thought they might be hard on the poor man, make an example of him. It isn’t right. It just isn’t right.

  I don’t know what else to say except I’m sorry. The chaplain said he’ll take this letter for me, so I want you to know one thing. Your brother was the bravest man I ever knew, and if I get to meet him again in heaven, I shall gladly shake him by the hand.

  Yours faithfully,

  Peter Murphy, Private, 2nd Battalion, The Devonshires.

  “Bloody hell,” Dan muttered, and all three men straightened at the same time.

  “This is awful,” Alan said, his voice faint. “I can’t get my head around it. That poor man. And what happened to Cyril? Would they really have shot him too?”

  “Of course they did,” Dan stated. “It’s the only explanation that fits the facts. It’s all there in the letter. Murphy said Cyril shouldered the blame. As an officer, he was clearly determined to take all the responsibility. And more than that, he wanted to stick by his friend, his brother in arms. They’d been through hell together, surviving a brutal battle and seeing most of their comrades killed.”

  “The defence of Bois des Buttes,” Alan explained to Doctor Harrison. “The Second Battalion was all but wiped out. They were awarded the Croix de Guerre for gallantry.”

  “They fought to the bitter end even though they must’ve known they couldn’t win,” Dan said. “That tells you everything you need to know about Cyril Kenning. And even after the war, despite being struck down with the Spanish flu himself, he looked after Murphy, making sure he pulled through. When the odds were against him, Cyril dug his heels in. There’s no way he would’ve walked away and let his friend down.”

  “You paint a very vivid picture,” Doctor Harrison said. “As a historian, I prefer solid facts, but we often try to guess at what went on in the minds of those who are long gone. In this case, I’d say that your interpretation is as good as any. You certainly seem to have got under Cyril Kenning’s skin. It’s almost as if you knew him.”

  Dan hesitated. “We’ve been on his trail for a while, and he’s been on my mind, always just ahead, out of reach. Now, we’ve finally caught up with him.”

  “Yes,” Alan put in. “I feel as though I’ve spent a lot of time in Cyril’s company. It’s sad to think he might’ve ended his days in that dreadful way.”

  “There’s no might about it,” Dan said. “When they executed Murphy, Cyril’s fate was sealed. That’s why the Kennings don’t want the story dragged up; they’re ashamed to have a deserter in the family. It doesn’t fit their heroic narrative.” He paused, thinking. “Remember when Martin quizzed us about our intentions? I knew something was wrong when he started talking about social media. He really doesn’t want the truth to get out.”

  “Why?” Alan asked. “What does it matter?”

  “Pride,” Dan said. “Loss of face. To men like David and Martin, being an officer isn’t just a job, it defines them. I’ve seen the same kind of thing among the high-flyers in the city. When your life is built on your reputation, without it, you’re nothing. Less than nothing.”

  Alan frowned. “But there’s no reason for them to feel ashamed. This letter explains everything.”

  “When were Gordon’s documents donated to the museum?” Dan asked Doctor Harrison.

  “They were a bequest, so they would’ve been transferred shortly after his death.”

  “1972,” Alan said. “That’s quite some time ago. I wonder if David and Martin even know about the letter.”

  Dan shook his head. “I doubt it. You heard what they think of Gordon. Martin called him a crank, and they were keen to get rid of his collection of Roman artefacts, so I really don’t think they’d bother to wade through his personal papers. Some things, it seems, they’re very keen to forget.”

  “I still find all this hard to accept,” Alan said. “Cyril survived so much. Could he really have been killed by his own side?”

  Doctor Harrison sighed. “It happened. Not often, given the sheer number of soldiers, but around three hundred British soldiers were executed. Some for murder, but others for cowardice or desertion. And there were other crimes that carried the death penalty such as striking a superior officer or casting away their weapons. Murphy removed his uniform, and that may well have been enough to convict him. If Cyril insisted on taking responsibility, he would’ve been in deep trouble.”

  “But both men had been severely ill,” Alan protested. “This Peter Murphy sounds like he had PTSD.”

  “That wasn’t well understood, and anyway, it wouldn’t have been taken into account in a case of desertion,” Doctor Harrison said. “It was called shell shock or war neurosis, but no doctor would ever defend a deserter. I know it sounds inhuman to our ears, but that’s how it was.”

  “Then it was barbaric and senseless,” Dan growled. “This was after the armistice for God’s sake. The fighting was over.”

  “Yes, but there were
still huge numbers of troops across Europe,” Doctor Harrison explained. “I suspect the authorities feared a slide into chaos. I’m not excusing their actions, but they were probably trying to maintain discipline in the only way they understood.” He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “That’s if the letter is reliable, of course. It looks genuine, but personal accounts are hardly ever impartial.”

  Dan closed his eyes, trying very hard not to picture the last moments of Cyril Kenning’s life, but the sensations came anyway: the sound of rifles being loaded, the slide of the bolt, the barked orders, the final report of gunfire as the pain seared through his mind, erasing his young life.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, opening his eyes. “If I’d known what we’d find, I don’t think I’d ever have started on this, but now, I can see that it all fits. Cyril was shot for desertion, and it broke his brother’s heart. They’d both trusted in the institutions of church and state, but neither helped Cyril. The army killed his brother, and a chaplain could do nothing except to send this letter. Gordon turned away from the church, throwing himself into his work, and when he became a recluse, the truth was lost. He must’ve decided that any attempt to clear his brother’s name would’ve been futile. The war was over; no one wanted to know.”

  “The Great War touched almost every family in the country,” Doctor Harrison said. “When so many had lost loved ones, any suggestion of cowardice would’ve been hard to live down.”

  Dan nodded. “And a generation later, the Kennings were so ashamed that they wrote poor Cyril out of their history.”

  “In his own way, though, Gordon tried to pay his respects to his brother,” Alan said. “He might not have been able to talk about him openly, but he found a way to keep Cyril’s memory alive, building a memorial that only he could understand.”

  “And maybe his business was a testament too,” Dan added. “Cyril survived the flu pandemic, so in setting up pharmacies, Gordon was trying to bring healthcare to ordinary people. After all, there was no National Health Service back then.”

  Doctor Harrison cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that you’re in danger of straying too far from the evidence, but if it’s any consolation, I’d say that you’ve gleaned as much information as you can from this letter. And now, I really have to get back to work. If you want to go through anything else in the archive, you can always make an appointment. In the meantime, if you leave me your address, I can arrange for a copy of Murphy’s letter to be sent to you.”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” Dan said. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Could I have a copy too, please?” Alan asked. “Obviously, if there’s a charge…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Doctor Harrison replied. “We’ll call it community outreach, that covers most things. But, Sally said that you two were neighbours. It’ll save on postage if I can send the copies to one of you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know if that will work,” Alan began. “You’re heading back to London, aren’t you?”

  But Dan found himself smiling. “It’s fine, Alan. Give Doctor Harrison your address, and when the letters arrive, just give me a shout, and I’ll pop around to collect my copy.”

  “It might take me a few days to process it,” Doctor Harrison warned. “There’s a procedure. We have to use a special copier.”

  “That’s all right,” Dan said. “I’ll be sticking around. I’m not sure how long for, but…we’ll see.”

  “Okay. I’ll just put the rest away, then I’ll show you out.” Leaving the letter to one side, Doctor Harrison began returning the documents to the drawer, keeping them in careful order. “So, what’s your next line of inquiry? Are you sticking with the Kennings, or are you pursuing the Great War angle?”

  Dan exchanged a look with Alan. Was there an eager spark of optimism in Alan’s eyes, a glint of anticipation? Yes. And when he considered the prospect of solving another puzzle, something stirred in his soul in a way that it hadn’t done for some time, and he found himself saying, “I think we’ll start on something new.”

  “Excellent,” Doctor Harrison said as he slid the drawer back into its home. “And what will be the focus of your next project?”

  “I have no idea,” Dan admitted. “Something will turn up, I expect, but first, we have an errand to run.”

  “Right, I’ll take you back to the main entrance,” Doctor Harrison said, and they followed him through the door, heading back to the impressive entrance hall.

  When they’d said goodbye to Doctor Harrison, and Alan had left his address, Dan led the way outside, and they halted for a moment on the busy pavement. “What’s this errand then?” Alan asked. “Have you got some shopping to do?”

  “No,” Dan replied. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in the mood for a really good cup of coffee.”

  Alan’s face fell. “Oh no, you don’t want to head back to the Aquifer Café, do you? I really can’t face another argument.”

  Dan shook his head. “No. In fact, I’m prepared to go pretty much anywhere else, but if I’m going to stick around for a while, I really must find a decent coffee shop. The hunt starts here, but I’ll tell you what, why don’t you get the ball rolling? You know the city, you can choose the first contender.”

  “Seriously?” Alan let out a chuckle. “In that case, I know just the place. I’ve been doing some research of my own. Come on. I’ll show you.” Alan set off at a good pace, and Dan strode alongside him, the two marching along the street in companionable silence.

  Dan thought he recognised the narrow alley that Alan led him through, and when they emerged from the other end, he caught sight of a banner attached to the fence surrounding a schoolyard. “Ah, this is Sidwell. The area you told me about.”

  “Exactly,” Alan said without slowing. “And look!” He pointed to a row of small shops, and there, looking as if it had been converted from an ordinary townhouse, was a café, its plate-glass windows adorned with neat white lettering:

  The Eggplant Café

  100% Vegan

  “I don’t know what the coffee is like,” Alan said, “but it has some good reviews online. The cakes are supposed to be wonderful.”

  Dan halted. “This is…very thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “So what are we waiting for?” Alan gave Dan a gentle shove, urging him forwards. “Wait until you see inside.”

  And when they bustled in through the door, Dan couldn’t help but stare. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” Alan said, then he led the way across the room and leaned on the wrought-iron railing that separated the corner from the seating area. There, he pointed to the small water feature: a circle of stones surrounding a plastic tub of water. A few coins gleamed from beneath the surface, and the scene was decorated with artificial plants. “This is supposed to be the site of the well of Saint Sidwell. Whether anyone can be sure of that, I don’t know, but at least it’s in the right place, and the road we’ve just crossed is called Well Street, so it has a reasonable claim.”

  “Deborah stole the idea lock, stock and plastic barrel,” Dan muttered. “What a nerve.”

  Alan nodded. “She’s certainly dishonest, but there’s not much we can do about it, and in the grand scheme of things, I’m not sure it really matters.” He sent Dan a smile. “Now that we’re here, we may as well try the coffee, and since you can eat anything from the menu, you can go mad. My treat.”

  For a moment, Dan’s frown remained in place. But when Alan took a seat and began studying the menu, he found his sense of irritation slipping away. Deborah was a fraud, and the Kenning family were emotionally repressed and clinging for grim death to a way of life that made no sense in the twenty-first century. But if Alan could let it all go, then so could he. At any rate, it seemed worth a try.

  Dan nodded, and as he went to join Alan at the table, he felt somehow lighter, as if a burden had slipped from his shoulders.

  “They have cheesecake,” Alan said, wiggling his eyebrows. �
��How on earth do they make that from plants?”

  “I’m really not sure,” Dan said, plucking another menu from its stand. “I say we find out, but only after I get my cup of coffee, and since you’re buying, I’ll have a large cup.”

  “Me too,” Alan said. “Frankly, I think we’ve earned it.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Town Cemetery, Bethune, Pas de Calais, France

  His hands deep in his coat pockets, Dan walked along the row of headstones. Alan walked at his side. There was no need to say anything. Once they’d found the details of Cyril Kenning’s execution, it had been a simple matter to find the precise location of his last resting place, and now, Dan stopped in front of it, his head bowed.

  They’d bought a small bunch of flowers, and though the mixed blooms seemed poor and inadequate, Dan laid them in front of the headstone.

  For a minute, neither of them said a word, then finally, Alan broke the silence. “We ought to have brought poppies.”

  Dan shook his head. “We’re here, that’s what counts.”

  “Yes.” Alan pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “Do you mind if I read something?”

  “No. I think that would be good.”

  Alan took a breath and then, in a loud, clear voice, he began:

  “To My Brother.

  Give me your hand, my brother, search my face;

  Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame;

  For we have made an end of all things base.

  We are returning by the road we came.

  Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead,

  And I am in the field where men must fight.

  But in the gloom I see your laurell’d head

  And through your victory I shall win the light.”