by R. N. Morris
This was the letter that would settle once and for all the question that had troubled Quinn all these years.
He placed the tin box unopened in the case. He quickly covered it with a towel, and various items of underwear.
TWELVE
Eve Cardew was pulled along by the crowd on Goldhawk Road. She had to keep her step in pace with those around her, otherwise she would fall and be trampled. She felt that the heart of the crowd was as pitiless as her own.
There was something welcome – almost blissful – about this surrender of individuality. She felt part of something purposeful.
She had been sent out by her mother to buy some pork chops for tea. As usual, Mama had retired to a darkened room to lie down. The last maid, Mildred, had given notice weeks ago, muttering something about how she couldn’t be doing with all the praying (amen to that!). Her father had said that he would find someone through the church, but so far, nothing doing. Eve smiled a private smile at the thought of his failure. He couldn’t understand it. What was wrong with these people? Were they afraid of a little good honest toil?
When the war had broken out, Eve had felt a quickening of her pulse. If she had been a man she would have enlisted. Not because she wished to defend the Empire, or Belgians, or for any patriotic reasons. She had allowed herself to be whipped up into a frenzy of anti-German hatred by what she read in the papers. She fantasized about horrific atrocities committed by faceless soldiers. At times, she put herself into these fantasies as a victim. She would imagine herself surrounded by a gang of slobbering, brutalized Germans. They would paw at her and rip her clothes off, then take turns in raping her. After they had sated their brutal appetites they took out long knives and began to carve pieces of her flesh away from her body. They always started with her breasts. She willed herself to feel pain, even as she imagined the blade cutting into her skin and the blood beginning to gush. But, of course, there was never any physical pain. Just the longing for it.
What swept her along with the crowd was her sense that the people around her were driven by the same toxic mixture of fear, glee and hatred as she was.
The papers had been full of the latest German crimes in Belgium. Priests threatened with death if they did not ring the bells to celebrate German victories. The mayor of a small town and ten other prominent citizens had been rounded up and held as hostages to ensure the good behaviour of the townsfolk. At every act of insurgence, one of them was executed. Not everything made its way into the papers. There were rumours of babies spiked on bayonets. Of old men struck down in the street. And of rapes, always the rapes. Of nuns, of nurses, of milkmaids and schoolgirls.
The pace of the crowd picked up. Voices rose to an excited clamour. It was hard to distinguish what was being said, but the anger was unmistakable. Then one man she could not see started to chant: ‘Filthy Bosch! Filthy Bosch! Filthy Bosch!’
The cry was taken up. Eve herself felt the thrill of it in her throat. They matched their step to the rhythm.
With the heavy accent on Bosch, the chant sounded like the beating of a giant pair of wings. The mass of people had become an avenging angel.
All at once the crowd seemed to fragment, and Eve experienced a pang of grief, afraid the energy around her was beginning to dissipate. But it was simply that a cluster of youths had broken away and were engaged in some absorbing activity of their own. Their shouts competed with the chanting. She went over to see what they were doing. Mama would have been horrified to see her keeping such company. The thought gave Eve immense satisfaction.
She saw that the youths were tearing apart a wooden pallet that one of them had found on the pavement. They were stripping off lengths of wood that they brandished like weapons, claws of rusty nails protruding from one end. They laughed with savage delight as they hefted the planks.
The pallet was torn apart in seconds. A few remnants of wood lay scattered on the ground. Eve threw down her shopping basket and picked up a handy-looking chunk. The laughter of the youths redoubled, but not in mockery, in delight.
‘She’s a game ’un, awrigh’!’
‘Who you gonna wallop with that? The bloody Kaiser?’
‘I know who we can wallop!’ cried one of them, a scrawny boy who couldn’t have been older than eleven. Either that, or malnourishment kept him small for his age. His eyes stood out large in his grimy face. ‘There’s a bloody Hun butcher’s around ’ere somewhere.’
‘I know where it is,’ said Eve.
She led the boys along the street. Word of their intent quickly spread. Within minutes she was at the head of a surging mass, many of whom were armed with lengths of wood and even bricks and half bricks that they had scavenged from somewhere.
The chant now was ‘Smash it up! Smash it up! Smash it up!’ The Filthy-Boschers had all been converted to Smash-It-Uppers.
She felt herself enlarged and enlivened by the energy behind her.
It was a strange, intoxicating feeling, not without a faint flickering of guilt. They bought their chops from Egger’s every week, and she herself had visited the shop many times. Her mother used to take her there as a child, in the days when she used to do her own provisioning. Eve remembered the smell of the shop. It was an unpleasant smell, but there was something about it that she wanted to get to the bottom of. She remembered Herr Egger as a big, round, jolly man, who always tried to make her smile with some joke she barely understood because of the funny way he spoke.
Sometimes he sang German songs to her. She had no hope of understanding the lyrics, but the melodies seemed to suggest a wistful longing for a faraway place. He had a surprisingly sweet and high-pitched voice, which was strangely at odds with the smears of blood on his apron. He was always chuckling and winking, and sometimes he even found little sweets or treats for her. There was no doubt Herr Egger had taken a shine to Eve.
The Eggers had a son, who was a few years older than Eve. Every now and then, if his son was there, Herr Egger would call for him, ‘William! Come here and say hello!’ William would come solemnly out from the back and mumble a few words while staring at the sawdusted floor. ‘One day, they will be married, no?’ Herr Egger would suggest to Mama. ‘Ja? Gut, ja? Then you will never want for pork chops, Frau Cardew.’ This was the worst joke of all, as far as Eve was concerned. Herr Egger would laugh so much the tears would come to his eyes.
She remembered feeling sorry for the boy. She knew that he no more welcomed this teasing than she did.
William was a grown man now. He had followed his father into the business and stood beside him now behind the counter in identical butcher’s aprons and straw boaters. His mother was there too, smart and prim in a dark matronly dress. All three looked anxiously out. William conferred for a moment with Herr Egger. He seemed to be urging his parents into action. But his father’s expression was confused, as if he could not comprehend, let alone believe, what was happening in the street outside. But it was clear that William had grasped the crowd’s intent immediately.
Herr Egger seemed suddenly very old. She had always thought of him as a big man, a kind of plump, jolly giant, the archetypal butcher, even to the mutton-chop whiskers. But now he seemed shrunken, almost frail.
She saw the reality of the situation dawn on him. His jaw dropped, he stood aghast, slowly shaking his head, staring in blank despair at the angry crowd outside. His face went an unhealthy grey colour.
At that point, William took charge of the situation. He ushered his parents, and what customers there were, into the back, then rushed to bolt the front door. That was the moment the first brick was thrown. It hit the large glass pane in the very door William was busy locking.
The glass shattered. William’s face and hands were immediately streaked with blood. Aghast, he looked into the crowd, as if demanding an explanation. It was confusion more than fear that she saw in his face. And when his gaze found her, it was something else, something personal and recriminatory.
An unexpected restraint seemed to come over the c
rowd, as if they were suddenly abashed. Undoubtedly, violence is easier to contemplate in the abstract, but when the human face of your victim is there before you, it takes a special kind of savagery to go through with it.
Then Eve realized that they were in fact waiting for the signal. And that it had fallen to her to give it.
She was in control of them. Their energy flowed through her. And William’s fate was in her hands.
‘No more bricks!’ she cried.
There were grumbles of dissent from the crowd. She sensed her power over them waning. The grumbles turned to shouts.
‘Bloody filthy Bosch!’
‘Robbed us blind all these years!’
‘Leeches!’
‘Shouldn’t be allowed!’
Eve felt herself jostled from behind. For the first time she was afraid that they might turn on her.
But really they were so stupid. They had misunderstood her earlier caution.
She climbed up on the low windowsill at the front of the shop and turned to address them.
‘Listen! If you smash the windows, you’ll spoil the meat. That’s all. We want the meat. We’re hungry. Our children are starving. It’s the Germans’ fault, with their beastly blockade, sinking our ships. It’s only right that we should take Fritz’s meat. He’s profiteering from it anyhow. Putting his prices up so none of us can afford it. What does he expect? But if you smash his windows now, we can’t eat the meat. Take the meat, take as much meat as you want. Then smash the windows!’
The crowd appreciated this, rewarding her with cheers and laughter. They immediately set about following her directions.
By now, William Egger had bolted what was left of the door and fled out of sight. But it was a simple matter to reach through the broken window and undo the latch.
The rabble flooded into the shop.
Eve jumped down and stood back from the turmoil. She looked up at the first-floor window, where she saw William Egger glowering down at her, his face still dark with his own blood.
She kept looking at him as the smashing began, and the cries of the mob rose to a frenzy. A moment later, she heard the first blast of a policeman’s whistle.
Then she remembered what old Mr Egger had once said about them one day getting married. She was still looking up at William Egger when she began to laugh.
PART III
Purity
3 September–5 September, 1914.
BRITAIN’S HERO ROLL OF 10,345.
Corrected Casualty List of British Soldiers Who Fell in Battle.
MORE OFFICERS’ NAMES.
The Press Bureau last night published a further list of casualties in the Expeditionary Force, bringing the total casualties issued up to date to 10,345.
Details of the casualties are as follows:
KILLED
Officers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Other ranks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179
WOUNDED
Officers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
Other ranks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 941
MISSING
Officers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
Other ranks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8,855
______
Total officers killed, missing, wounded 370
Other ranks killed, missing, wounded 9,975
______
Grand total of casualties . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10,345
Daily Mirror, Friday, 4 September, 1914
THIRTEEN
Silas Quinn looked across the floor of the CID room. Everywhere he looked, officers were busy about their jobs. He had the impression that every single one of them was studiously avoiding his gaze. But in his more rational moments, he accepted that they simply had a lot on their plates.
He appeared to be the only one there who had nothing particular to do. Reports landed on his desk, which he was required to read, in order to assess whether there was any aspect of the case that needed to be passed on to MO5(g). But it was down to others to do the actual police work.
Quinn being Quinn, he could not help reading the statements and reports and coming to his own conclusions about the investigating detective’s conduct of the case. He saw the tricks that were missed, the leads that went unexplored, the potentially key witnesses who were not interviewed, not to mention the flawed evidence, or even the total lack of evidence in some cases. Of course, it was not in his remit to challenge these shortcomings. But Quinn being Quinn, he did not let that stop him.
As far as Quinn could tell, the new emphasis on supposed German agents was a godsend to the lazier elements within the detective force. Now they didn’t even have to go through the motions of fitting up a likely villain. They could simply mark the case file as SFA – ‘Suspected Foreign Agent’, in effect shifting the file off their own desk on to Quinn’s. That would have been fine if Quinn had then had the latitude to investigate the case himself, but he was only required to assess the credibility of that conclusion and brief his contact at MO5(g), Commander Irons, on any that passed muster.
Commander Irons had the appearance of a games master at one of the better public schools, except that his face was strangely immobile, so much so that Quinn half-wondered if it was paralyzed. But no, it was merely that Irons was consciously straining not to give anything away in all their interactions. Perhaps he was new to intelligence work, and had not yet acquired that habit of practised insouciance that Quinn had noticed in the best agents. The trick, you see, was to put your interlocutor at their ease, to appear to be garrulous and indiscreet, in order to draw forth indiscretions from the other. But Irons was as taciturn as he was facially inexpressive. Perhaps, with such men, there were layers of dissimulation, which they could put on depending on their audience. With Quinn, Irons saw no reason to be anything other than his granite-faced, tight-lipped self.
They met in a nondescript room in the Admiralty, which at least gave Quinn the opportunity to get up from his desk and leave the building.
Some of the files Quinn handed over would be taken from him and he would never hear of them again. With others, he would receive direction which he was to pass on to the senior officer in the case. Occasionally he might be required to set up a meeting between Commander Irons and the team. His presence was not required at these meetings.
There was no denying that Quinn found his reduced role demeaning.
Looking at the backs of his colleagues, hunched and tensed, he felt a pang of envy.
He was suddenly aware of a presence at the side of his desk. He turned to see his former sergeant, Macadam, patiently waiting to get his attention.
Quinn sat up in his seat. ‘Macadam? What can I do for you?’
‘Good afternoon, sir.’
At that moment, Sergeant Inchball drew up alongside Macadam.
‘Both of you?’
‘Guv.’ Inchball offered the greeting tersely. He avoided looking Quinn in the eye.
‘We just wondered how you were getting on, sir?’ offered Macadam, somewhat uncertainly. ‘It can’t be easy, what with the SCD being closed down and all.’
‘It’s a diabolical liberty, that’s what it is,’ was Inchball’s view on the matter.
‘We just wanted to let you know, we are here … if you need us.’
‘I’m sure you have duties of your own already. I wouldn’t dream of imposing on you.’
‘I wasn’t talking about in an official capacity, sir.’
‘In what capacity, then?’ Quinn’s voice brimmed with alarm.
‘Oh, he would be difficult, wouldn’t he!’ cried Inchball. ‘You need some friends in ’ere, doancha?’
It was a startling thought. He did not disagree with what Inchball had said. It was rather that he had never thought of it in those terms before.
‘Some of the fellows are …’ Macadam broke off delicately to
consider his words. ‘Rather vexed by your …’
‘Vexed?’
‘Some of them are exceeding vexed, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘What has got them so vexed?’
‘Your … well … how shall I put it?’
‘They don’t like the way you’re always making them look like fools, guv,’ said Inchball with a chuckle.
‘I don’t mean to,’ said Quinn simply.
‘We know that, sir. But the way they see it, it’s not your place to be … offering your opinions on their conduct of their cases.’
‘I’m only trying to help.’
‘They don’t welcome your help, sir. They haven’t asked for it. They don’t want it.’
‘Bloody interfering bugger.’ Inchball added quickly: ‘That’s what they call you, guv.’ He held up his palms in a placatory gesture, to make it clear that these were not the words he would have chosen.
‘I know it’s hard, sir, when you see …’
‘Incompetence?’
Macadam winced at Quinn’s choice of word. ‘Mistakes, shall we say?’
‘Exactly. Mistakes.’
‘Different methods, perhaps. Perhaps that would be a better term? The thing is, sir, the way some of the fellows see it, this isn’t your job.’
‘Ain’t you supposed to be looking out for Germans?’
Quinn ignored the question. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘It’s not our place, sir.’
‘Look, guv, we know you’re in the right, Mac and me. That ain’t the point. The point is this. Watch yer back. Keep yer head down. Wait it out. Don’t make waves. Not yet. Bide yer time. That’s the sensible thing to do, if you ask me.’
‘We’ve heard rumblings, sir. There’s a faction out to get you. They’re waiting for one slip up, then the knives will be out.’
‘How high up does it go, this faction?’
‘You’ve ruffled quite a few feathers, sir. Inspectors, DCIs. But the types who have the ears of those even higher up.’
