by R. N. Morris
The doctor’s concerned frown at Timberley’s audible breathing was the first sign that all was not well. The second was that he chose to listen to Timberley’s lungs before he did any of the other tests. ‘Have you seen a doctor about that?’
‘About what?’
‘Well, you’re wheezing quite atrociously, you know.’
‘It’s a spot of asthma. It’s never too bad. This morning perhaps a bit worse than usual. But … uh …’ Timberley was unable to finish the sentence.
‘I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t sign you fit. Not only that, I recommend that you see your own doctor at the soonest opportunity. Do you have a cough with it?’
‘Not usually.’ But his treacherous lungs gave the lie to his assertion and he began coughing again.
‘Any sputum with the cough?’
As the question was asked, Timberley held his already damp handkerchief in front of his mouth. There was no point denying it now. He closed his eyes and gave a barely perceptible nod.
‘Any blood in the snot?’
Timberley shook his head, his eyes still closed.
‘Let me see,’ demanded the doctor.
Reluctantly, Timberley held open the handkerchief.
One sinister strand of red, like a fibre from a frayed ribbon, lay in the dead centre of the cotton square. ‘In all honesty, I have never seen that before.’
‘I’m sorry, but we can’t have you in the army. You understand, of course.’
Timberley squeezed his eyes closed tightly. When he opened them, he felt the sting of tears.
‘Bad luck, Timbers,’ said Appleby quietly.
Timberley did not want to discuss it. Luckily, Appleby was sensitive enough to realize this, or perhaps it was simply that he could think of nothing to say to his friend.
And so they rode back to the Natural History Museum in silence. Appleby thumbed the shiny new shilling in his pocket, resisting the temptation to take it out and look at it. He contented himself with imagining how it would glint as he held it up to catch the sunlight.
When they got off the bus outside the Albert Hall, Appleby at last ventured to say: ‘You should take the rest of the day off, you know. You really don’t seem well at all, old man. I dare say Gahan would understand.’
‘No, no. It’s nothing.’ And indeed his asthma attack seemed to have passed now that the crisis had been reached. ‘I think it’s only fair to let old Gahan know that I won’t be leaving him after all.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be—’
‘Don’t say it.’
Gahan was surprised to see them back. ‘What’s this?’
‘I failed the medical,’ said Timberley bluntly. ‘So you’re stuck with me for a while longer, I’m afraid.’
‘Your asthma, was it?’
Timberley nodded.
‘And you, Appleby?’
‘Oh, I’m in. They didn’t have a uniform for me but I’ve sworn the oath and taken the shilling.’ He contrived to make it sound as though he were the unlucky one. ‘All that’s left to do now is wait for the call-up. May as well make myself useful in the meantime, what?’
Gahan gave Timberley a sympathetic smile, pitying really, before drifting away back to his work in quiet embarrassment.
‘You shouldn’t have listened to me. You should have applied for a commission as you originally intended.’ Timberley’s resentment had turned into a despondent fatalism. If Appleby was going to get the girl, he may as well do so as an officer.
‘No, this way is better. I … I just wish to serve.’
‘How noble you sound.’
‘You would have been the same.’
‘How she will despise me now.’
‘No! She’s not like that! She’s …’
‘You mustn’t tell her.’
‘What?’
‘About the reason.’
‘Your asthma, you mean?’
‘It’s not asthma, Apples. Didn’t you see the look on that doctor’s face?’
‘You don’t know. You have to get it checked out, as he said.’
‘Yes, yes … all in good time. I don’t want her to know, though. I don’t want her to think me more of a weakling than she already does.’
‘Then what will you say to her?’
Timberley shrugged. ‘Let’s say it was my eyesight. I don’t want her pity, you see. I’d rather have her contempt than her pity.’
‘But that’s … ridiculous!’
‘Promise me, Apples.’
Appleby’s discomfort showed in a deep frown. ‘It doesn’t seem quite fair, you know. As if you’re testing her. Provoking her to be … cruel.’
‘Do you think she will be cruel?’
‘Not if she knows the truth.’
‘It won’t matter. I won’t hold it against her. In a way, I sort of think I deserve it.’
Appleby shook his head, still not convinced. ‘It rather smacks of bad faith, if you ask me.’
Timberley snapped: ‘I just don’t want her pity! Don’t you understand?’
After a moment of shock at the force of Timberley’s outburst, Appleby’s expression became sealed off and distant. Something had struck home. The rift that now existed between them; the one who would go away to fight, and the one who would stay at home. He took his leave with a minimal nod, grim, silent and wounded.
Timberley immediately regretted his temper. But he knew that he would never be able to apologize for it. Indeed, he wondered if he would ever be able to look his friend in the face again.
And the thought of seeing Mary that evening appalled him.
PART V
Arrest
14 September–16 September, 1914.
PATRIOTISM is a splendid thing, and I would be the last to belittle it, but I do think it might take another form than badgering poor inoffensive Germans just now.
I know, and have known (by sight) for some years, an old German who keeps a little tailor’s repair shop in our high road. A more inoffensive man there could hardly be, and he certainly does not look over-prosperous.
Yesterday morning I was told, and saw, that “patriots” had shown their disapproval of his nationality by absolutely wrecking his place the night before. The poor old man was staring at his broken windows and torn blinds with an absolutely bewildered air, and the grins of passers-by did not help him.
If these enthusiasts are so filled with the martial spirit, let them go and enlist and find some outlet in serving their country by fighting a worthy foe. These poor fellows cannot help their nationality, and probably most of them would be Englishmen to-morrow if they could.
NOT PRO-GERMAN.
Letter to Daily Mirror, September, 1914
TWENTY-FIVE
‘This is for you!’
Leversedge hefted a large sack on to Quinn’s desk with a gleeful disregard for anything else on it. It landed with a soft thump.
‘What’s this?’
‘Tip-offs. The assistant commissioner wanted you to have them.’
‘Tip-offs?’
‘Letters received from members of the public reporting the suspicious activities of suspected German spies.’
‘And what am I supposed to do with them?’
‘You can stuff them up your arse as far as I’m concerned.’
By the time Quinn had formulated a suitable riposte, Leversedge was gone.
Sergeant Inchball came over. ‘What you got there, guv?’
Quinn took out his penknife and slit the top of the sack. He pulled out a sample letter, opened it and began to read: ‘The man who is renting the house across the road from us at number 27 is a German spy. I have seen pigeons make a beeline for his house and depart again soon after. He moved in on the day the war was declared. If that ain’t suspicious I don’t know what is. He comes and goes all hours. I seen the light go on and off in his bedroom three times last night. Like as not he was signalling. We live on the ridge of a hill so the signals could be seen for miles I shouldn’t be surprised. I
have heard of German spies signalling to the fleet in the North Sea.’ Quinn looked across at Inchball and raised an eyebrow. ‘The address given is Tulse Hill. Do you think you can signal to the North Sea from Tulse Hill?’
Quinn pulled out another letter.
‘You’re like Jack Horner with his plum puddin’!’ observed Inchball.
‘On Tottenham Court Road, I saw a woman with a foreign accent bend down and address a German sausage dog. She was petting it and stroking it for a long time and talking to it in a very quiet voice. I couldn’t hear what she said but I think it might have been foreign. She had every opportunity to attach a message to the dog in some way. I could not see for sure but why was she talking to it for so long? She then went into a cafe where they sell foreign pastries.’
Inchball gave a loud guffaw at that. ‘Give me five minutes with that sausage dog and I’ll get the truth out of it.’
Quinn drew another letter out of the sack and glanced at it distractedly.
‘Oi, guv, I thought you might like to know. I got myself on the investigation, like you said. And, erm, I’ve had sight of the ME’s report.’
Quinn looked up, suddenly alert. He dropped the letter he had been scanning and nodded for Inchball to go on.
‘Asphyxiated, she were. Signs of pressure applied to her chest. Broken ribs. Bruises to her face. Her nose was in a right state. The cartilage was detached and pushed in. Probably some fella sat on her, he thinks, and forcibly covered her mouth and nose to suffocate her. Poor mite.’
‘Any sign of sexual activity?’
‘She wasn’t raped, if that’s what you mean. She wasn’t a virgin either.’
‘Anything else?’
‘He found a small white feather in her mouth.’
‘I see. And what are they making of that, Detectives Coddington and Leversedge?’
‘They say she could have breathed it in on the air, for all they know.’
‘It was placed there.’
‘Of course it was. What do you suppose it means, guv?’
‘It means the killer wanted to send a message.’
‘Just like the fella at number 27 switching the light on and off?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
‘One other thing, guv. You’ll be glad to hear Mac’s on the mend.’
Quinn felt a wave of relief. ‘Has he been able to say anything more about the man who attacked him?’
‘He’s been able, but he won’t, is what I’m hearing.’
Quinn leant forward in his seat. This was not like Macadam at all.
Inchball nodded, acknowledging Quinn’s surprise. ‘He’s refusing to talk to Leversedge and Coddington. Insists there’s only one detective he’ll talk to.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘You, of course, you ninny! Who did you think it was?’
‘I’ve heard nothing of this.’
‘Of course you ain’t. They ain’t gonna give you the satisfaction. They’re saying Macadam can’t remember, not that he won’t say. They’d rather have the case turn to shit than have you solve it for them. Besides, what does it matter? They’ll haul in the first sausage-eater they find and pin the girl’s murder on him. In the meantime, they want me to work on Mac to get him to say what he saw.’
Quinn cast a wary glance across the department. Coddington and Leversedge were ensconced in Coddington’s office with the door closed. ‘Do they not think that I will visit him in hospital? As a friend.’
‘It doesn’t occur to them to do it. So they do not see why you should.’ Inchball gave a wry smile. ‘One other thing, guv. I’m not the only officer on the team what thinks they’re a waste a’ space. You got more friends in CID than you realize.’ With that, and a conspiratorial wink, Inchball moved on.
For some reason, Quinn found that last revelation more troubling than reassuring. If he had friends, why did he not know who they were? The conclusion was that it would be damaging to the career of any officer who openly supported him.
Quinn consulted his pocket watch. It was an hour before the end of his shift, but he was left to his own devices so much these days that no one would notice – and certainly no one would care – if he took himself off early.
Quinn held out the bag of Cox’s Pippins that he had picked up at a fruit stall just outside the hospital. ‘There were no grapes to be had.’
Macadam gave a minimal tilt of his head towards his bedside table, where Quinn deposited the gift. Nothing more was said about it.
Macadam was still propped up on a bank of pillows. It appeared that he had not moved since the last time Quinn had seen him. Possibly he was no longer capable of movement. His face was every bit as grey and drawn as before. If anything he looked weaker and sicker than before, with dark crescents smudged in heavily under his eyes. He appeared exhausted by his recent brush with mortality. It seemed to have added ten years at least to his age.
‘You certainly gave us a scare,’ said Quinn, taking a seat at the bedside.
‘I was a bloody fool.’
Quinn could not help rippling one eyebrow in surprise. The oath was unlike Macadam. ‘You’re beginning to sound like Inchball. Then there’s your recent insubordination. What’s this I hear about you refusing to talk to anyone except me? Are you sure you didn’t sustain a blow to the head in the incident?’
‘Well, what’s the point of telling them anything? What they don’t understand, they ignore. You know about the feather in her mouth?’
‘Yes.’
‘I spotted that.’
‘Yes, I know. You tried to tell me about it, I think.’
‘They said she could have breathed it in!’
Quinn gave a non-committal shrug. ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘Please! You know that she was at a meeting earlier on the day she was murdered? They were giving out envelopes of white feathers to young ladies there.’
‘You think she was killed by someone who was at the meeting?’
‘I’m not saying that, sir. But here’s the thing; I found another feather on the ground nearby. What do you think of that?’
‘I think it’s very interesting.’
‘Here’s what I think. She took the feathers there with her. We can assume she took a packet of the things at the meeting.’
‘Do we not know?’
‘Well, they haven’t asked, have they? They don’t think it’s important. There are lots of birds in Wormwood Scrubs, they say. A passing feather could have blown into her mouth on the breeze just before she was killed. I mean, did you ever hear such nonsense?’
Quinn thought carefully. ‘I cannot say that I have.’
‘Apparently Leversedge heard of it happening to an aunt of his once. So there you have it. That must be what happened.’
‘Very well. Let’s assume she took the feathers there.’
‘Well, don’t you see, sir? Maybe she tried to give it to her murderer and he didn’t like it. So he killed her. Shall I tell you why he didn’t like it?’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was a soldier.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The man who shot me was in uniform, sir. He’s a private in the British army.’
‘I still don’t understand. In fact, I understand less. If he’s a soldier in uniform, why did she give him the feather?’
‘Well, he was in uniform on the Sunday. She was killed on the Saturday. He might have been in mufti that day. It’s an easy mistake to make. She sees a soldier out of uniform and assumes he is a shirker.’
Quinn pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know, Macadam. It doesn’t make sense to me. If you were a soldier and some girl gave you a white feather, wouldn’t you just shrug it off? You might be annoyed, angry even. But you wouldn’t kill her for it.’
Macadam appeared crestfallen. He sank back perceptibly into his pillows. ‘You’re right of course, sir. How could I be so stupid? I just got carried away, lying here in this bed, stewing in my own juices. I
was so sure Coddington and his pal were the fools that I made an even bigger fool of myself.’
‘Can you give a description of the soldier who took a potshot at you?’
‘He was very young, I remember that. He seemed little more than a boy. Must have been eighteen or so, I would say. Fresh-faced, slight of build. I’d be surprised if his face had felt the razor much as yet. His uniform didn’t fit him so well. A bit loose on the shoulders, but maybe that’s to be expected. He looked frightened more than anything. I would not have supposed him capable of shooting anyone.’
‘It is always when they are frightened that they are most dangerous. You didn’t happen to notice what regiment?’
Macadam’s face lit up. ‘I did! I’d forgotten that I did, but I did. I got a good look at his cap badge while we were staring each other out through the bushes. Royal Fusiliers, it was.’
‘That’s good. We can make enquiries at the regimental headquarters. A young man such as you describe must be a recent recruit. Perhaps we could even arrange a line-up, when you are fit enough.’ It sounded simple enough, and it gave Quinn some satisfaction to think that he knew something Coddington did not. His satisfaction was short-lived, however, as an unwanted thought clouded his optimism.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘We’ll have to hope he hasn’t been shipped out to the front already, or off to a training camp somewhere in the country. If you knew you were about to be shipped out, it might make you more trigger-happy. The war is a great way for criminals to evade justice.’
‘Damn! I’m sorry, sir. I should have said sooner.’
‘It’s not your fault, Macadam.’
‘But perhaps I should have agreed to speak to Inspector Leversedge, after all. He would have jogged my memory like you did.’
‘I doubt it.’ Quinn fell silent. He was pondering how best to proceed. If it did turn out to be a serving British soldier who had murdered Eve Cardew, it would not play well in the press. It was not the narrative his contacts in MO5(g) were looking for.
Another thought suddenly occurred to Quinn. ‘Tell me, did you see the gun?’
