by Martin Gunn
“Hello, my name’s Rogers, Justin Rogers,” his face beaming like a summer’s day in July, and his right hand extended in greeting. Gustav shook it tentatively.
“My name is Gustav von Brandt,” he muttered, though with a little more apprehension.
“Are you Dutch?” queried Justin, “I can’t place your accent. Your English is frightfully good.”
“No, I am German.” Gustav knew that it was going to come out, so better sooner than later he supposed.
“That was one hell of a show in Europe don’t you think,” stated Justin, unperturbed by this fact, “I lost an uncle at Ypres early in the war. How about you?”
Gustav thought it might be politic to have had a bereavement, so decided to lie.
“I lost my father at the Somme,” he muttered again, trying to show some emotion.
“You poor fellow,” commiserated Justin, “how frightful.”
Changing the subject, Justin looked around him.
“I have an older brother here, Oscar,” he leaned in closer to Gustav and whispered, “we may need him. There is a cove here called Byron Blackburn, he’s a Remove; a second-year boy and he is a right rotter. Keep clear of him if I were you, and the flunkies he drags around behind him.”
Nodding, Gustav made a point to remember that name and to do his utmost to avoid him.
As the Shells settled into the new term, Gustav, in particular, found that school life suited him very well. He liked the routine, and since for most of his life he had found solace in study, the work came easily to him. Even though he tried to keep a low profile, it didn’t take long for him to come to the attention of the house bully, Byron Blackburn. One evening he entered Gustav’s dormitory with his four acolytes. They walked up to where Gustav was sitting on the side of his bed, polishing his shoes. Byron stared down at him, grimacing in a way that was intended to intimidate. Gustav looked up and to avoid eye contact looked back down and continued with his task.
“Well, well,” sneered Byron, “it would appear we have a Boche here amongst us.”
He turned around for effect to see his gang smirking their approval. These boys were much bigger than him and for the first time in quite a while, he was frightened. Byron was a good six inches taller than Gustav, with jet black wavy hair, and would have been good looking if he didn’t have a constant frown on his face. He had the demeanour and general arrogance of someone who came from a privileged background.
“We gave you a pasting during the war,” growled Byron, grabbing Gustav’s dressing gown tightly in his fists and lifting him off the bed, “maybe we should give you another one, just for good measure.”
“Leave him alone,” braved Justin in the frightened boy’s defence.
Byron swung round and pushed Justin back onto his bed with force.
“Stay out of this, squirt, or you’ll be next,” sneered Byron.
Giving all the Shells a look of contempt, Byron and his gang left the room and Gustav thought that he had got away with it lightly. Not for long however, as later that night the gang returned to lay into him with punches to the body, whilst the rest of the boys lay in their beds, powerless to help. Having no choice but to endure the beating he eventually lay in the dark with tears running down his face and aching from several bruised ribs. These beatings continued throughout the term, Gustav never knowing when they would enter the dormitory for another bout. This onerous situation came to a head in early December when Gustav’s class was playing Harrow Football; a cross between football and rugby, with some older boys. Byron was on the opposing team and part way through the first half, Gustav managed to kick the ball at an inattentive Byron. The ball hit him on the side of his face, knocking him on to his stomach on a particularly muddy part of the pitch. As he stood up, his front covered head to toe in mud, he saw that most of the other boys were laughing at his misfortune. Humiliated he strode over to Gustav with a face like thunder and shrieked,
“You’re a dead man Kraut!” then stormed off.
Gustav knew he would suffer for the indignity inflicted on Byron but couldn’t help but enjoy the moment. For once he had got the better of him.
That same evening when all the boys had settled down to sleep, Byron and his gang entered the younger boy’s dorm. He approached Gustav’s bed and sat on the edge beside him.
“So, Kraut,” he simpered in a hushed tone, “you think you can make a fool of me, eh?”
Gustav remained silent, staring up at the shadowy figures around him, fearing what would come next.
“You’re a loser, Kraut, do you know that? You and your country. You stink of it.”
Byron turned to his gang and commanded, “right, let’s do this.”
Two boys gagged him with a cotton handkerchief, whilst two others tied a rope around his ankles. Then the rope was thrown over a beam and he was hoisted up into the air so that he was hanging vertically by his ankles. Gustav struggled to no avail, making muffled moaning sounds. The other occupants of the dormitory were awake and watching the proceedings, too afraid to intervene. One of the gang produced a cricket bat and passed it to Byron.
“You’re going to get what’s coming to you,” he sneered with an evil smirk.
With that Bryon swung the bat and whacked Gustav on his backside, twice. Gustav gave out a muffled cry as the pain shot up his legs. Each boy proceeded to take their turn until the bat was again handed to Byron who, in a final salvo brought the bat back and struck the helpless boy on the back of the skull. Gently swinging to and fro, Gustav suddenly fell silent, his arms hung down limply and a little blood dripped to the floor.
“My God Byron, I think you’ve gone too far!” exclaimed one of the gang and he made a swift exit, followed by the others. Byron stared at Gustav, then turned and saw all the boys looking at him. Realising what he had done, he panicked, dropped the bat and fled the room.
“Quickly, get him down,” urged Justin, “I’ll fetch the house master.”
Very soon the house master was checking on Gustav’s wounds. He turned to Justin and ordered, “get Matron – he’s unconscious.”
Gustav spent a week in hospital, then a week in the school infirmary and when he was well enough, he joined the rest of the school in the main hall, to hear an announcement from the headmaster. His stern expression left little doubt in the expectant faces looking up at him.
“As I am sure you are aware, a particularly brutal level of bullying has taken place in the school recently. This has resulted in the suspension of four boys and the expulsion of Byron Blackburn. Bullying of any nature will not be tolerated here and any boy thinking of embarking on such behaviour, will suffer the same fate.”
With that he left the stage and the children were marshalled back to the classrooms to resume their studies.
Life settled down for Gustav, he even had a friend of sorts in Justin, who due to his and the rest of the boys’ pusillanimity, made an extra effort out of guilt, to be nice to him. Though being something of a loner, Gustav spent much of his free time in the library. He had discovered books on dinosaurs and Greek mythology, which he found fascinating and would immerse himself in them for hours. In his third year at the school however, Justin developed a persistent cough and had to leave. Gustav never saw him again, he died of consumption the following year. Losing his only friend left Gustav wondering why people always seem to leave him and whether it was going to be this way for the rest of his life.
As his eighteenth birthday approached Gustav turned his thoughts to university. Passing all his exams with distinction had been a breeze, so to his mind this seemed the next logical step. He liked the look of Cambridge since he wished to study the Classics and was pleased to learn that he had been matriculated into the venerable institution. So, when he finally left to start this new phase of his life, Gustav didn’t look back. He was finally done with school.
***
Aft
er Harrow, university life became something of a revelation to Gustav. He enjoyed his studies and the new-found independence that he had never really experienced before. As often as possible he would go into the town and explore the shops, cafés and taverns, and it was on one of these excursions, whilst passing an antique shop, that an object caught his eye in the window. Immediately he entered the shop and enquired about it.
“Ah – yes, the stiletto knife,” confirmed the aged shop owner with enthusiasm, returning to the counter with the object in his hand, “a fine example of Venetian craftsmanship.”
The stiletto was all metal, very ornate and tarnished with age. The handle and hilt had a twisted design and the eight-inch blade had a slender diamond cross section. It also came with a metal-tipped leather scabbard.
“What can you tell me about it?” enquired Gustav with genuine interest.
“Well, I would say it dates to around the mid-seventeenth century. Originally these knives were devised for penetrating through the gaps in armour, though I suspect that this example was more likely to be an assassin’s weapon.”
Gustav purchased the stiletto there and then, and it was to become one of his prized possessions.
Like his time at Harrow, university life suited him very well, he was excelling in his studies and for the first time in a while he was feeling fairly contented with his lot, even if he did cut a somewhat lonely figure. All this was to change in the new year of 1929, however. Whilst sitting in the corner of a tavern in the town, he heard a familiar voice. One that sent a chill down his spine. Sure enough, over at the bar he spied Byron Blackburn, holding court with a group of his peers. Like Gustav he had grown into a fine-looking young man. Tall and slim, though he still had that air of smug arrogance about him. Gustav decided to slip out of a side door, before he was noticed. At one point he thought that he had been recognised, but Byron just looked straight through the boy who had got him expelled. How could he not remember him? This irked Gustav, who decided to stalk Byron to find out more about his activities.
The more he saw of Byron, the more his hatred began to fester. The bully was enrolled into a different college from him studying, of all things, law. This didn’t surprise Gustav though, people like Byron always seem to fall on their feet. They think they’re untouchable. All Gustav could think about was revenge. It started to consume him, until he could think of little else. He fantasised various scenarios whereby he could achieve this, and none of them ended well for Byron. An opportunity arose in May, close to Gustav’s nineteenth birthday, when he overheard a conversation between him and his cronies. Byron, as he himself put it, had been courting some floozy, though in reality she was a simple farm girl, whom he had met by chance in the town, and was completely besotted with him. Byron had arranged to meet her at her father’s farm next Sunday afternoon, since they would have the place to themselves. The girl’s father, a creature of habit would be out cold from a lunchtime drinking session.
On that fateful day, Gustav decided to follow Byron who met up with the girl and together they started to make their way to the farm, on the outskirts of the city. Martha was a pretty girl, slim with mousy hair tied up in a ponytail. It was a particularly warm sunny day and she was wearing a pretty red floral summer dress. They seemed happy and relaxed in each other’s company, totally oblivious to anyone else around them. Especially Gustav who was not far behind. Eventually they reached the farm and Martha, giggling, led Byron into a barn away from the farmhouse. Gustav held back to check out the farmhouse. He spied through the grubby window into the living room and saw an overweight middle-aged man, seemingly comatose in an armchair. Gustav tried the kitchen door, it was unlocked so he entered and moved through into the living room to check on Martha’s father.
Certain that they wouldn’t be disturbed, Gustav looked around outside for anything that might be of use. He found several lengths of rope, an old piece of lead piping and a long since discarded horse-drawn harrow, leaning against the barn. The harrow was made of wood in a cross-hatch arrangement about five feet square; at each intersection was a rusty metal spike about nine inches long. As he peeked into the barn he could see Byron and Martha lying side by side. She was giggling a little and he was sliding his hand up her left thigh. Just as it slipped under her dress, Gustav came running in and whacked him hard over the back of the head with the lead piping. Byron groaned and slumped onto Martha, completely unconscious. Martha didn’t react straight away, then as realisation of what had just happened sank in, she started to scream. Gustav kicked Byron to one side and dropped onto her, putting his hand over her mouth and ripping at her dress.
Byron eventually came around to find himself bound to a wooden post inside the barn. He was groggy and had to shake his head to clear his mind. Turning his head to the left, his eyes fell on the grinning young man who had slugged him.
“Don’t I know you?” he slurred, still not quite compos mentis. His head was pounding from the heavy blow.
“You should know me,” glowered Gustav, “after all, I was the reason you were expelled from Harrow.”
“Ah, the Kraut,” confirmed Byron. As he began to regain his senses, Byron suddenly realised that he was bound to the post and struggled to get free to no avail. Then he remembered the girl.
“What have you done with Martha?” he uttered anxiously. He noticed the inert body of Martha lying face up in the hay, her dress torn from her body and lying in rags around her. It began to dawn on Byron that he was in a desperate situation.
“You won’t get away with this you bastard, her father isn’t far away.”
“He will not be bothering us,” countered Gustav, sliding a bloodied stiletto gently down Byron’s left cheek.
“You’ll hang, you know that don’t you?” Byron was seriously frightened now.
“I don’t think so,” Gustav was beginning to relish the moment, “I will be long gone when you are eventually found.”
“Please,” pleaded Byron, “what are you going to do to me?”
“Look over here,” Gustav walked over to the wall opposite the post, “think of the headlines, “Harrow boy killed by harrow. Amusing don’t you think?”
Byron could see the old harrow which his tormentor had hoisted up with rope over a beam and tied back to the wall. Its long rusty spikes were pointing directly at Bryon.
“You’re insane,” he screamed, in a panicked voice, “if you’re trying to scare me then, alright it’s worked.”
Gustav reached up to the harrow and just before he cut the rope holding the harrow back, he asserted with a sneer,
“Whether I am insane or not is a matter of conjecture.”
With that he cut the rope and the harrow swung through the air, picking up speed. Byron screamed as it came hurtling towards him, then on impact he suddenly fell silent. The force of the harrow hitting the post caused dust and straw to fall around Byron’s lifeless body.
“You, on the other hand, are most definitely dead.”
Gustav stood and studied the gruesome sight for a few minutes. Pleased with his handiwork, he spat on the body in a final act of contempt and left.
***
Chief Inspector Ambrose stood in the living-room looking down at the body of Martha’s father. A small patch of blood had stained his shirt and when the inspector opened it up, he was able to discern a miniscule hole. He looked up at the police constable in the room with him.
“Any idea what the murder weapon was?”
“No sir,” replied the constable, “nothing has been found.”
“And the farm hand who found him this morning,” continued Ambrose, “what does he have to say.”
“Precious little sir,” added the constable, “he just found him this way and then alerted us. He hasn’t seen him since Saturday.”
“The body is cold,” mused the inspector, “this must have happened yesterday.”
Before the c
onstable could reply there came the shriek of a police whistle, emanating from outside. The clamour was persistent and urgent.
They both moved hastily in the direction of the sound, until they came to the barn. Two officers were standing outside. One looked ashen whilst the second was leaning over a fence vomiting into some long grass.
“What is it?” asked Ambrose anxiously.
“In here sir,” groaned the officer, “it’s not pretty I’m afraid.”
Inspector Ambrose followed the officer into the barn. Immediately he saw the post with the body tied to it. He was horrified to see that the spikes of a harrow had penetrated the boy’s body in the stomach, chest and throat; but most distressing was the spike that had pierced Byron’s left eye and broken through the back of his skull to impale on the post. Dried blood covered his cheek, his right eye staring wildly and his mouth gaping. It was obvious from the expression that his last seconds were those of sheer terror.
“My God.” was all the inspector could utter in a hushed tone, he had never seen anything like it.
“There’s more, I’m afraid,” grimaced the officer. He led Ambrose over to the half-naked girl.
“It looks like she’s been raped before she was murdered.”
Frowning, Ambrose looked at the mark just under her left breast.
“The father has the same wound, it doesn’t seem to cause much bleeding.”
“No – it looks to me as if a very thin-bladed knife has been pushed up through her chest directly into her heart.”
Ambrose turned and looked back at the dreadful sight of Byron, and then back to the girl. Walking back out into the sunshine, he sat down and rubbed his face with both hands, glad of some air.
