Blackstone and the Great War isb-3

by Sally Spencer

  Blackstone gripped Carstairs’ left shoulder firmly with his left hand, and swung his right fist until it made brief contact with the right side of the captain’s head. Carstairs tried to struggle free, but the fact that he was sitting down put him at a distinct disadvantage, and he had still not managed to break away when Blackstone’s fist made contact for a second time.

  ‘And remember, the more times I manage to hit you, the weaker you become,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Carstairs bellowed.

  Blackstone released his grip, and the captain brushed off the left-hand shoulder of his jacket, and smoothed down the right-hand side of his hair.

  Carstairs was undoubtedly angry, Blackstone thought, but even in his rage, he could not dismiss the idea that what he had just endured was probably an accurate reconstruction of what had actually happened to Fortesque.

  When the captain turned to look at Blackstone, his face was an emotional blank.

  ‘Fortesque not only allowed his killer to enter the dugout, but also let himself be blindsided,’ he said.

  ‘It looks that way,’ Blackstone agreed.

  Carstairs shook his head in what might just possibly have been admiration.

  ‘I appear to have underestimated you, Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first.’

  ‘Thanks to your efforts, I see the whole thing clearly now,’ Carstairs said. ‘Thanks to your efforts, we now know who the killer is.’

  ‘We do?’

  ‘Of course! The only person who could have killed Fortesque — because he was the only person who’d have been permitted to get into the position in which an attack was possible — was Fortesque’s servant. I’ll inform Captain Huxton of that immediately, and the guilty man will be under arrest within the hour — and in front of a firing squad within the week. And as for you, Inspector Blackstone, you can return to England immediately, with a letter of commendation — which I will personally sign — in your pocket.’

  ‘Why should his servant have killed him?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘I really have no idea — but, as you said, it’s the only possibility.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘All right, then, if it’s a motive you’re looking for, then how about this — the servant felt that Fortesque had insulted him, though how you insult a servant, God only knows — and wanted to get his revenge. Or perhaps this constant bombardment we’ve been under had turned his mind. At any rate, it doesn’t matter to me why he killed Fortesque — it’s enough to know that he did.’

  ‘You’re ignoring the other possibility,’ Blackstone said firmly.

  ‘But there is no other possibility,’ Carstairs said, looking mystified. Then, as he realized what Blackstone was implying, his face darkened. ‘I have already made it quite clear to you that I will not entertain the idea that an officer might be the killer,’ he continued, angrily.

  ‘An officer wouldn’t need an excuse to enter the dugout,’ Blackstone pointed out. ‘He would have a right to be there, as you said yourself.’

  ‘Once he’s arrested, the servant will break down and confess — and you will look very foolish,’ Carstairs said confidently.

  ‘I’ve no doubt that Huxton’s lads will make him confess — given the right circumstances, most men can be made to confess to almost anything,’ Blackstone said, ‘but that won’t necessarily mean he’s guilty.’

  ‘What do you want, Blackstone?’ Carstairs asked, suddenly sounding very tired. ‘What do I have to do in order to make you see the truth?’

  ‘You have to do nothing,’ Blackstone told him. ‘I’ll get to the truth — the real truth — in my way and in my own time. And I’ll start by questioning Fortesque’s servant.’

  ‘You will do no such thing!’ Carstairs said. ‘What you will do is catch the first available train back to Calais, and-’

  ‘And as soon as I get back to England, I’ll go and see General Fortesque and tell him that you stopped me from doing the job he personally sent me out here to do,’ Blackstone interrupted him. ‘And how will he take it? Do you think he will consider you’ve acted honourably?’

  Rage burned in Carstairs’ eyes, but slowly it became damped down by the blanket of inevitable defeat.

  ‘General Fortesque is a great hero of mine,’ he said. ‘If he questioned my honour, I do not think I could live with myself.’

  ‘I know,’ Blackstone said.

  Carstairs shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Very well, since you have so little sense of your own honour that you are prepared to ride on the coat-tails of a great man to get what you want, I will permit you to question the servant,’ he said. ‘Are you satisfied now?’

  ‘No,’ Blackstone said. ‘There’s something else I want.’

  ‘Are there no limits to your demands?’ Carstairs asked, exasperatedly.

  ‘Not when I’m conducting a murder investigation, no,’ Blackstone said simply.

  ‘Then what more do you want?’

  ‘I’d like to see Lieutenant Fortesque’s body.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ Carstairs said.

  And then he laughed, as if he’d realized he’d just scored a small triumph, which did, at least, do something to mitigate his larger defeat.

  ‘Why isn’t it possible?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Give me a couple of men with spades, and I’ll-’

  ‘Do you think that he was buried here in France, like a common soldier?’ Carstairs said scornfully.

  ‘Wasn’t he?’

  ‘He most certainly was not. The lieutenant’s body has been shipped back to England, where, with all due and appropriate ceremony, he will be laid to rest with his ancestors, in the family vault.’

  Of course he would, Blackstone thought, because even in death there was one law for the rich and another for the poor.

  FIVE

  The village of St Denis was perched at the apex of a small hill, some four miles behind the British lines. An old stone church stood at its centre — its spire straining upwards, as if it wished to pierce the sky — and the houses and shops were clustered around it. Seen from a distance, across the sunny summer meadows, it was as pretty a village as any which had ever graced a picture postcard.

  It must have been a quiet, peaceful place a few years earlier, Blackstone thought — a sleepy hamlet which fully accepted that there was a whole wide world beyond its own narrow boundaries, but had no real interest in knowing any more about that world than was strictly necessary. But those days were gone forever. The simple innocence, in which the village had once been snugly packed, had been roughly ripped from it by the great iron fist of war — and the place would never be the same again.

  He was less than half a mile from the village when he first noticed the rows of low grey tents pitched in a field at the foot of the hill. As he drew closer, he could see the soldiers, too. Some were being endlessly paraded up and down, in full battledress. Others, under the screamed encouragement of their NCOs, were charging sacks of sand, and stabbing them with their bayonets.

  So even here, there was no respite from the war, Blackstone thought. Even here, where the weary and disillusioned men should have been able to snatch a little rest, they were being put through pointless drills which would be of no use to them at all, once they came under the deadly scything action of hot machine-gun fire.

  Shaking his head, Blackstone slowly walked up the steep cobbled street which led to the church. The houses he passed were all half-timbered, and several of their lower floors had been converted into quaint business premises — a bakery, a butcher’s, a pharmacy, a doctor’s surgery, and a modest cafe — though all of them were now empty.

  Several of the houses had all but been destroyed by shells fired in earlier battles, and even those that remained standing were pockmarked with bullet holes. And there were no civilians to be seen — no pretty girls, no gnarled peasants, no crafty shopkeepers — just men in khaki uniforms who wandered aimlessly, finally free
of their pointless duties for a while, but with no avenues open to them to really enjoy that freedom.

  At the top of the street he reached a square, with the church on one side of it, and the mairie — which was now flying the Union Flag instead of the Tricolour — directly opposite.

  But it was not the mairie — nor the church — which immediately captured his attention. Instead, his gaze was drawn to the two-wheeled cart at the centre of the square — next to the village fountain — and to the soldier who seemed to have almost become a part of it.

  The cart, known in military parlance as a limber, had been designed for moving heavy artillery, and so its wheels were over six feet high. And it was against one of these wheels that the man had been spreadeagled, his wrists tied to two of the upper spokes, his ankles to two of the lower ones.

  ‘Drunk and disorderly?’ Blackstone asked, as he approached the man.

  ‘That’s right,’ the soldier agreed, and he grinned sheepishly, though he was obviously in some discomfort. ‘Still, there’s worse things than Field Punishment Number One, ain’t there? Hanging here’s not so bad, once you get used to it — and they could have made the case for having me shot, if they’d been of a mind to — so I’ve no complaints. And they’ll be cutting me down in a few hours.’

  ‘And tying you up again tomorrow morning,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘That’s the way it goes,’ the soldier said philosophically, and if he’d had sufficient freedom of movement to shrug, he would probably have done just that. ‘Twenty-eight days, they gave me. I did three days before we went down to the front line, and I’ve done another six since we got back here. So, if they don’t send us into the trenches again, I’ve got another — ’ he did a quick calculation — ‘another nineteen to do. Course, if they do send us back — and I get killed — the army will just have to whistle for the rest of the punishment.’

  There was a part of Blackstone that admired the man for his spirit of endurance, and part of him that was furious at the soldier’s casual acceptance of the brutality meted out to him. But there was no point in expressing either of these emotions — because this was not his army or his war.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked.

  The soldier grinned again. ‘A pint of best London bitter would be much appreciated,’ he said, ‘but I’ll settle for a drink of water from the fountain.’

  ‘Get away from that man!’ screamed a voice behind them, and turning around, Blackstone saw a redcap corporal standing in the doorway of the mairie.

  Blackstone laid his carpet bag on the ground, walked across to the fountain, scooped up some water in his cupped hands, and returned to the man on the wheel.

  ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ the redcap bawled as he strode furiously across the square. ‘I told you to get away from that man!’

  Blackstone held his hands up, and the man on the wheel drank greedily.

  The redcap had drawn level with them now.

  ‘Can’t you understand the King’s English, you ignorant bloody Frog?’ he demanded. ‘You shouldn’t even be here in this village — let alone be making contact with the prisoner!’

  He gave Blackstone a rough push, and seemed surprised when the other man held his ground.

  ‘Now listen,’ he continued, raising his fist threateningly, ‘if you don’t do what I say, you could get hurt.’

  Blackstone balled up his own fists.

  ‘Touch me again, and I’ll break your nose,’ he promised.

  Perhaps it was his tone of calm confidence that caused the redcap to lower his arm, or perhaps it was simply the fact that he realized he was dealing with a fellow countryman.

  ‘You’re English!’ he said.

  ‘You’re as sharp as a needle aren’t you?’ Blackstone asked.

  The redcap frowned. ‘You’re not that copper from New Scotland Yard, are you?’ he asked, incredulously.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I expected somebody a bit smarter-looking.’

  ‘If you were expecting me, I assume that makes you the welcoming committee,’ Blackstone said.

  The redcap’s frown deepened. ‘I’m Corporal Johnson, the bloke what’s been ordered to show you your billet, but you ain’t welcome in any shape or form,’ he said. ‘The MFP are the law out here on the Western Front, an’ we don’t like no civilian coming in and telling us how to do our job.’

  Blackstone ran his eyes quickly up and down the other man. Johnson was around twenty-three or twenty-four, he guessed. He was of average height and had the sort of face which would not stand out in even a small crowd. His eyes suggested steadiness, but no great intelligence. He was someone you could put in charge of any routine task with confidence — but if you were expecting any leaps of imagination from him, you were almost bound to be disappointed.

  ‘Did you hear what I said,’ the corporal repeated. ‘We don’t want no civilians coming in and telling us how to do our job.’

  ‘You do know that your superiors are trying to pin Lieutenant Fortesque’s murder on one of your own people, don’t you?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘One of my own people?’ the corporal repeated, as if Blackstone had suddenly switched to a foreign language. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘They want to put the blame on someone from the ranks.’

  ‘And how are they my own people? I’m no common soldier — I’m a corporal,’ Johnson said, tapping his stripes with two fingers, in case Blackstone hadn’t noticed them. ‘These mean that I’m a non-commissioned officer.’

  ‘And your old man — or is it your uncle? — is a porter at Billingsgate Fish Market,’ Blackstone said.

  Johnson looked thunderstruck.

  ‘Who told you. . how did you know. .?’ he began.

  I know because your accent gives you away, Blackstone thought — because there are just a few nuances in it that pin you down to Billingsgate, and if that’s where you’re from, it would be a bloody miracle if somebody in your family didn’t work in what’s possibly the biggest fish market in the world.

  ‘Having been given the right to sew two stripes on your sleeve doesn’t cut you off from the lads you grew up with — not unless you let it,’ he said.

  But Johnson had stopped listening to him, and was clearly turning over in his mind something he’d heard — but not fully understood — earlier.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said finally. ‘If you think they want to pin the murder on one of the enlisted men, then that means that you don’t think it was an enlisted man that did it.’

  ‘I knew you’d get there in the end,’ Blackstone said.

  Johnson’s brow furrowed again, as if so much thinking was starting to hurt his brain.

  ‘But if it wasn’t one of the men who killed Lieutenant Fortesque, then it has to be. . it has to be. .’

  ‘There’s a good chance it was one of the officers,’ Blackstone supplied.

  ‘But it can’t be!’ Johnson protested.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because. . because they’re all gentlemen.’

  It was terribly sad when a man chose to betray his own class in return for a few scraps from his master’s table, Blackstone thought.

  But it was more than sad when the man accepted the mythology that the master used to justify his own privilege.

  In fact, it was bloody tragic.

  ‘I’d like you to show me to my billet,’ he said.

  ‘It’s this way,’ Johnson said sullenly, turning to cross the square.

  ‘My bag, man!’ Blackstone barked in his best sergeant’s voice. ‘Pick up my bag!’

  Johnson turned again, confused.

  ‘Uh. . sorry, sir,’ he said, bending down to pick up the bag.

  And that made Blackstone feel sadder still — but at least it seemed to have amused the man strapped to the wheel.

  They passed a smithy — its forge stone-cold, its anvil silent — and a dress shop inhabited solely by lonely naked mannequins.

  They turned a corner, and saw at leas
t two dozen soldiers lined up impatiently outside an otherwise nondescript house.

  ‘That’s the local knocking shop,’ Johnson said.

  Blackstone smiled. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘If you hadn’t told me, I’d never have guessed.’

  ‘Three pox-ridden whores servicing the whole bloody army,’ Johnson continued. ‘None of them ever last more than a couple of weeks, and they must have insides like an infantryman’s boot to be there for even that long, because sometimes they work round the clock.’

  ‘Have you ever taken the opportunity to visit the place yourself?’ Blackstone asked casually.

  ‘Me? Go in there? No!’ Johnson said vehemently. ‘Like I told you, I’m a non-commissioned officer.’

  And once more, he could not resist the temptation to touch his stripes.

  ‘Never been there yourself,’ Blackstone mused. ‘Yet you still know there are three prostitutes inside. I suppose that’s because you’ve inspected the place as part of your official duties.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Johnson agreed — far too eagerly.

  ‘Or could it be that when there’s a troop rotation going on — when you know there’s no chance there’ll be any enlisted men there — you take the opportunity to slip in yourself?’

  Johnson sniffed. ‘Most of them are pox-ridden whores,’ he said, ‘but there’s just a few — now and again — who are very nice girls.’

  The house in which Blackstone had been assigned his billet was at the end of a steep cobbled street, almost at the point at which the village petered out. None of the houses close to it showed any signs of habitation, and he thought it was more than likely that this one had been chosen because it was as far away from the officers’ billets as it was geographically possible to be.

  Blackstone’s room was furnished with a camp bed, two army blankets, an oil lamp, an enamel bowl and jug, a table and two rickety chairs.

  ‘It ain’t up to the standard of the Ritz — but then neither are you,’ Corporal Johnson said.

  ‘Just put my bag on the bed,’ Blackstone told him.

  Johnson looked down at the carpet bag in his left hand, and a puzzled expression came to his face — as if he were suddenly asking himself how the hell it had ever got there in the first place. Then he dropped the bag on to the floor, and a cloud of dust flew into the air.