‘Are all the surviving members of Lieutenant Fortesque’s platoon in St Denis?’ Blackstone asked.
‘As far as I know, they are,’ Johnson replied, indifferently.
‘I need to talk to them,’ Blackstone told him. ‘I’d like them brought here within the hour.’
‘Would you now?’ Johnson asked. ‘Well, it can’t be done — not without Captain Huxton’s permission. And he doesn’t like making hasty decisions. Sometimes, he’ll think about them for days.’
‘In other words, he’ll block me any way he can,’ Blackstone said.
‘We’ll all block you any way we can,’ Johnson replied. ‘I told you before, we don’t want you here.’
‘You are aware that I’m the personal representative of General Fortesque, aren’t you?’ Blackstone asked.
‘I did hear something about that.’
‘And that if I have to send a telegram to the General, there’ll be consequences.’
Johnson chuckled. ‘The General’s not as powerful as you might think,’ he said. ‘Captain Carstairs will jump through hoops for him — because they’re from the same regiment. But Captain Huxton works for the Provost Marshal’s office, and he’s not quite so easily bullied. He might have to give way in the end, but he can stall for days, if he has to.’
‘Ah, I see!’ Blackstone said, as if he’d suddenly realized there’d been a misunderstanding. ‘You thought the telegram that I’d send would be about Captain Huxton.’
‘Wouldn’t it?’
‘No, it would be about you.’
‘Me?’
‘That’s right. I’ll say that you haven’t been cooperating with me, and ask him to use his influence in the War Office to have you transferred from the redcaps to something a little less pleasant — say, the sanitary engineers.’
‘You wouldn’t!’ Johnson gasped.
‘I would,’ Blackstone countered. ‘And do you seriously think that there’s anybody in the War Office who’s prepared to stand up to a general, just to save an insignificant little corporal from spending the rest of the war shovelling shit out of cesspits?’
‘I. . what if the captain finds out?’ Johnson asked worriedly.
‘He won’t find out,’ Blackstone assured him. ‘He’s the kind of man who couldn’t find his own arsehole, even if you gave him a map.’
‘But if he does find out,’ Johnson persisted, ‘you will tell him I had no choice in the matter, won’t you? You’ll say that you ordered me to bring the men to you?’
‘I’ll tell him I held a gun at your head, if that’s what you want,’ Blackstone replied.
SIX
Sitting at the table in his new billet, Blackstone heard the sound of heavy footfalls in the corridor outside. Then the door was flung open, and Corporal Johnson entered the room, followed by two other redcaps, who had another man — a private — sandwiched between them.
The prisoner — and a prisoner he undoubtedly was — was small and thin, and was wearing a uniform which hung on him like sacking. His eyes were as large as a wild deer’s, but betrayed no great depth or intelligence. And he had what seemed to be a permanent twitch in his cheek, though — given the circumstances that he found himself in — that was only to be expected.
‘Private Blenkinsop,’ Corporal Johnson announced in a loud military bawl. Then, in a much lower — and much angrier — tone, he added, ‘You’ve been playing me for the complete bloody fool, haven’t you, Mr Blackstone?’
‘Have I?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Bloody right you have! When we were talking earlier, you said the top brass were trying to pin the murder on somebody from the ranks.’
‘Yes, I did,’ Blackstone agreed.
‘And then you gave me all kinds of guff about not betraying my own kind — when all the time, you already knew that the killer was a Tommy, the lieutenant’s servant, Private Blenkinsop.’
‘I didn’t know Blenkinsop was the killer at the time,’ Blackstone said. ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t know it now.’
‘Then why did you tell Captain Carstairs that Blenkinsop should be arrested?’ Johnson asked, now more puzzled than angry.
‘I didn’t.’
‘But in the dispatch he sent to me, he said-’
‘I never killed the lieutenant,’ Blenkinsop sobbed. ‘I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that I didn’t!’
Johnson wheeled round, and slapped the prisoner across the face.
‘Shut up, you murderous little bastard!’ he screamed, and was just about to hit the man a second time when Blackstone said, ‘Corporal Johnson!’ in a commanding voice.
Johnson swung round again, and came to attention. Then, realizing what he’d done, he relaxed his body and said sulkily, ‘What is it now?’
‘You will never hit a suspect in my presence again,’ Blackstone told him. ‘Is that understood?’
‘But surely, you yourself must have-’ Johnson began.
‘Never!’ Blackstone interrupted him. ‘I asked you if it was understood — and I’m still waiting for an answer.’
‘I suppose so,’ Johnson replied.
Blackstone nodded. ‘Very well, you can go now.’
‘You want us to take the prisoner straight back to the lock-up?’ Johnson asked, confused. ‘But we’ve only just. .’
‘You can go — Blenkinsop stays,’ Blackstone told him.
‘I can’t have that,’ Johnson protested.
‘The war might last another two or three years,’ Blackstone pointed out. ‘You could end up having to clean out an awful lot of shit out of an awful lot of cesspits in that time.’
Johnson sniffed — as if the smell of the excreta were already beginning to seep into his nostrils.
‘I. . I. .’ he said weakly.
‘Go now — and come back in half an hour,’ Blackstone said.
Johnson still stood there, weighing his fear of Captain Huxton’s displeasure against the future that Blackstone was threatening him with.
‘Have you got a gun, Inspector?’ he asked, to buy himself time.
‘Now why would I need a gun?’ Blackstone wondered. ‘You won’t cause me any trouble, will you, Blenkinsop?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ the private moaned, hardly aware he was being spoken to. ‘I swear I didn’t do it.’
Johnson was still wavering.
‘Cesspits, Corporal Johnson,’ Blackstone said.
‘Half an hour?’ Johnson asked, defeatedly.
‘Half an hour,’ Blackstone agreed.
Johnson nodded to the other two corporals and they released their grip on their prisoner, turned smartly, and walked to the door. Denied their support, Blenkinsop seemed on the point of crumpling into a heap on the floor.
‘I didn’t do it,’ he said. ‘I didn’t. Honest, I didn’t!’
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Blackstone suggested softly.
Blenkinsop tottered uncertainly over to the second chair, which was facing Blackstone’s own, and collapsed into it.
A good soldier-servant, Blackstone knew from his own observations, had to be perceptive and sensitive, industrious, efficient and sanguine. If his officer’s appearance fell below the accepted standard, then both the servant and the officer were deemed to have failed — the former for turning out his master in an improper manner, and the latter for displaying a lack of judgement by selecting a servant who was clearly not up to the job. Thus, when ex-soldier-servants chose to go into service in some of the grander civilian households — and many of them did — it was no surprise that they rose rapidly up the hierarchy of domestic service, and often even attained the exalted position of butler.
Blenkinsop, in complete contrast to the usual type, was clearly not a good soldier-servant and none of the great houses would have considered him for a moment — even as the assistant bootboy.
‘How long have you been Lieutenant Fortesque’s servant?’ Blackstone asked the quivering wreck.
‘Three. . three months,’ Blenkinsop told him.<
br />
‘What happened to his previous servant?’
‘He was hit by a bit of shrapnel in the trench, and given his papers back to Blighty.’
‘I see,’ Blackstone said. ‘And why do you think that Lieutenant Fortesque chose you to replace him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You have no idea at all?’
‘None.’
‘And you didn’t ask him why he’d chosen you?’
‘No. I. . I didn’t think to.’
Of course he hadn’t thought to. Men like Blenkinsop didn’t wonder why things happened — they just reacted to them.
‘Do you remember the day he selected you?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How did he do it? Did your sergeant tell you to report to the lieutenant’s dugout?’
‘No.’
Blackstone sighed. Blenkinsop was hard work — but at least he seemed willing to give honest answers, as long as he was led to them.
‘So where were you when he told you that you’d been selected?’
‘I was by the cesspit.’
‘By the cesspit!’
‘Yes, you see, I. . I’d got into a fight with some of the other lads in the trench.’
‘You got into a fight?’ Blackstone asked, disbelievingly.
Blenkinsop shrugged. ‘Well, it wasn’t so much a fight as that some of the other lads was ragging me.’
Of course they were, Blackstone thought.
Blenkinsop was a natural victim — the sort of man that other men will automatically take their own frustrations out on.
‘Go on,’ Blackstone said.
‘Lieutenant Fortesque caught them at it. He got very angry, and said they shouldn’t be forcing any of their comrades’ heads into the cesspit, but if they had to do it to somebody, they shouldn’t choose his servant. And, like I said, I didn’t even know he’d chosen me as his servant at the time.’
Of course you didn’t, Blackstone thought. And if it hadn’t been for the bullying, he probably never would have chosen you.
‘What was the lieutenant like to work for?’ he asked aloud.
Blenkinsop shrugged again. ‘He got cross with me, sometimes. I don’t blame him — I tried as hard as I could, but I wasn’t very good.’
‘Did he even threaten to replace you?’
Blenkinsop shook his head. ‘He used to say, “You’re bloody useless, Blenkinsop. I’d be better off with employing a baboon to do your job — but if I threw you out now, you wouldn’t last a day.” Then he’d pick up his boots and start cleaning them himself.’
‘Tell me about the days leading up to his murder,’ Blackstone said.
‘We were in the trench,’ Blenkinsop replied, as if he couldn’t understand why the question was even being asked.
Blackstone sighed again. ‘Did anything unusual happen?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Did something happen that stuck in your mind?’ Blackstone asked — with more hope than expectation. ‘Something that wasn’t quite normal?’
Blenkinsop thought about it hard and long.
‘Well, there was that argument he had with the other officers in his dugout, if that’s what you mean,’ he said, finally.
‘What argument?’
There are two reasons why an unexpected visit of the three lieutenants to the dugout makes Blenkinsop nervous. The first reason is that officers always make him nervous — even the ones he only knows by sight, and who have never got their sergeants to shout at him. The second reason is the hard and unyielding expression on the faces of the three young men as they look at Lieutenant Fortesque.
One of the officers glares at Blenkinsop’s clumsy attempt to salute, then says, ‘Get out, you snivelling little bastard!’
Blenkinsop knows this is not protocol — that the only person who is supposed to order him about is Lieutenant Fortesque himself — but he still finds himself scurrying for the door like a frightened rabbit.
Once out in the trench, he doesn’t know what to do. He suspects the officer intended him to get well away from the doorway, but he is reluctant to go too far from the dugout in case one of his tormentors spots him and something unpleasant happens. So he stays where he is, trembling at the thought of the officer’s wrath, but comforting himself with the knowledge that if it gets too bad, Lieutenant Fortesque will step in and rescue him.
At first, all he can hear from inside the dugout is a low murmuring, but then one of the voices is raised — and that voice belongs to Lieutenant Fortesque.
‘It was wrong — I can see now that it was wrong — and I’m going to come clean about it,’ he says.
‘Now you really don’t want to act too hastily, do you, Charles?’ says a second voice, and Blenkinsop thinks that while the speaker is undoubtedly angry — and perhaps even threatening — he also sounds rather worried.
‘You can’t talk me out of it,’ Fortesque tells him. ‘The chances are, I’ll be killed in the offensive tomorrow — but if I’m not, I’ll take that as a sign that I should stand up like a man and confess.’
‘Have you thought about the consequences?’ asks the second voice.
‘I have.’
‘They’ll strip you of your commission.’
‘They might do worse than that — they may send me to jail. But it doesn’t matter — I’m still going to do what’s right.’
‘And what about us?’ the other man demands. ‘Have you thought about that? It will ruin us, too.’
‘I know,’ Lieutenant Fortesque says, ‘and I’m very sorry for that. If I could find some way to spare you all, while doing the right thing myself, I would. But there is no way.’
‘What happened after that?’ Blackstone asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Blenkinsop said. ‘The sergeant spotted me standing there, told me I was an idle little bleeder, and ordered me to go to the reserve trench and fetch the rum ration.’
‘Were the three officers still there when you got back?’
‘No, they’d gone.’
‘And how did Lieutenant Fortesque seem?’
‘He was sitting at his table with his head in his hands. I asked him if there was anything I could do for him, and he said there was nothing anybody could do. I think. . I think he knew he was going to be murdered.’
‘But you say that you didn’t kill him?’
‘No, I. . he was kind to me. He even. .’
‘He even what?’
‘He asked me once if I’d ever. . you know. .’
‘No, I don’t know.’
‘If I’d ever been with a woman.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘That I hadn’t. Then he asked me if I’d ever wanted to, and I told him that of course I’d wanted to, but when I’d asked women if they would, they’d only laughed at me. So he said that there were some women who wouldn’t laugh at me — who’d let me do it to them as many times as I wanted to, as long as I had the money.’
‘Prostitutes,’ Blackstone said.
‘That’s right,’ Blenkinsop agreed. ‘And he said that even though I had a cushy number, what with being his servant, there was still a chance I’d get killed by a stray bullet or a grenade, and no man should have to die a virgin. So the next time we came to this village, he gave one of the corporals some money, and told him to take me to the brothel.’
‘He didn’t come with you himself?’
Blenkinsop laughed at Blackstone’s obvious ignorance. ‘Officers don’t go to the same brothels as the men. They don’t do it to whores who’ve already had it done to them fifty times that day. What officers do is go to Paris, and sleep with ladies who smell of perfume and are dressed in silk from head to foot.’
‘What I don’t see is why, if you hardly ever left the dugout, you weren’t there when Lieutenant Fortesque was killed,’ Blackstone said.
‘Oh, that was because he’d sent me on an errand,’ Blenkinsop told him.
It was half an hour, to the secon
d, when Corporal Johnson and the other two redcaps returned.
‘We’ve come for the prisoner,’ Johnson said — as though that wasn’t already obvious.
‘Take him outside,’ Blackstone said to the other two redcaps. ‘But I don’t want him locking up yet.’
‘If you don’t mind-’ Johnson began.
‘But I do mind,’ Blackstone interrupted. ‘I mind very strongly. And once the other three are outside, Corporal Johnson, you and I are going to have another one of our cosy little chats — at the end of which, even someone like you should be able to see why I mind.’
Johnson nodded to the other two redcaps, who grabbed Blenkinsop and frogmarched him out of the room.
Blackstone waited until they’d closed the door behind them, then said, ‘Tell me, Corporal Johnson, before you arrested Blenkinsop, did you bother to check out his alibi?’
‘He didn’t give me one,’ Johnson said, as if that were all the defence he needed. ‘He just kept babbling on about how he hadn’t killed the lieutenant.’
‘So he didn’t give you one — and you didn’t think — even for a moment — to ask him if he had one?’
‘There was no need to, was there?’ Johnson replied. ‘Captain Carstairs’ note made it quite clear that he was the guilty man.’
What was the matter with these people? Blackstone wondered — although he already knew the answer.
‘Blenkinsop claims that Lieutenant Fortesque stayed up all night, drinking whisky,’ he said.
‘Officers do that kind of thing,’ Johnson said. ‘It’s because they’re gentlemen, you see.’
‘Though if an ordinary man did it, you’d just call him a drunk — and lash him to the wheel in the town square,’ Blackstone pointed out.
‘It’s not the same thing at all,’ Johnson said stubbornly.
‘How is it different?’
‘I can’t explain it — it just is.’
Because the officers said it was, Blackstone thought.
‘Blenkinsop also says that, as a result of spending all night “being a gentleman”, Lieutenant Fortesque had drained his bottle by an hour before dawn,’ he continued.
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