by Robert Ryan
This was Herbert ‘Bert’ Cartwright, the young lad who had helped Holmes solve the mystery of the de Griffons just over half a year ago, and helped establish the identity of the man who had been killing Watson’s comrades in the trenches. Watson had never met Bert, but Holmes had been trenchant in his praise for the lad.
‘You can let him go, Coyle,’ said Watson. ‘He’s friend, not foe.’
‘Nearly a dead friend,’ said Coyle, shaking his head as he released his grip. Watson could see Coyle was a little shaken, whether by the near miss of the young man or the impetuousness of his actions, he couldn’t be certain.
‘I’m sorry.’ The voice was tremulous and the boy had turned quite pale, but was trying his best to put a brave face on the situation.
‘Would you like some water, Bert?’
For a second, Bert wondered how the man knew his name. ‘Dr Watson? Is that you, sir?’ he asked, straightening his jacket. His voice had that unnatural undulation of the adolescent, leaping registers in the space of half a sentence.
‘As was. Major, now. You are Bert, then?’
The youth nodded like a puppy dog. ‘We haven’t met, sir, but I saw you once. Out on the Downs. Arguing with Mr Holmes. I was just a boy then.’
Holmes remembered that incident and, yes, the boy with the kite who had witnessed it. A whole two years ago. A lifetime for this lad.
‘So when did Mr Holmes leave?’ asked Coyle as they walked up the path.
‘I was supposed to come and help him with some newspaper cuttings. He is getting very . . .’
‘Forgetful?’ Watson asked.
‘Yes. And clumsy, sir.’
‘Clumsy?’ The trill of an alarm bell sounded in Watson’s head. Holmes, an expert Japanese wrestler, boxer and swordsman, was many things, but clumsy wasn’t one of them. In fact, those etiolated fingers had extraordinary delicacy of touch. ‘And his manner? Was he his usual self ?’
‘Not really. Crotchety, I’d say. More than usual, anyway.’
Watson put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed lightly. He wanted his full attention. ‘Can you describe him, his physical appearance, the last time you saw him?’
Bert shrugged. ‘Same as he always was, I suppose.’
‘Are you sure?’
The boy shuffled his feet. ‘Well, he was bit heavier.’
‘He’d put weight on?’
‘Yes.’
Watson had noticed signs of this the last time he had seen Holmes. The rake-thin sapling had thickened in late middle age, a natural part of getting older. Or so he had thought. ‘Much?’
A nod.
‘And his face? How did he look?’
‘Tired,’ said Bert. ‘He had dark circles under his eyes. I said I’d bring him some tonic. Like my mother takes for her nerves.’
‘Did you now. Good lad.’ Watson felt the first flowering of shame. Call yourself a doctor? You’ve been too long in the minds of soldiers, he thought. ‘Did he take the tonic?’
Bert shook his head. ‘When I turned up on the Saturday he was gone. I left a note for him. I come by every so often, see if there is a light on. And there was. And the note was gone. But I didn’t recognize that car, so I was worried they’d come back again.’
‘Who?’
‘The men he said who were badgering him to come and help with the war.’
‘Do you know who they were?’ Watson asked.
‘Oh, yes.’
The sun was slipping away now, the sky darkening to a soft mauve. A brace of bats began their erratic, jerky choreography as they chased down their evening meal.
‘Who were they, m’boy?’ Coyle asked.
Bert looked at Watson when he answered. ‘They were from Mr Churchill, so Mr Holmes said.’
‘But you have no idea what it was about? Why the men should come?’
‘No. But Mr Holmes did say one thing that was odd.’
‘What was that, Bert?’ asked Watson.
‘He said’ – Bert cleared his throat and did such a fine impression that, despite the seriousness of the situation, Watson smiled – ‘“I once said to my old friend Dr Watson that I thought there was an east wind coming, Bert. But I was wrong. It has shifted. It is now a wind from the west. And if what men are perfecting in their satanic woods but a hundred miles from here should come to fruition, young Bert, the world will never be at ease again. And I for one will be pleased to know I shall not live to see such days.”’
They lodged that night at a small inn, just north of Lewes. Watson had impressed on Bert the need for absolute silence on the subject of their visit and the disappearance of Mr Sherlock Holmes. The lad swore he had shared the event with nobody else, had only broken confidence because it was him, Dr Watson, Holmes’s trusted companion.
Watson had left him with money to get the window repaired, and contact details should he need help. Bert was still some way from conscription age, but should the war go on, Watson didn’t want the young man disappearing into the ranks of the cannon fodder he had witnessed being thrown away in the filth of no man’s land.
They arrived at the Torrington Arms just as a summer storm broke. They were welcomed by the landlord who, if he remembered Watson from a few years previously, didn’t let on. But he told them there were beds for the night and homemade mutton pie or fresh trout available. A fire might be lit if the temperature dropped.
He and Coyle went to their separate rooms and agreed to meet downstairs for dinner. Watson was given first shot at the bathroom down the hallway and ran himself a deep bath, liberally sprinkled with Du Barry bath crystals. He ached from stem to stern, his ageing body drained by recent events, his mind vexed. A good man dead. A missing colleague detained heaven knew where. He knew he had no leverage with Churchill, no other way of getting to the truth about Holmes’s incarceration. You played the game with Winston. You brought something to the table. So, he had to solve the mystery of the seven dead and one insane man to rescue his poor, diminished friend.
Once he had submerged himself up to his neck, he levered himself back up, dried his hands and reached for the magazine that Churchill had given him. He opened it at the marked page and began to read ‘The Land Ironclads’ by H. G. Wells. Despite the hot water swirling around him, he shivered, as if somebody had opened the door a crack and a draught of icy air was blowing across the back of his neck. And, slowly, like a photograph emerging on silver bromide paper dipped in developing solution, it all swam into focus.
PART THREE
16–19 AUGUST 1916
EIGHTEEN
They spotted the barrier blocking the road from almost a mile away, and the wooden hut positioned to one side, just behind it. They were running south, on a stretch of arrow-straight asphalt, after a long day of hard driving, detours and one overheating radiator. They hadn’t spoken much during the final leg of the journey, but Watson felt it was a comforting silence. He hadn’t slept that well at the inn, the mutton lying heavy on his stomach and the thought of Holmes even heavier on his mind.
Coyle, too, had suffered an unsettled night. Watson had heard him pacing the floor and talking to himself. At least, he had assumed it was to himself. It could have been to Harry Gibson.
Still, although Watson had felt drained and had dozed for some of the journey, Coyle, being half his age, had shaken off any weariness and stayed sharp for the whole day. He had ensured they were not ‘tailed’, occasionally doubling back just to see if any other cars followed suit. Eventually, he was satisfied they were alone on this strange trip, and stopped the tricks and feints.
Now, with their destination in sight, Coyle slowed as they approached the roadblock. Already, members of the Home Service Defence Force were positioning themselves across the asphalt, rifles at the ready.
‘Friendly,’ said Watson.
‘There’s a machine gun up to the right, too.’
Watson hadn’t spotted that, sitting atop a mound between the trees, covered in netting. He suddenly felt like a grouse on
the Glorious Twelfth.
‘Whatever it is in there, Major, they don’t want the likes of me to see it.’
‘None too keen on me, either,’ Watson said.
Coyle coasted towards a stringy sergeant who stepped into the vanguard. He imagined they didn’t get much excitement around there. The sergant looked like he was keen to pull the trigger as he levelled his Lee-Enfield.
‘Halt!’ he bellowed, as if any driver could be in doubt as to his intentions. Even without his belligerence, the large red and white pole with ‘STOP’ written on it was a hefty clue.
Coyle wound the window down and the sergeant stuck his head in, bristly white moustache first. He had to be Watson’s age or older.
‘This is a restricted area, sir,’ he said to Watson.
‘I’m delivering Major Watson on the instructions of Mr Winston Churchill.’
The sergeant perceptibly recoiled at Coyle’s brogue. ‘Are you now? And what’s your name, sir?’
‘Donal Coyle.’
His eyes ran up and down Coyle’s civilian garb. ‘And your status?’
‘Tired, hungry and heavily armed. It’s not a good combination for an Irishman.’
Watson smiled at the guard’s horrified expression. ‘I’ll vouch for him, Sergeant.’
The man looked at Coyle like he was a rabid dog, begging to be shot. ‘You wait here.’
Coyle turned the engine off and the Vauxhall gave a grateful shudder. Wisps of steam curlicued from the bonnet.
‘You shouldn’t joke with these people,’ warned Watson. ‘It’s their one moment of power.’
Coyle pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. ‘I wasn’t exactly joking, Major.’
‘No, you must be exhausted. I would like to thank you. For your company and for your efforts in keeping me safe.’
Coyle opened his eyes. ‘It still doesn’t feel right to me, all this. I hope you will be kept well in there.’
‘As do I,’ Watson admitted. ‘It’s a leap in the dark.’
‘Are you armed?’
‘No.’
Coyle reached down and pulled out the small compact automatic pistol from by his ankle. ‘Take this.’
‘I’m sure I won’t be needing one.’
‘Take it,’ Coyle insisted. ‘I’m done with it now. I’ve another of the little devils at my digs.’
Watson took the tiny gun, weighed it in his hand – it was astonishingly light – and pocketed it. ‘Thank you.’
‘You have to be able to count the hairs on their moustache before you pull the trigger, mind. It’s got no stopping power. But, as you probably know as well as me, there are plenty of times when just the sight of a gun does the trick. I’d give you the Smith & Wesson but . . . well, I’ll be wantin’ that one meself. Now, I need to stretch my legs.’
They both got out of the Vauxhall, feeling many pairs of eyes watching their every move. The sergeant had disappeared into the hut. Watson could see the telephone wires stretching away from it.
‘What will you do once I’m installed here? Back to London?’
Coyle shrugged. ‘I suppose. I have unfinished business.’
The sergeant returned, bustling briskly up to them with a flurry of self-importance. ‘You, Major Watson, are to wait here. A car is being organized to take you to your quarters. You’ – he turned to Coyle – ‘I am afraid cannot enter.’
‘Now look here,’ said Watson. ‘This man has been driving all day. What is he supposed to do? Get back on that telephone—’
‘Major Watson,’ said Coyle, ‘it’s fine. I have no desire to cross that line. I have done what I was charged with, albeit a little later than anticipated.’
‘You are in no fit condition to drive back to London. And that car needs a rest.’
Coyle nodded at this. Oil, water, brake and clutch fluids needed topping up and there were nipples to be greased and brakes to bleed.
The sergeant softened and said, ‘There’s a pub in the village about four miles that way. Go back up here and take a right. The Plough. Rooms out back. Nothing fancy. Clean. Good breakfast. Sausages from my brother’s pigs.’
Coyle shrugged. ‘Sounds perfect.’
Watson and Coyle retreated a few paces away from the soldier and shook hands with each other. ‘I meant what I said. Thank you, Coyle. Perhaps we will meet again under happier circumstances.’
Coyle gave a gentle chuckle at that.
‘What is it?’
‘People like me don’t have happier circumstances, Major Watson. I’m not sure you do either, these days. This is about as happy as it gets. I’ve enjoyed meeting you again. You’re a good man. And if you get into trouble, tell Kell to whistle me up. I’ll come running.’
‘I’m obliged.’
Watson watched the Irishman crank the car back into life, climb in and execute a swift three-point turn, his hand out of the window in farewell as the Vauxhall straightened out and accelerated down the road, a worrying plume of steam in its wake. Watson appreciated what, of course, the unfinished business was. Coyle was going to find out who killed his friend Harry, and make them pay. That was why he needed the Smith & Wesson.
Well, Watson could sympathize with his intent. After all, wasn’t he, too, acting out of loyalty to an old friend? What else would have brought him to this godforsaken place?
Watson turned back to the barrier. Beyond it, down the road, still as straight as anything the Romans might have conceived, he could just make out a vehicle approaching. And, above the mocking calls of the crows, he thought he heard the faint crack of a gunshot.
NINETEEN
The fracas started with C Company and quickly spread along the dried tinder of boredom and frustration and ignited in the huts of adjacent G Company. By the time Booth arrived the brawl had spread into the open, with clusters of men thumping bloody heck out of each other among the ferns with no rhyme or reason. Some were shouting, but others were just letting out an animal-like roar, as if this were a rutting contest.
Booth stood watching, leaning against one of the forest’s hornbeams. He had warned Swinton something like this might happen. Unable to leave the site, with no women and little alcohol, the soldiers grew restless and ornery. It was hardly surprising that steam was let off now and again. And, being men, they did it with their fists.
Booth signalled to Greaves, the military police sergeant. He snapped an order to his men, who weighed in with their clubs, some with a little too much enthusiasm. Booth hesitated as the intensity of the fighting increased, took out his revolver and fired into the air.
The branches above him exploded into life with the shrill cry of alarm and the crash of wings as the crows took flight. The report of the Webley chased through the stand of trees. It might be a cumbersome weapon, Booth thought, but it makes a satisfying bang.
He then levelled the gun at the nearest soldier. He was a big lad, with a cauliflower ear that suggested a history of brawls, and a thin bead of blood leaking from one nostril. There was the shortest of pauses. ‘Next man throws a punch, I’ll shoot him dead.’
There was a ripple of discontent among the mêlée. Someone called him a bastard. Booth swung the revolver to point at Gunner Appleton, a bricklayer’s labourer, built like a side of beef. He was fairly certain he was the heckler. ‘Perhaps you’d like to test me out, Appleton.’
The Somerset man gave a smile and shook his head.
‘Where are your officers?’
‘At a briefing, sir.’
This could mean anything. The officers were privy to certain privileges, including decent wine and dinners and regular bathing, which were denied the men. ‘Sergeant Greaves, every NCO in this pack of animals will be on a charge. Understood?’
‘Sir,’ snapped Greaves.
‘Now, while I have your attention.’ Booth holstered his pistol. ‘I admire your fighting spirit, lads, but it is misdirected. In the past twenty-four hours, we have been given notice that our little project has received some unwelco
me attention.’
The men shuffled to face him now, curious.
‘There is a German spy ring operating in the area.’
A few gasped, but most looked at him blank-faced.
He was exaggerating, of course. There was a curious American he didn’t quite trust. He had radioed for guidance on the legality of interning Americans. London had said they would ‘get back to him’.
‘And I have it on good authority they will make an attempt to penetrate the perimeter and ascertain exactly what we are doing here.’ Booth clenched his fist and shook it at them. ‘I don’t have to tell you what a breach of security like that will mean. The element of surprise is everything. Everything.’ He spat out the word. ‘I am going to double patrols. We are going to check and recheck the papers of every man found wandering the grounds. And I am, personally, going to give ten pounds to anyone who finds us a spy.’
There was, as he expected, a cheer at the mention of cash. There always was.
‘Now, clean yourselves and your huts up and get cracking. There is a bloody war on, you know.’
He turned to Greaves. ‘Put the NCOs on night patrols as punishment—’
Greaves frowned. ‘But, sir—’
‘They’re just letting off steam.’ He slapped the plywood model of the new wonder weapon that so much depended on. ‘They’ll be facing the Germans soon enough in something that isn’t made of timber. That’ll focus their minds.’
‘Sir.’
‘Get them organizing their patrols. I want this place sewn up tighter than a swan’s backside. Understood?’
‘Sir.’
As Greaves turned, Booth smiled. He would offer the same reward to the other companies. Ten pounds. That was almost six months’ wages out in the real world for many of these men. He was throwing a net of greed around the camp. If Ross was a bad ’un, he was as good as dead.
The messenger intercepted the lieutenant as he walked the path towards the metal huts housing D Company. ‘What is it?’
‘Colonel Swinton sends his compliments, sir. He says a Major Watson has arrived.’
