The Dead Can Wait

by Robert Ryan

  At first he thought the voice was his phantom companion returned.

  ‘Look at the blast marks.’

  He stood and turned to face Mrs Gregson. ‘What are you doing here? Writing a report for Winston?’

  There had been cross words in the garden, because Watson had clearly disapproved of Mrs Gregson’s subterfuge. No good, he felt, ever came of spying. On the other hand, he was somewhat conflicted because without her agreeing to work for Churchill, he might never have seen her again and certainly would not have received the news about Holmes being on Foulness, no matter how vague her sighting. He had confessed to her the underhand methods Churchill had used to get him to Elveden and why the man was not to be trusted. She had hardly seemed surprised.

  ‘Major Watson,’ she said now, her voice whip-sharp, ‘as we are both employed by the same man, albeit under different circumstances, I find your continued hostility somewhat hypocritical. Churchill plays us all like members of the orchestra. And don’t ask which instruments we are, you might not like the answer. Now, Major, I spent two years looking at every single way that an explosion can destroy the human body. After a while you recognize the various patterns. You have to, as it helps decide whether you can save a man. Those explosions were small, concentrated and occurred at very close quarters. There, look.’ She pointed. ‘The shrapnel.’

  Using the tweezers from his bag, Watson reached into the chest of the boy who had suffered the flattening of his ribs and extracted a lump of greyish metal. Mrs Gregson stepped in as he held it up to the bare bulb.

  ‘That’s not from any HE shell I have ever seen,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘Nor incendiary, I think.’ She looked down at the bodies, which although horribly mutilated, showed little signs of charring apart from blast damage. ‘It looks like a handle or a lever.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘If I was a betting woman, I’d say a grenade.’

  Watson opened his mouth to reply, but at that moment the lights went out and they heard the ringing clang of the steel doors being closed and bolted from the outside.

  Ross rifled through the drawers in the kitchen, looking for implements to carry out their plan. After an elaborate charade of saying goodbye, he had returned to the cottage via the rear entrance. Miss Pillbody had drawn the curtains, so no prying eyes could see she had company – male company – for the evening.

  ‘Would you care for something to eat?’ she asked. ‘I have some cold ham.’

  ‘Later,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘Torture him how, exactly?’ Miss Pillbody gave a sweet smile. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never tortured anyone. Have you?’

  Ross considered this for a moment. He had beaten men to make them talk, but they had broken easily. Booth was an intelligence officer. Surely he would require more persuasion than a fat lip and a couple of missing teeth. ‘But you have blown up men with grenades.’

  A delicate little shrug. ‘That was actually my first time. Needs must.’ Ross rubbed his forehead. He wasn’t quite sure what he had got himself into with this woman. ‘Are there any tools in the house? Pliers or some such?’

  ‘Not that I have found. There are knives. Blunt knives.’

  ‘I just think we need something that will put the fear of God into a man.’ He gave an involuntary glance at the dolls. ‘Something to show as much as use.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything like that.’

  He pointed up at the top shelf of the dresser, which contained her collection of large-headed dolls that stood, staring glassy-eyed into the room. ‘We could always frighten him with those. Jesus, they’re ugly.’

  ‘They are autoperipatetikos,’ she said, irritated by his ignorance. ‘Walking dolls. My father used to buy me them, then my husband. Now, I collect them.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hideous things, he thought, but kept it to himself. His own father had collected African ceremonial masks, which had been equally creepy. ‘Do you have any more alcohol? I could do with a drink.’

  ‘There’s nothing but that sherry. Miss Pillbody wouldn’t keep anything else in the house. I was always partial to kirsch in my old life. I don’t think it is her tipple, though, do you?’

  ‘No. I’ll have the sherry, then.’

  Ross sat at the kitchen table, and watched her sort out two small glasses of the sticky amber-coloured liquid. He felt a weariness in his bones. Too many late nights, too much creeping around, too many bodies in a short time. Soon they would have another on their hands.

  She sat down and pushed the glass towards him. He took a mouthful and swallowed, grimacing at it went down, leaving a medicinal aftertaste.

  ‘Now,’ Miss Pillbody said with resolve, ‘stop being so agitated. We have to apply logic here. Time is short. Obtaining the information from Booth is simply the best available option we have. If he won’t talk, we’ll snatch ourselves someone who will. Then you can get out of here.’

  ‘What about Thetford aerodrome?’

  ‘New orders,’ she admitted. ‘I am to stand down. After the loss of the ship, the Zeppelin raids are being suspended pending fresh tactics.’

  She must, Ross appreciated, have a way of communicating with her superiors. Radio? Pigeons? He doubted she would tell him. ‘Such as?’

  She gave a long sigh. ‘They won’t tell me that, of course. But I hear the Fliegertruppen has been given permission to raid London with conventional aircraft. Perhaps the time of the Zeppelin is coming to an end. But I have been given clearance by my superior to try to ascertain what is going on at the estate.’

  ‘What about their spy in there?’

  A shrug. ‘Perhaps there isn’t one. Perhaps they consider a two-pronged approach the best option. Perhaps he has been caught and shot.’

  ‘What will you do then? If we break the secret of Elveden? Could you stay here?’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. If all goes well, I shall stay on as Miss Pillbody for a while longer. But if we expose ourselves, I’ll slip into another life. I’ll have done my duty. I will have avenged my husband.’ She took another sip. ‘If not quite in the way I envisaged.’

  A robin started up outside the window, singing as if its life depended on the volume of noise it could produce.

  Ross took another small amount of the sherry. ‘I’m sorry. I just . . . I never have, I don’t think . . . loved anyone. I’ve hated plenty of people in my time. It’s hate that drove me here.’ He looked down at his glass and laughed. ‘Jesus, what’s in this stuff ? I thought it was gin that made you melancholy.’

  She put her head to one side, as if examining a strange specimen for the first time. ‘Just so you know . . .’ she began.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought about killing you last night.’

  It was said so matter-of-factly, as if she were talking about pulling a weed from the garden, that he actually shuddered. ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought it would be neater. But then I thought, what if it somehow leads back to me? After all, we’ve been seen together. I didn’t want anyone prying. So, I decided best not.’

  He laughed. ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘You know, so am I.’ She finished the sherry. ‘That really is filthy stuff, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘I think you should slip out the back way and perhaps go and buy us a bottle of something from the pub. I’ll do that ham with some potatoes and some greens from the garden.’

  ‘How domesticated.’

  ‘And while you are there, visit the blacksmith. He’ll still be in the forge. Ask if you can hire a pair of tongs; say you are having a bonfire or some such and don’t want it to get out of control. And a pair of pliers to remove nails from the wood. He won’t care; the money’ll just go down his throat.’

  He stood. It seemed like a plan, of sorts.

  ‘And Ross?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just in case you are wondering. If it ever becomes expedient, I will do it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Kill you.’

 
He couldn’t help but snort at that. ‘Jesus, woman, you know how to put a man at ease.’ He was still suppressing a snigger when he slipped out the rear, disturbing the vocal robin as he went.

  After he had gone, Miss Pillbody washed up the two glasses and placed them in the draining rack, put the empty sherry bottle out in the bin and went to the dresser. From there she selected three of the best carving and boning knives, and set about putting a serious edge on them using a whetstone. The noise released a distant memory of the squeals of pain and the smell of hot blood that filled the sheds when her grandfather let her watch the workers castrate the bulls on his estate. Which gave her an idea.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  In the courtyard of The Plough, Coyle bent over the Vauxhall, rebolting the radiator, telling himself to slow down. His haste had already cost him the skin on his knuckles. He had found the letter from his mother and reread the line that should have leaped out at him earlier.

  ‘I had to get Marie Coughlan to read your last one to me. They say it’s the cataracts . . .’

  He had been so thrown by the word ‘cataracts’ he hadn’t paid enough attention to the name of the woman reading letters to her. Marie Coughlan, née Daly. The sister of the two men shot in a warehouse by one Donal Coyle. They always said the Brotherhood finds you sooner or later. Three dead men on a cold warehouse floor in Liverpool had to be paid for. So they had moved a Daly into his mother’s orbit, playing the very long game. And it was true, for years his letters were from no place specific, often given to other agents to post while he and Harry Gibson were on their travels. Anyone looking at the postmark might think him a particularly aimless nomad or a confused travelling salesman. The contents of the letters were deliberately vague as to his location. But lately, blinded perhaps by the fever of homesickness, by the fatigue of a life of subterfuge serving a government that wasn’t his own, he must have become careless. And somehow they had picked up his trail. Normally the Brothers would try a snatch, but he flattered himself that they might have thought that too risky. Donal Coyle was a hard man to take alive, at least he hoped so. But he could imagine that the next piece in the newspaper Marie Coughlan would love to read to his mother would be a detailed description of his execution, left to die on the rich men’s pavements of Mayfair. He made a note to get a message to Major Watson, to tell him his life was not in danger. Not from roving assassins, anyway.

  Coyle finished with the bolts and clipped on the hoses of the cooling system. Using a watering can, he filled the radiator slowly, squeezing the rubber pipes to ease away any air bubbles. When it overflowed he wiped away the excess and examined the radiator core for leaks. He couldn’t see any. He got down on his hands and knees, looking for drips. None. But Coyle knew rad repairs failed under pressure and he put on the cap to seal the system, cranked the engine and let it run.

  While he was waiting for it to rattle its way to the usual running temperature he lit a Woodbine. What was the next move open to him? He had to get his mother out of harm’s way. Because he knew what their next ploy would be. They would get a message to him telling him they had his ma. That she was safe and well – for the moment. And would stay that way, if he turned himself in to stand before a tribunal. A fair hearing, they would say. And they’d give him that before they shot him in a ditch, making sure it was in the face so as to deprive his mother even the comfort of an open coffin. Well, he imagined there was at least one of the Daly brothers who had been denied that privilege too. Only fair. An eye for an eye, literally.

  Coyle gave the repair the once-over and, satisfied, turned off the engine. It would get him back to London. Then a train to Liverpool and a boat back home. Would they be waiting for him? Probably. But he had learned a few tricks over the past few years. Gibson had been very adept at changing his appearance. He had used Salvatore, an Italian barber in Clerkenwell, who could transform a man with a fresh haircut, a trim of the moustache, some hair dye if required. It would be worth what he charged.

  Coyle closed the car door and walked through the archway to enter the pub. He would tell the landlord he was leaving and settle his bill, maybe have a pint and a pie to see him on his way. But what he saw as he approached the entrance to the public bar stopped him in his tracks.

  Swinton and Booth were the first to arrive for drinks, which had been scheduled before another informal dinner to discuss the new timetable for deployment of the tanks. They were to be joined by Cardew, Thwaites, Levass and Major Watson. Swinton poured them each a stiff gin from the bottles on the side table.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked the intelligence officer. ‘Is it feasible? This new deployment date?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir . . .’ Booth began.

  ‘I think it is.’ It was Cardew, the engineer, dressed for dinner in what passed for the modern way in some quarters: a smart dark blue lounge suit with a collar and tie. ‘Although we will have to work day and night. One team to bolt on the sponsons by night, the crews to train on the tanks during the day, first on the statics, then on the fully equipped ones. We’ll need a very strict timetable if—’

  He stopped when he heard approaching laughter and Levass and Thwaites entered. Both men had slight flushes on their cheeks, as if they had started proceedings early.

  ‘You’ve heard, I suppose?’ Swinton asked them.

  ‘Heard what?’ asked Thwaites.

  ‘The tanks deploy in France on September the 1st.’

  ‘Whose idea was this foolishness?’ demanded Levass, his mood changing in a heartbeat.

  ‘Haig’s, I would imagine,’ replied Swinton. The commander-in-chief had sent some of his staff from France to watch early tank tests at Hatfield. They had all been most impressed by how the machines crushed or turned aside the barbed wire. ‘Like a rhinoceros,’ one officer had reported. A very slow rhinoceros. ‘Haig and Robertson, his chief of staff, have been lobbying Lloyd George to unleash the tanks as soon as feasible.’

  ‘To save their faces from the Somme débâcle,’ said Levass glumly.

  ‘I think you’ll find,’ said Thwaites slowly, not wanting to take that slight from a foreigner, ‘that the whole débâcle was designed to take some pressure off the French. Those Tommies died so that you could regroup.’

  Levass nodded his acceptance of that point.

  ‘And,’ said Swinton, ‘Haig has the backing of Montagu at the Ministry of Munitions. Operation Puddleduck has become Operation Muddleduck.’

  ‘How many tanks can you deploy in September?’ Levass asked.

  ‘A hundred or so,’ said Cardew. ‘But not many more. And the crews will be novices. Absolute novices.’

  ‘And if we waited until the New Year?’

  ‘Five hundred, perhaps a thousand. More if we had the French ones.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Imagine that.’

  Levass groaned. ‘I can, Cardew. Why, gentlemen, should we use a new weapon at the very end of the fighting season, when the enemy will have time—’

  Thwaites interrupted. ‘Well, I for one will be pleased when we can stop skulking around and get some serious discussion about who, exactly, should be in charge of these iron horses.’

  Cardew smiled. Thwaites liked to use the term to try to claim dominion for the cavalry over the new steel beasts. Cardew was of the opinion a whole new section was required, a Tank Corps, which could sweep away old horse-bound traditions and start anew. But as a mere civilian, he knew better than to voice opinions about any of the armed services in such company.

  ‘I will have to inform my department that the deployment of your tanks with ours looks . . . unlikely,’ said Levass. He crossed over and began mixing drinks for himself and Thwaites. ‘I shall send people to the testing ground at the Renault factory and try and whip them along. But . . .’ He shrugged at the hopelessness of the situation.

  ‘Thank you.’ Cardew accepted a gin and tonic from Swinton. ‘But we really must make sure we solve the mystery of those deaths. Just for morale’s sake. I have repaired the tank’s engine. It ru
ns beautifully.’

  ‘And you had no ill effects?’ asked Booth.

  Cardew shook his head. ‘I kept the front visor and the sponson doors open. But Genevieve is ready for the test. I told you a few days, I believe,’ he said to Booth. ‘But it can run tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. Our Major Watson, he seems to think he is on to something,’ said Levass. ‘We shall see how Genevieve performs in the morning.’

  ‘You’ll stay for that?’ asked Swinton of the Frenchman.

  A firm nod. ‘I must. If it happens again . . .’

  They all stared into their drinks, contemplating the consequences of losing another crew.

  ‘Good. You, too, Booth. I want you on site,’ said Swinton.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘All hands on deck. Or, in some cases, in the landship.’

  Booth looked crestfallen. He threw his drink back. ‘If you’d excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll have to change my schedule. I shan’t be too long, but please start without me.’ He nodded to each man in turn and left the room, boots ringing on the tiles.

  A mournful clock tolled the half-hour, followed by the echo of the gong.

  ‘I say,’ said Swinton, realizing they were now two men short and dinner was fast approaching, ‘does anyone know where Major Watson is?’

  Watson groped around in the darkness towards where he had left his bag, careful not to stumble over the trio of bodies or trip on the winding sheets. It wasn’t, he appreciated after a few moments, total blackness in the subterranean rooms. Up top were airbricks that scattered a pattern of stripes, ellipses and circles, thrown by the dying light outside, and there was a round airshaft in the centre of the coned ceiling of the ice room.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mrs Gregson hissed, her voice thick with fright.

  He tried to keep his own steady. It took all his willpower. Just the cold, he told himself. ‘I have a torch in my bag, if I can just . . .’

  She heard him rattling around in boxes, bottles of pills and various instruments before he gave a small cry of victory. ‘Here we are.’