by Robert Ryan
The beam was yellow and ovoid, even at maximum adjustment. The Opalite Medi was designed for testing pupil reflex and peering into body cavities, not lighting up cellars. Still, they followed it, as if pursuing a dancing insect, out of the room and towards the steps that led out of the ice house. Mrs Gregson had only a light gabardine mackintosh over her uniform, and she was already shivering. Her teeth did a little castanet chatter before she clamped her jaw shut.
‘Would you like my coat?’ Watson asked.
‘I’m fine. You are making rather a habit of this, Major.’ This was accompanied by a hollow laugh.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, as he shone the light up at the closed doors.
‘The stables in Belgium.’
He remembered being locked in with a horse while chlorine gas poured under the doors. He had been very lucky to survive unscathed. The poor horse hadn’t. ‘You were on the outside then.’
‘I think I preferred that arrangement.’ It came out as a sob towards the end and he stepped in closer. ‘No. Just get us out of here, please. I have a rather unpleasant feeling about this.’
‘It could be an accident,’ he offered, but neither of really them believed that.
Watson moved up the steps and inspected the doors. As he suspected, they had been bolted from the outside. He banged a fist on one of them and shouted, but it felt like the space behind him simply gulped away the sound.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll just have to wait.’
‘For what?’
‘People know I’m here.’
‘Who?’ she asked.
‘Thwaites, for certain. He was in my room when I examined the files and I told him I had to look at the bodies. And I cleared it with Booth. One of them will be along soon enough. Dinner is in half an hour or so. I’ll be missed.’
Mrs Gregson made a strange noise in her throat. It was, he realized, a doubting sound.
‘What?’
‘Surely whoever knows you were here could be the one who locked the door in the first place.’
She’s right, you know.
‘Not now, not now,’ Watson muttered.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. Just that you could be right,’ he conceded. ‘Still, at least there is no gas this time.’
He had barely finished speaking when, from somewhere deep below came the sound of rusty metal breaking free of its resting place, the grind of ancient gearing, and the sudden rush of water. The temperature around them dropped within seconds as a prolonged gurgling came from the main ice storage room.
They were being flooded.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Coyle knew his memory for faces did not match that of Gibson: he had been able to recall a fleeting profile in a crowd from five years ago. But Coyle’s abilities were good enough for him to be certain that the man he had seen walk into the off-sales section of The Plough – which he knew simply led into the public bar – was someone he had seen before, across an interview table. He told himself this as he fetched his pistol from the rear of the car, placed it on the front seat within easy reach, and waited for the man to come out.
A Dutchman, he recalled, although no name came along with that piece of retrieved information. He and Gibson had spent a long time looking at foreign nationals through late 1914 and early 1915, paying the more suspect ones a visit. The latter group often included arrivals from the Netherlands and Sweden. They were neutral but it was relatively easy for a German to pass as a native of those countries. Then there was South Africa; again, an Afrikaans accent could mask a spy’s imperfect English.
But no, this blond fellow had definitely been Dutch. Was a journalist of some description . . . no, a newsreel man. So what was he doing lurking on the edge of one of the most sensitive areas in the whole of the United Kingdom? As he thought about it, Coyle felt his thumbs prickle. He recalled the last time that had happened, out on the street just before Gibson had died.
Five minutes passed, the length of half a cheap cigarette. A few locals went into the pub – elderly labourers mostly, and a woman bent and gnarled by the fields – all using the entrance a few feet along from the one the Dutchman had taken. Two rather better-dressed men emerged from the lounge bar and looked him up and down. One raised his bowler in greeting. What, he thought, if the Dutchman has gone out of a rear entrance? There was one, he knew.
Coyle reached into the front of the car for his gun, thrust the pistol into his belt and buttoned up his jacket. He needed to check. A dozen long paces took him to the door. He pushed inside and slowed, giving himself time to take in the faces that turned towards him. Yellow smoke glazed the air and the boards were sticky under his feet. The patrons were either sitting at tables around the edge or, mostly, standing in clumps before him, pints resting on enormous beer casks. The drinkers smelled of sweat and rough cloth, with notes of wet dog and fresh sawdust.
The Dutchman was over at the bar, close to the small section reserved for off-sales – by law it should have been partitioned off, but most country pubs paid less than lip service to such regulations. The man had a pint in his hand, a bottle of brandy on the bar in front of him, and was laughing at something Fred Sutton had said.
Coyle pushed his way through the crowd, his eyes fixed on the Dutchman, who seemed oblivious to him. He used his left hand to flick the single button on his jacket undone, just in case. The coat flapped open. But there will be no trouble, he told himself. Just a few questions.
So why were his thumbs screaming that this was something altogether different?
It was Sutton who caused the balloon to go up. His eyes locked onto Coyle coming though the crowd and he raised a hand. ‘All done, Mr Coyle?’
The Dutchman swivelled his head, froth lying on his upper lip like cuckoo spit. His eyes widened when he saw Coyle, who could almost hear the cogs turning in the man’s brain as he, too, tried to place the face of the man bearing down on him.
Coyle barged a drinker’s elbow as he passed by. Beer slopped and he half heard a grunt of protest. The man grabbed Coyle’s sleeve. It was his gun arm.
His quarry saw the pistol in Coyle’s belt as the jacket yawned open. He slammed the pint down on the counter and reached for his own weapon.
Coyle used his left hand to push the aggrieved drinker back into his friends. He knew what the movement of the Dutchman – Alberts, that was it, Dirk Alberts – meant. But Coyle had been slowed, knocked slightly off balance by the sleeve-grabber. The Dutchman had an automatic in his hand. The landlord was shouting in his ear, reaching for him, but he was ignored. The weapon boomed, the sound bouncing off the low ceiling, deafening all in the room.
Coyle felt himself pushed backwards, bodies falling onto him as he went – diving for cover or wounded, he wasn’t sure – but the breath came out of him in a great roar like an eruption. There was a second shot, and he was aware of a pain across his shoulders and someone leaping over the mass of men on the floor.
‘Anyone comes out of this door after me,’ the Dutchman yelled, ‘and I’ll drop him dead.’
Damn, thought Coyle as he felt hot blood seeping around his collar, I left the keys that lock the switches and the crank in the car.
Miss Pillbody wondered what the hell Ross was playing at when she heard the banging on the front door. She had pulled herself up to her full height and armed herself with a few choice oaths to hiss at the fool – by the length of time he had been gone, she assumed he must have stopped in for a pint or two – when she yanked the door open. The man before her was clearly surprised by the anger in her expression and took a step backwards into the dusk.
‘Miss Pillbody? Good Lord, is everything all right?’
She recomposed her features into something resembling relief. ‘Oh, Lieutenant Booth.’ Hand to throat. ‘My apologies. Some village children have been playing tricks – tapping on the door and running away, that sort of thing.’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘I thought for a moment I’d caught one.’
Booth removed his cap. ‘
No such luck. Just me. I’m sorry, I won’t keep you long. Might I come in for second?’
‘Well . . .’ She leaned out of the house and looked up the road. No sign of Ross.
‘If any more children come, I’ll box their ears,’ he promised, misunderstanding her concerns.
‘Just for a moment, then.’ She stepped aside and the lieutenant walked in. ‘Do forgive me if I don’t offer you some refreshment. I have rather a lot of correspondence to get through.’
He smiled. ‘I just came to apologize about tomorrow. I am afraid I shall have to cancel our picnic. I shouldn’t have promised, there really is too much going on up at . . . at work, as you might say.’
‘Oh,’ she said, her mouth puckering sourly.
‘I hope I haven’t offended you, Miss Pillbody.’
‘No, not at all. I’m . . . disappointed, that’s all. I had a new dress.’ In a second she had reconfigured her plans. ‘And isn’t it about time you called me Nora, Lieutenant?’ He smiled at this and nodded. ‘Shall we go and sit in the kitchen? I think I’d like some tea after all.’
‘I am afraid I am expected back for dinner.’
‘Do they know you have come calling on me?’
The frown suggested she was worried about her reputation. ‘Oh, no. Not at all.’
‘Good. Well, you can talk while I make myself some tea. I insist that we set a new date.’
She closed the door, hardly noticing the clank of the approaching car. They moved through into the dining area, Booth taking in the freshly sharpened knives laid out on the table.
Miss Pillbody put on the kettle and moved so she was within easy reach of the blades. Where was Ross? If he came back soon, they could get on with the grim business now, and have an answer by morning. But Booth was saying something.
‘. . . hard to know when I can get away again. There’s something of a stew on. Again. All hands to the pumps and what have you. I’d hate to make an appointment and fail to keep it.’
She gave him Miss Pillbody’s most demure smile. ‘Well, whenever this stew subsides, then. Are you sure I can’t tempt you? To tea?’
He was looking up at her row of dolls. It was strange how men found them so fascinating yet slightly repellent. It was the expressions and the oversized heads. These creatures were automata, created for their powers of movement – walking, waving, smiling blinking – rather than the pretty visages of conventional dolls.
She heard the rustle outside the back door first, and ignored it, taking a step nearer the knives. Speed would be of the essence here. She couldn’t overpower Booth alone. But the surprise appearance of Ross might just disorient him enough for her to get a knife to his throat.
But it was she who was confused when the door slammed back on its hinges and a wild-eyed Ross burst in with a roar. ‘The game’s up—’ he began, striding towards Booth, who had leaped back when he noticed the gun in Ross’s hand and was fumbling with the flap of his holster.
‘Bradley!’ Miss Pillbody yelled, attempting to drown out Ross’s incriminating words. He was about to expose everything.
Miss Pillbody pursued the only course open to her. She snatched up the boning knife and plunged it deep into muscle, blood and bone. There was a startled scream, and Ross grabbed at the handle protruding from his upper arm. The gun fell from his grip onto the stone floor.
‘You stupid—’ Ross began.
Miss Pillbody covered the rest of his sentence with the loudest scream she could manage.
She knew she had to stop Ross uttering another word. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t warned him it might come to this. The next knife was a French carver, with a ten-inch blade. She plucked that off the table and struck upwards as hard as she could. The point entered just under Ross’s chin and she forced it upward, through the floor of the oral cavity, the fleshy tongue and split the hard palate. A spray of blood spurted from between the lips as Ross, with the strength of a madman, lifted the kitchen table, tossing it at Booth just as he cleared his Webley.
The gunshots were two sharp cracks, close together, which seemed to suck all the sound out of the room. Miss Pillbody watched as the force of the rounds puncturing his chest sent Ross staggering, as much a look of surprise on his face as a man with an impaled jaw can manage. He flailed towards the open kitchen door and fell outside, leaving only his feet sticking into the house. They gave two almighty kicks and were still.
Miss Pillbody turned to thank the man who had saved her by shooting Ross, but was surprised to find Booth sprawled on the floor, pinned by the table, his revolver a few inches from his hand. He hadn’t fired the shots. She moved her gaze down the room.
Coyle, who had kicked in the front door when he’d heard the scream, kept the Smith & Wesson raised, looking through the helix of smoke spiralling from the barrel. He had it levelled at Booth who, despite being trapped under the slab of heavy pine, had finally managed to get his gun in his hand.
‘Careful now,’ Coyle said. ‘I’m not sure what’s occurring here.’ He took a sharp intake of breath and winced. ‘And I don’t want any fatal misunderstandings.’
Coyle’s left shoulder was damaged, although he had no idea how badly. Bones were certainly grinding in there. There was a dead man lying on the floor of the pub, but it wasn’t him.
Miss Pillbody began to sob uncontrollably, calling on God’s help. Booth carefully leaned across and rested his gun on the dresser, raising his hands as he let go.
‘I think we all have some explaining to do,’ the lieutenant said.
Using the small torch, Watson located the source of the gushing sound. By the time he had done so, the water was already more than ankle-deep throughout the rooms. He could feel his body heat leaking away through his feet.
‘I’ve found it!’ he yelled to Mrs Gregson, whom he instructed to stay on the steps, above the rising waters. His voice rang like a bell.
‘You don’t have to shout,’ she said from over his shoulder.
‘Mrs Gregson, really . . .’ He shone the Opalite on the sodden hem of her dress. Her feet had already disappeared into the murky swirl. ‘Don’t you ever do as you are told?’
Oddly the ingress of water seemed to have steeled her. He thought she might go to pieces, but the threat seemed to have summoned up some inner resolve. ‘Not if I can help it. And I wasn’t that happy sitting there in the dark by myself. I think I heard a rat.’
That was certainly likely. If this place had been used for slaughter and hanging game, and had a drainage system, chances were there were rats. ‘I think we’ll have met bigger in Belgium,’ said Watson. ‘And it’s not the rats we need to worry about. It’s the water.’
Mrs Gregson shivered. ‘But are those doors truly watertight? And look, there are airbricks. We’ll be able to breathe if we float up.’
Watson didn’t offer anything. She knew the answer to that perfectly well.
‘But I suppose this water is freezing,’ continued Mrs Gregson. ‘And this is an ice house. We’ll be like those poor blighters on the Lusitania.’
‘Not quite, but I don’t think we’d have too long.’ Well, he wouldn’t. Watson had to face up to the fact that he was an old man, in body if not in mind. Even if he got out, just a short submersion would leave him at risk of a fatal pneumonia.
‘Who is behind this, Major?’
‘I think we can worry about that later. Hold this for me,’ he said, handing Mrs Gregson the feeble light, aware that the water level was now halfway up his calves. He took off his Sam Browne belt and tunic and passed them across, then rolled up his sleeves.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Shine the light on the water, if you can. Where it is welling up.’
He bent forward and plunged his arms into the cold murk. It smelled heavily of mud and weeds as it splashed on his face. His fingers found the iron grille that covered the drain. Such was the force of water it had lifted a little. It was a decent size, perhaps eighteen inches square. But there was no way he could force himse
lf down there against that flow. And who was to say what was at the other end?
He stood and shook his hands to try to bring some life back to his chilled fingers.
‘Well?’
‘It must be some sort of scouring system for when they want to sluice the place out. Like cleaning the Augean stables.’
‘And where is Hercules when you need him?’
Watson felt stung by the remark, but said nothing.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’ Her fingertips flittered over his cheek in the dark, leaving warm spots, like glowing footprints.
‘It’s all right. I’m sorry I’m not a Greek god,’ he said.
‘What about placing a coffin over the drain?’
‘I considered that. The floor is sloped. It wouldn’t lie flat enough to seal.’
‘We should get back to the steps. At least we can stay dry longer.
Watson sighed his defeat. ‘You’re right. I don’t have any better ideas.’
But I do, Watson. I do.
They let Miss Pillbody go upstairs to change out of her blood-spattered clothes. A pan of water was put on, so she could wash it off her face. Coyle and Booth put the table and chairs back together and mopped up what they could of Ross’s blood. Then Coyle went to the door and stepped over the body into the garden. He had to check the man was dead. He was. Very. He examined the hilt protruding from beneath the chin and winced. It was one hell of a blow. Never seen a woman behave like that before, he thought, not even those in the Brotherhood out for vengeance. There had been no hesitation in her actions. Brutal, she had been. And that from a schoolteacher?
When he came back in, Coyle explained to Booth who he was and the organization he worked for.
‘Irish?’ Booth asked. ‘In the Racket?’
Coyle smiled at the use of the slang word for the intelligence services. The phrase suggested an undertaking that wasn’t entirely suitable work for a gentleman. Which wasn’t far short of the mark. ‘Long story.’
‘So it was you who delivered Watson to us at Elveden?’ asked Booth.
‘That was me.’ And if it wasn’t for a broken radiator, he thought, I’d be long gone.
