The Dead Can Wait

by Robert Ryan

  The initial leg of the journey took them out across the cluster of buildings that made up the hamlet of Churchend, heading east, threading through the darkened cottages, away from where they knew there were sentry posts along the main spinal road that ran – with various diversions – north to south across the island. A low moon threw a slanting light, forming a latticework of shadows across their path. It made focusing difficult and within the first five minutes each member of the group had stumbled at least once. It wasn’t difficult to imagine the owl that hooted at them was laughing at their clumsy progress.

  ‘I didn’t want to do this,’ said Holmes, rummaging in the old knapsack he had found in a cupboard in the cottage. ‘But needs must.’ From it, he produced a torch. He had wrapped it in some flimsy material ripped from the cottage curtains to diffuse the beam. It gave enough light to show them the dark snakes of the drainage ditches and the planks for traversing them, but still progress was slow. Watson noticed that the streak of paleness in the east was strengthening to something more definite.

  Something darted from a hedgerow, a fox, and Holmes stopped suddenly, causing the others to collide into him. He hushed them quiet.

  A door in one of the nearby cottages opened, throwing a blade of light across a garden, and they heard a grumbling voice. The four fugitives paused mid-stride, not daring to breath. The man relieved himself loudly against the wall, too lazy or befuddled by sleep to even make the outhouse. The stream slowed to a trickle and the man grunted and went back inside.

  From far away a foghorn sounded, like the long lowing of a cow. There might be mist or fog out at sea, perhaps even a haar, the dense North Sea fogs that rolled across the waters and land, like a nomadic, earth-bound cloud. Or like the fog bank that had rolled over Dartmoor that fatal night, many years ago now; a distance that gave Watson vertigo to think of it, of all the time that had passed. The thought of the hound, the fog, the terrible fate of Stapleton in the mire made Watson’s throat go dry. You won’t be coming out of that sinking mud. Not alive, Watson. Not alive. Perhaps this was a foolish undertaking after all.

  ‘We must pick up the pace,’ urged Watson.

  ‘And risk turning an ankle?’ Holmes replied. ‘Caution is needed on this stretch. We head for the farms at Rugwood, then out to Asplins Head.’

  ‘We can cut across here,’ said Miss Deane. ‘See? Over the fields. It will save us some time. I used it when carrying my painting equipment.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Holmes. ‘Lead on, Miss Deane.’

  Watson heard Mrs Gregson mutter something under her breath, but it was lost on the wind.

  Levass watched the sun come up over a shattered landscape. The village of Heilly no longer existed, apart from mounds of dusty rubble and domestic debris, such as twisted bedspreads and splintered cooking ranges. Every road and lane had abandoned vehicles or smashed carts thrown carelessly to one side. The air was thick with the aroma of breakfasts and the fumes from the cooking fires of thousands of men, hidden from view in trenches or farmhouses, scattered over hundreds of square miles. It was likely at least some of the smoke and smell was coming from German stoves, a few miles away. But in twenty-four hours’ time there would be no bacon, sausages, corned beef, Maconochie or cigarettes for breakfast. It would be a tot of rum and over the bags, as the opposing armies got back to the business of killing each other.

  Both sides knew something was coming. The British guns, practising their range, had continued right through breakfast, but had fallen silent at last, as if to allow Levass a chance to enjoy a cigarette and some tentative tweets of birdsong in peace.

  He was leaning on the staff car, trying to empty his mind of the madness of the meeting he had just attended. Sixteen tanks to XIV Corps, to be split into twos and threes. Eighteen to XV Corps. Eight to III Corps. Six to fight with the Canadians, in two groups of three. The rest to be held in reserve. What rest? That total was more tanks than they had working. Each tank commander would be given map references and timetables and be expected to rendezvous with his infantry support at his ‘point of deployment’. A creeping barrage would signal the start of the push, slower, more thorough than the disastrous one of 1 July, which had failed to cut the German wire. The idea was that any German coils that remained untouched on that September morning would be crushed into the mud by the tanks.

  ‘And what will the barrage do to the ground the tanks are meant to cross?’ Levass had asked, much to Frogatt-Lewis’s displeasure.

  The gruff General ‘Tommy’ Tankerton had turned his eyes on him, his comically huge moustaches quivering. ‘The tank will be deployed. We were promised machines that could cross any ground. Well, we shall see.’

  Levass had pointed out a memo to GHQ from Swinton, stating that there would be little prospect of a second chance of surprise.

  Tankerton had dismissed him. So they were committed. All the effort that he and Cardew had made to slow down the progress had been dashed on the thick skulls of ambitious and pig-headed generals. Levass regretted the men who had died in the tank at Elveden. Their death was accidental — he had intended a temporary insanity — although, for a while, he thought that perhaps it would do the trick anyway and the tank project would be delayed until spring ’17. But no, Churchill had managed to infiltrate Major Watson into their ranks. And, thanks to the doctor and his busy-body investigation — and Cardew’s guilty conscience, which had led him to taking his own life — the tanks had come to France anyway.

  Now he had twenty-four hours to make sure the great machine was not wasted in these driblets.

  He finished his Elegantes, threw the stub into a pile of rain-rotted webbing, and went in search of a mimeograph machine.

  By the time they reached the causeway at Asplins Head, Holmes had visibly deteriorated. His breathing had been laboured for half an hour and air was now whistling in his tubes. His pace length, that great Holmesian stride, had reduced to a shuffle, and as they reached the shoreline he leaned on one of the low walls that ran down the crude harbour where in peacetime the Thames barges had docked to collect the island’s harvest.

  ‘Holmes, I think we have to reconsider.’

  ‘Give me a moment. Please.’

  Watson stepped away to allow him some room. The two women were looking out to sea. The waning moon showed a black causeway made of crushed brick and stone, which led down to an expanse of mud, silvered with rivulets of what looked like mercury in the dawn light. There were shapes, picking their way across the flats: the first of the sandpipers and oystercatchers were out, the proverbial early birds, scuffling for breakfast.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Mrs Gregson.

  ‘I fear the burst of energy he has shown since my arrival might have depleted his reserves. The efficacious effect of the blood transfusion has faded.’

  ‘So we stay?’ asked Miss Deane, with some alarm. ‘On the island?’

  Watson looked back at his friend and then across to the sea. The causeway was clear enough, with its twin row of poles perhaps six feet apart. But some yards offshore, where the causeway gave way to mud and sand, it was bathed in a silver, impenetrable light. It was hard to know how dense this fog actually was, thanks to the tricks of the new sun. But it didn’t look promising.

  Holmes beckoned Watson over. ‘I know what you are thinking. And you may be right. I might survive the journey . . .’ – he paused for breath – ‘. . . but I will slow you down.’

  Watson indicated the strange luminescence hovering offshore. ‘I am not certain any of us can make that crossing.’

  ‘Nonsense. Look in my knapsack. The ball of twine.’

  Watson helped him shrug off the burden. He opened it and found the rough string.

  ‘You tie this to a good-sized rock. Pick one from the foreshore. When you are at a pole and you can’t see which direction to go, you leave the rock and pay out the string.’

  ‘Like Theseus in the labyrinth?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Holmes wheezed. ‘But there are no Minotaurs ou
t there. Just the Black Grounds. So, if you can’t find the next pole, you retrace your steps back to the rock and try again. The poles are thirty yards apart at most, so you will know quite quickly if you have gone astray.’

  ‘Holmes, I can’t leave you. There must be another way.’

  ‘You don’t have too long, what with the tides. You must warn Churchill about Levass.’

  ‘You are more important than all that.’ But was he? Was one man more important than the lives of all those young tankmen, even if that man was Sherlock Holmes?

  ‘My friend—’

  ‘I am not your friend, Holmes.’

  The detective looked at him askance. ‘No?’

  ‘Not at this precise moment. I am your physician, and I should have realized that. We shall go back and use other skills to enact the result we desire.’ Although Watson wasn’t entirely sure what those skills might be, he didn’t want to risk watching Holmes expire out on the inhospitable fringes of the North Sea. ‘And attempt another transfusion, perhaps.’

  Somewhere on the island a dog barked at the coming dawn, a plaintive, lonely sound. It was followed by the uneasy bleat of sheep. The whole of Foulness would be waking soon. Holmes saw the concern in Watson’s face. ‘If you go, I can throw them off the scent. Tell them you stole a boat, headed for Burnham—’

  ‘No. I am not leaving you, Holmes,’ Watson said firmly. ‘If anything happened—’

  ‘Mrs Gregson and I can go,’ said Miss Deane.

  The two men turned to look at the women. Watson shook his head. ‘The same objections apply. Two women out there? On those sands? I would never forgive myself.’

  ‘Dear Watson,’ said Holmes with an unexpected warmth, ‘it is so good to see you again. Have I said that?’

  ‘Not in so many words, Holmes.’

  ‘How remiss of me. Well, it is true. I heard you say you thought the blood you so generously gave me was responsible for my renewed vigour. My dear chap, it was the sight of you. And the thought of one more adventure out there . . .’ He pointed with his staff. ‘But it is not to be. Is it?’

  ‘Not this time, Holmes. Not this time.’

  ‘Then perhaps it is time to bully our Colonel Montgomery.’

  ‘I thought you had tried to persuade him,’ said Watson.

  That old, familiar arch of a quizzical eyebrow once more. ‘Not to the very best of my ability,’ Holmes admitted. He took a deep breath. ‘I fear I held back somewhat. A little part of me wanted to try the Broomway, you see. But perhaps you are right. Another pint of your blood, some beef tea and I am sure we can crack this fellow another day.’

  ‘Are you strong enough to start heading back?’ Watson asked Holmes.

  ‘You aren’t starting anywhere,’ said Miss Deane. ‘Give me the twine.’ The tone of her voice made Watson turn towards her. The sight of the compact pistol in Miss Deane’s hand suggested they had fallen into a terrible trap.

  It must, thought Levass, have been like this in the days and hours before the great battles of centuries ago. Crécy, Poitiers, Agincourt. When the French fought the English for control of their own country. The weapons might have changed, but perhaps the tank was just a new version of the longbow or the flintlock: something that altered the balance of power for a short time, until some sort of equilibrium was re-established in firepower.

  He was at Memetz Wood, where four of the original six tanks were now safely bivouacked among the twisted trees under a gloomy low sky that deterred all but the bravest aviators. The men were striding around and clambering over their metal charges, recalibrating tracks and packing and repacking the ammunition, the food, the water and the fuel they would need for the dash – if that was the right word – across no man’s land.

  Levass found Halford, the young captain in charge of the unit, sitting on a metal ammunition box next to G for Glory, smoking a cigarette. His face was even grimier than the last time they had met, while his hair, freed from the confines of the leather, stuck up at wild angles like the grass of a badly neglected lawn. He stood up as he saw Levass approach.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘At ease, Halford. This is unofficial. Had breakfast?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘How was the crossing this morning?’

  ‘Eventful. We have two broken ribs, a broken nose. Two cases of what I hope is temporary deafness and a bad outbreak of nerves.’

  ‘Will he be all right? The nervous chap?’

  ‘I gave him a bit of a talking-to, some rum, told him to get some sleep.’

  ‘Driver?’

  ‘Gunner.’

  Levass nodded. The tankmen could find another gunner if need be; drivers were all but irreplaceable. ‘And you lost a tank, I see.’

  ‘HMLS G for Gorgon. Threw a track and rolled into a ditch. She’s still there. Salvageable, I would imagine, if one can pull her out. I’ve sent a message back to HQ. And now we six are four. And G for Ginny has a gearbox that’s whining like a stuck pig.’

  Levass handed him a sheaf of papers, all produced on a Banda machine. ‘Excuse my handwriting.’

  Halford blinked some dust from his eyes and focused. It was headed ‘Notes For Tank Commanders’. He read some of it out loud.

  ‘Tell all your men everything you know or think you know. Take all the petrol cans you can carry. Fill up at every available opportunity . . . rush in among the enemy, firing every available gun . . . under no circumstances must your tank fall into enemy hands. Call off an engagement if this is at all likely or possible. If in danger of capture, pour petrol on all papers and orders and set fire to them . . . loose off all your ammunition . . . destroy the machine completely . . . pigeons are not to be used except in an emergency.

  ‘That all seems straightforward enough, sir,’ Halford said.

  Levass detected some doubt in his voice. ‘But?’

  ‘You make it sound as if abandoning the tank has more priority than engaging the enemy. Sir, I’m sure you didn’t mean that—’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Just that . . . they’ll have to carry me out of that thing feet first once we start rolling. Someone has to show what it can do. Yes, they are noisy and temperamental, filthy and stinking, but, by God, you should see the face of infantrymen when we pass. And it’s on their side. Imagine how the Hun will feel. I know we’ll do well. Given the chance.’

  That was one thing they could agree on. ‘Given the chance.’ Levass doubted they would be given that chance. ‘I am sure you will,’ he said, and clapped Halford on the shoulder, feeling a flush of warmth for the brave young man.

  ‘If you can give a copy of the memo to each commander . . .’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll leave the fighting talk to you. But, do stress the part about capture. We don’t want the Germans getting their hands on one of these.’

  ‘No. Although I hear rumours they already have their own.’

  Levass shook his head. ‘Rumours. War runs on rumours the way those tanks run on petrol.’

  ‘Talking of which, you said something about fresh supplies of fuel. We’ve burned through over fifty per cent of ours.’

  ‘New stocks will be along later in the day. If I were you, I’d fill up with the new stuff when you get the opportunity.’

  ‘I will, sir. Thank you. And for taking the trouble to do this.’ He held up the mimeographs.

  ‘It’s no trouble,’ said Levass. ‘After all, we all want the same thing.’

  ‘To get out of this alive, you mean?’ asked Halford, with a cheeky grin.

  ‘To get out alive on the winning side,’ corrected Levass.

  ‘Cup of tea? Or coffee, sir?’

  ‘No, I’m going to all the deployment points, to hand out this document.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir. But I have a question.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Halford cleared his throat. ‘You’re French, sir. Why aren’t any of our chaps making the effort to do this sort of thing? We hardly see anyone, except th
ey come to countermand the previous day’s orders.’

  Levass shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask them that. I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Very diplomatic. Well, on behalf of the lads, thank you. We could do with a lot more like you, Colonel Levass.’

  FORTY-FOUR

  It feels like some sort of Canute-like suicide, thought Watson. Every brain cell told him he shouldn’t walk out into that mist. Not with a fading old man on his arm. Or at gunpoint.

  But the quartet trudged down the causeway, Mrs Gregson in the lead, holding a hefty stone and the twine, followed by Watson and Holmes. Miss Deane brought up the rear, her gun pointed at their backs. As Holmes had explained in cool, reasoned tones, shooting them on the island would raise an alarm. The crack of even a small pistol would run and run over that flat land, with nothing to impede its progress. And plenty of soldiers, stirring in their bivouacs, would recognize it for what it was. So Holmes had bought them time. But to what end?

  The dark path of crushed rock and stones disappeared beneath the remarkably firm sand, like a stream plunging underground. The sand was decorated with the curled tubes of casts left by the animals that lived beneath. Here and there Watson could see fragments of age-blackened wood, almost fossilized, which must be the remnants of the ancient wattles.

  Holmes, leaning heavily on his stick, pointed at a pile of cockleshells scattered around the base of one of the marker posts. He bent down and picked up a handful. ‘Look, Watson. Glycymeris glycymeris. The dog-cockle. Believed to be inedible, but there is evidence hereabouts that the Saxons had a recipe for softening them—’

  ‘For God’s sake, keep walking,’ said Miss Deane, recognizing the delaying tactic.

  Holmes tossed the shells over his shoulder. ‘One should never miss the opportunity to observe,’ he said loftily.

  They carried on towards the shifting silvery cloud, diffusing any light that the new dawn was offering. The going was tough, Watson soon appreciated. The sand was hard enough, but heavily ridged, so the chance of turning an ankle was a very real one. The uneven surface was as dangerous as cobblestones. Furthermore, Holmes, his face worryingly pale but for two spots burning bright, high on his cheeks, was leaning heavily on Watson. This ungainly four-legged creature stumbled after Miss Deane, who had moved ahead and was walking crab-like, best to keep an eye on both Mrs Gregson at the vanguard and the two old men.