by Robert Ryan
He had lain in the nave while British soldiers stepped in for a quick cigarette, coming inside in the hope that the glowing tip would not attract the attention of a sniper. If only they knew. Others had relieved themselves against the walls, grunting with pleasure as they splashed noisily, whistling softly as they buttoned themselves up. Once, he heard someone enter and cry to himself, the sobs stifled and then quickly squashed altogether when the weeping man heard a voice.
‘Sir? You in there, sir?’
A sniff. ‘Just coming.’
He picked up other conversations from nearby trenches, meaningless apart from a few clearly enunciated words, often ‘fuck’ or ‘shit’ or ‘bugger’. The smell of tobacco that came from these soldiers made his nose twitch and his lungs ache for some. That was for later, he promised himself, when he was back behind his own lines, writing home to tell them to restock the larder and to alert lovely Hilde that he was on his way back to her.
In between all the dawn activity in and around the tower, he had worked as quickly and as quietly as he could at solving his problem. He had found four fragments of bell rope that, when securely knotted together, he had managed to toss up and loop over one of the exposed beams just below the belfry. That was when the sobbing officer had entered the space, and Bloch had been forced to crouch in the corner, hoping the man was emotionally distracted enough not to notice the twin filaments freshly sprouted from above, swaying like jungle creepers. His hand was on his bayonet, and he was ready to spring forward and open the man’s neck should he show any curiosity. But he hadn’t; nor did any of the other transient visitors.
Eventually, with his rifle strapped across his back, he had grasped the bell ropes and hauled himself up, using the wall for leverage as sparingly as possible in case he dislodged a stonefall, until he was able to drag himself up onto the platform. Then, once the burning in his hands had subsided and his shoulders stopped complaining, he had pulled up the bell ropes and coiled them on the floor of the belfry. He had taken off and smoothed out the greatcoat next to the coils, unpacked his rifle, water bottle and rations and lain down on the coat in front of the westerly opening in the belfry’s stonework – once delicately louvered but now a gaping hole – gradually making himself comfortable.
He was still lying there when dawn aimed its first gun-grey rays of light at Somerset House, and, through the telescopic sights, he could clearly make out all the features of the sentry standing at the front entrance.
He smiled to himself. Half a chance, that was all he needed, and Lux’s special target was a dead man.
SIXTEEN
The showers had abated and the clouds slid away in a single smooth action, like a dark curtain being pulled aside to reveal the blue underneath. For once the air smelled of nothing more than the oils and spores released by wet earth and turned soil, and it reminded Watson of travelling briskly down the Surrey lanes in the aftermath of a rainstorm on a spring day, the hedgerows dotted with green shoots, ploughed fields steaming in fresh sunshine after the squall had moved on. He could almost hear the clop of hoofs, the encouragements of the trap driver, feel the old excitement as they faced solving another enticing puzzle together. Such a simpler world back then. The world, he reminded himself, that most of these young men imagined they were fighting to save.
He leaned against the wing of his Crossley 20/25 staff car while he waited for Mrs Gregson and lit one of his Bradley’s, breathing deeply of the slightly sweet smoke. Women’s tobacco, Holmes had called the blend, but Watson liked the contrast – his choice of cigarette was light and refreshing, his pipe of Schippers muscular and invigorating.
The only activity around him was the grim scurrying back and forth of the blank-eyed burial parties and the attendant chaplains, so instead he watched three slow pusher observation biplanes crawl overhead, almost stationary against the pale sky, making their stately way towards the German lines. He thought of ducks, flying towards the waiting guns of hunters. Beyond them, though, at a far greater height, he could just make out three other cruciform shapes, hovering like kites. Perhaps the lumbering spotters had some guardian angels. He hoped so.
And what of Staff Nurse Jennings? Did she need an unseen protector? Watson knew that he was out of step with modern times and that war created a new, shifting morality, as tricky as the Grimpen Mire to negotiate. Even so, there was something distinctly unpleasant, venal even, about the cold way that Myles had told him that the young nurse was a target. Perhaps the language was misleading; it was possible his ardour was making him tongue-tied and verbally clumsy. He recalled how he had fallen in love with Mary Morstan so readily and how hard he had found it to express his feelings with anything approaching eloquence. It could be that Myles was merely making sure, in his own stumbling fashion, he had no rival for the nurse’s affections.
And his terrible spur-of-the-moment, second-hand slander of the Canadian nurses’ morals. Sister Spence’s disapproval of their dancing was hardly reason enough for him to make his own sweeping assumptions about their behaviour. The thought made him blush. He felt like a traitor to the Dominion, which was sending thousands of men and women across to the war every month. Conscious that he might have made a fool of himself, Watson had left the blood for Shipobottom with Miss Pippery, along with a hastily written note asking if he and Myles could meet to ‘clear the air’ that evening upon his return. Snap judgements were all very well, but he would have to work with this Myles for a few days at least. He really should give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘Right, Major, I’m ready.’
He turned and was greeted by an extraordinary sight. Mrs Gregson had donned a most bizarre outfit, a heavy leather belted coat over a long leather skirt, which was split to reveal a pair of britches. She caught his expression. ‘My motorcycling clothes. Messrs Dunhill of Conduit Street.’ She gave a little curtsy, pulling out the lower part of the garb. ‘Modest yet practical.’ She produced a bright green headscarf from her pocket and began to tie it around her head.
‘Isn’t that rather . . . conspicuous?’ Watson asked.
‘Ah, Major, I can tell you don’t know about the Green Women of Pervyse. I think you should sit in the front,’ she said as he made to climb into the rear. ‘I’ll explain why in a moment. You there! Orderly! Know how to crank a car?’
A stretcher-bearer, smeared and caked in mud, his eyes dull with exhaustion, nevertheless nodded gamely.
‘Do the honours then, will you?’ she asked, passing him the starting handle.
‘Yes, ma’am. Pleasure.’ Watson had nothing but admiration for the bearers. It was debilitating, backbreaking work, hauling the dead, dying and wounded through trenches and over shell-pocked land. Yet still the majority would go the extra yard for you. Even risking a dislocated shoulder by cranking a car.
Mrs Gregson slid behind the wheel and began to fiddle with the controls, easing out the choke. ‘Back in the early days, when the war was still much like a game between gentlemen, we volunteers asked permission to collect the dead from the battlefield. The local German commander, rather a nice chap, said that if we wore bright headscarves, then we would not be mistaken for soldiers and the snipers would spare us. And so it proved. There was a set of curtains lined with green silk in the house that formed our casualty station, so we used that to make scarves for ourselves. The Germans were as good as their commander’s word. Anyone who even nicked one of us had hell to pay from their own side. We became invisible. And now— Thank you!’ she said as the Crossley rocked into life and she retrieved the handle from the orderly. ‘And now it is a widespread notion, so I understand, among the enemy that anyone wearing such headwear should be immune. However, a man sitting in the rear of a staff car, that man is assumed to be a high-ranking officer and, therefore, a prime target. And this –’ Mrs Gregson banged the driver’s door, which, like the bonnet and the passenger side, bore a large Red Cross – ‘is no protection at all.’ She slapped his leg, making him jump. ‘You’re safer up here with me, Major.�
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With that, she engaged the gears and they leaped forward and left the CCS to splash down the rutted, potholed track that would lead them to the main road.
‘I am heading west first,’ she said, pointing at the map in its dashboard holder. ‘There’ll be too many diversions and the Military Police have roadblocks closer to the front. Deserters and spies. Especially spies. You have papers with you?’
Watson nodded. ‘You don’t mind being driven by a woman. Major Watson?’ she asked as she deliberately fishtailed on a patch of mud, oil and grease by the entrance gates.
‘Not at all, Mrs Gregson,’ he said calmly. ‘It’s one of the many prices one must pay in wartime.’
Her eyes flicked to him, unsure whether he was joking. ‘You could call me Georgina away from the workplace, Major.’
There was plenty of traffic on the still rain-slicked road, a mix of horse-drawn, motor lorries, ambulances and even the occasional omnibus that had been pressed into service. She operated the jerky wipers every thirty seconds, which squeaked and smeared the screen with mud. He wondered that she could see where she was going, but she drove with confidence. Or recklessness – he couldn’t quite tell.
As they put some distance between themselves and the fighting, the flat countryside quickly took on a relatively normal aspect, as roof tiles ceased to be a rarity, and Watson could see farmers at work and livestock that didn’t have to be in fear of their life. Birds of prey hovered over the fallow fields, ready to swoop and chaffinches flitted alongside the car in relays. There were regimented rows of poplars, all intact, striding into the distance. Normally, this would be a rather uninspiring, uniform landscape, but now it looked magical, like a fairground diorama. Even after just a few days at the sharp end of the war, to him the everyday had become extraordinary.
‘We’ll turn south at Nieuwkerke. Are you listening, Major?’ she prompted.
‘Sorry, yes, Mrs Gregson. South at Nieuwkerke.’
‘Are you feeling quite yourself? You seem rather distracted.’
He told her, briefly, about the boorish Caspar Myles and his concerns about the man’s intentions. He was taken aback when she laughed.
‘If we are to protect the honour of every young nurse on the Western Front, Major Watson, then we do have our work cut out. She is an attractive young lady.’ And possibly a slippery one, too, she thought. ‘As they say where I come from: “Young gals, yer should kip yer ’and on yer haupney.’’’
Watson shifted uncomfortably as he interpreted that. ‘But—’
‘But your concern speaks well of you. If it is a paternal concern?’ There was mischievousness in her voice.
‘Of course. What else?’ he objected.
‘Strange,’ said Mrs Gregson with a self-pitying sigh, ‘in my experience nobody seems too concerned about the honour of an ageing widow.’
‘Mrs Gregson, you aren’t . . .’ The words seemed to run out of momentum, as if they had wheels and had ploughed into sand. A trap, he realized too late.
She giggled. ‘I’m teasing you, Major.’ She glanced at the map once more and back at a distant church spire. ‘Why, Miss Pippery and I had an offer too. To attend a dance.’
‘Sister Spence will—’
‘Please.’ She pursed her lips as if she had just tasted something sour. ‘It’s such a lovely day. Don’t spoil it.’
‘She might not be able to stop you, but she certainly wouldn’t allow any of her girls to go.’
‘Well, there’ll be plenty of officers to go round for Alice and me then.’
‘And who delivered this invitation?’
‘A Lieutenant Metcalf.’
‘Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.’
‘One of the Leigh Pals’ officers. Quite pleasant in a sort of hopeless way. And, well, Alice, Miss Pippery, and I would like to discuss it with you.’
‘Me? I’m not a great dancer.’
‘Not to dance, silly. About the best way to approach Sister Spence.’
‘Oh.’ For a second he felt slighted. He had been known to turn heads at regimental balls once upon a time. ‘I’m not sure there is a way to approach her.’
‘Not for us. But you. You have a way with words, Major Watson.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Then what did you say to Brindle in the tent? If it isn’t too personal.’
‘I said I knew what it was like to lose a close friend. A male friend.’ And to have them miraculously restored and, through impetuous and impecunious language, lose them again. Although he hadn’t added this latter. ‘And how life does, as it will, go on. But you must treasure the memories that you have, not destroy them with bitterness at the way things turned out. Platitudes, really.’
‘I doubt he thinks that.’ They passed a picturesque red and white windmill with one of its sails missing, but still turning, yet another amputee doing the best it could. ‘Are you married, Major?’
‘I was. Mary, my first wife died, along with our child. Goodness, more than twenty years ago now. Emily, my second . . .’ The pain was fresher, he realized. The sadness over Mary had grown faint with time, the ache a dull one, the regret at the stillborn boy muted, the rage of helplessness passed now, like a storm moving on to torment others. The shame, too, had diminished, the impotence of a doctor who couldn’t save his own wife or child. The thought of Emily, though, brought a fresh stabbing in his chest, a feeling of breathlessness and the pin-sharp image of her face to mind. The scrim of time had not yet done its work.
Mrs Gregson threw him a concerned look. The note of his breathing had changed. ‘I’m sorry, Major. If it’s difficult . . . it’s really none of my concern.’
Watson hesitated. He knew that it didn’t do to fraternize with one’s staff, to share too many personal insights; on the other hand, he was ashamed of himself for not knowing more about Brindle. Other men, a special kind of man, might be able to surmise a fellow’s profession, marital status, place of work and habits and hobbies from a cursory glance, but he was not that person, as had been demonstrated to him time and time again.
‘Emily was fascinated by modernity. By the way the twentieth century was to be a time of electricity, the motor car and the aeroplane, of grand scientific breakthrough, and how it would bring an end to disease and to . . .’ he gave a snort, ‘. . . to human conflict. Myself, I am a creature of Victoria. Emily was younger than me, a child of Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, Blériot, Marconi. She wanted to try the new flying machines and, much against my better instincts, she persuaded me to allow her to go up with Gustav Hamel, looping the loop over Brighton racecourse.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘Oh, and she became besotted, with flying and flyers. Not in the romantic sense . . . well, perhaps that too, a little. Emily saw the pilots as the new knights, off on quests to conquer the dragon of the air. She was killed on her fourth flight, at Meyrick Park, as was the pilot. I think you want to turn left here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, hesitating at the crossroads, before swinging them south. ‘About your wife.’
‘It was my own fault. I should have forbidden it.’
She glanced at him. ‘I suspect you are not a man who would suffocate his wife’s ambitions just to keep the status quo. Your own ambitions, perhaps.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Major Watson, I have read your works, like almost every other literate person in England. I can also read between the lines, the way you bit your lip, how you had to pretend that you were as in the dark as the reader, how you allowed that man to hog the stage like some cheap music-hall act.’
‘Mrs Gregson!’
She slowed the car as they came up towards a pair of straight-backed mounted military policemen, who fixed them from under their red caps with piercing glares that never wavered. Watson could feel the suspicious gaze drilling into the back of his neck after they had passed the pair.
‘My goodness, those cherry-knobs would make Our Lord feel like a sinner,’ Mrs Gregson said and
muttered something under her breath, which Watson realized was a remarkably crude profanity. ‘Sorry, but they give me the willies.’
Before he could press her further on her obvious discomfort, she accelerated, swerving to overtake an ammunition truck, causing consternation to the driver of a lorry coming the other way. The bleat of a horn sounded as she tucked back in, throwing Watson about in his seat.
‘All I was trying to say, Major Watson, and I appreciate it’s not a popular opinion, is that your Mr Sherlock Holmes always struck me as a vainglorious, smug, drug-addled, insufferable prig of a woman-hating clever-clogs.’
They drove the rest of the way to Somerset House in silence.
SEVENTEEN
Caspar Myles pushed home the last of the eight syringes of the citrated blood through the rubber tube and the glass cannula and into Sergeant Shipobottom’s median basilic vein. Behind him, Miss Pippery hovered, ready to take the transfusion kit, strip it down, and sterilize it.
‘Almost there,’ he said to the one-eyed man. ‘Feel all right so far?’
‘Aye,’ said Shipobottom, although there was a small film of sweat on his top lip. Myles was well aware that introduction of blood might well cause a temporary reaction. Watson had acted as if he were the only man to have ever heard of the blood transfusion technique.
‘Now, we’ve had news that your unit has been told they’ll stay at the rest area for a few days of petit repos. I suspect some of your chums will be in to see you.’
‘Lieutenant Metcalf already came. Bit early for my liking, but he’s a good lad.’
