by Robert Ryan
Before Watson could answer, Myles crashed in. His words were heavy with aggression and rancour. ‘What did you put in that damned blood of yours, Watson?’
Watson turned towards Myles, not certain he had heard correctly. ‘I beg your pardon, Doctor?’
‘The blood was bad, Watson. Damned bad.’
Torrance tutted at the impertinence then barked: ‘Gentlemen, if you would give Major Watson time to draw breath—’
‘Which is more than poor Shipobottom will ever do,’ Myles muttered.
‘Shipobottom?’ Watson asked. ‘Shipobottom’s dead?’
‘I am afraid so,’ said de Griffon glumly. ‘I rode over to tell the men the news, that we were being taken back up the line and . . . well, yes he died.’
‘And in the most awful way imaginable,’ added Myles.
Part of him wanted to rush inside at once, but Watson tried to remain calm and professional. ‘May I see the body?’
‘I think you should,’ said Torrance, for once lowering his voice.
The group shuffled aside and allowed Watson to enter. Brindle had been moved. There was but one bed occupied but the figure in there was unrecognizable. It was all Watson could do to stop from crying out at the sight of poor Shipobottom. There were deep scratches on his cheeks, where the poor chap’s nails had raked the skin and torn at the bandages that had covered his eye. The upper chest also showed breaks in the skin. The hands were folded and locked like claws on his chest, and had been tied together with crepe bandages, presumably to try and stop him attacking his face and throat further.
All that was bad enough, but it was his facial expression that was most remarkable and disturbing. The eyes bulged, the skin around the face was tinged with blue and the tongue lolled from a mouth that had been drawn back into a demented grin. Poor Shipobottom looked like some grotesque poster advertising a circus freak show. It made Watson’s stomach turn just to look at him.
‘How long has he been dead?’ Watson asked, his mouth suddenly dry.
‘Several hours,’ honked Torrance.
‘And the facial muscles haven’t relaxed at all?’
‘Does it look like it?’ demanded Myles. ‘He’s a damned gargoyle in flesh. Look at him, man.’
‘I am looking,’ snapped Watson, his weariness making him irritable. ‘In fact, I’d like some time to examine the body in private.’
‘So you can come to some other conclusion other than you fed this man poisoned blood,’ Myles suggested.
‘We don’t know that,’ objected Torrance, albeit without much conviction.
‘Will somebody please tell me the sequence of events? Miss Pippery, can you help?’ asked Watson.
The VAD gave an enormous sniff and nodded. Mrs Gregson squeezed her hand to steady her nerves. ‘I was monitoring the patient, the way we agreed, when Captain de Griffon—’
‘Hold on. Is that de Griffon as in the Norfolk de Griffons?’ Mrs Gregson asked.
Watson felt another flash of irritation at the unnecessary interruption. Mrs Gregson had no sense of decorum or timing.
The young captain gave an ingratiating smile. ‘It is. Do you know—’
‘I know all about the de Griffons,’ Mrs Gregson muttered, ‘enough to not want to share a room with one.’ With a final pat on Miss Pippery’s shoulder, she left the tent. De Griffon looked perplexed.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ Sister Spence, mouth pinched in fury, went after the VAD.
Watson, although puzzled by Mrs Gregson’s behaviour, did not want to be distracted. ‘Please continue, Miss Pippery.’
‘Well, Captain de Griffon arrived to look in on the sergeant.’
‘And what time was this?’
‘Two o’clock,’ said Miss Pippery. ‘Perhaps a little later.’
‘And when did the patient first display symptoms?’ Watson asked.
‘He already had a fever by that point. I was quite concerned about it,’ she said.
‘And then . . . ?’ Watson prompted.
‘He began fitting,’ said de Griffon. ‘Quite badly.’
Miss Pippery nodded. ‘Tonic-clonic seizures, about ten minutes apart. I sent for Dr Myles at once, of course.’
The American jumped in. ‘When I arrived his pulse rate was 145 and wild. He was beginning to show signs of the cyanosis. I gave him oxygen. But nothing worked. It took him four hours to die.’
Watson examined their faces. De Griffon looked numb and Miss
Pippery terrified that everything was somehow her fault.
They could hear raised voices from outside. Sister Spence and Mrs Gregson were going at it hammer and tongs. It was difficult to establish which of them had the upper hand. It sounded positively gladiatorial.
‘Do you think,’ asked Torrance evenly, ‘that it could be contamination of your stored blood? Or perhaps the method of anticoagulation? Sodium citrate is toxic.’
‘Not like this,’ said Watson, pointing at Shipobottom’s twisted visage. ‘And not at the dilutions we use. Nought point two of one per cent in this case.’
‘Could the dilutions have been wrong?’ It was Sister Spence, returned to the tent, her face flushed. ‘It has been known in inexperienced hands for a point two per cent to become two per cent or even twenty per cent solution.’
Sister was clearly suggesting that the VADs had somehow compromised the transfusion process. Watson was having none of that. ‘I prepared the anticoagulant. I have absolute confidence the dosage was correct. Besides, all an excess dose does is inhibit clotting. If he had haemorrhaged to death . . .’
‘Well, something caused this . . . this horror,’ said Myles.
De Griffon kept a steadier tone. ‘I’m no medical man, but could it be something contagious? I am concerned for my other men. They’ll be in very close proximity once we move back to the front.’
It was a good point and the three doctors looked at each other for an opinion. There was a contagious division, a series of three isolation tents in the old orchard, accessed by an avenue of trees that ran through the monastery gardens, where TB and typhoid cases were sent.
‘I think that’s unlikely,’ said Watson.
‘But you can’t be sure?’ de Griffon asked.
‘Not until I have examined him, no.’
‘I think we had better isolate this tent, just in case,’ said Torrance gloomily. ‘And keep an eye on anyone who has come into contact with the deceased. We should seal the body in a canvas bag.’
‘I’d still like to examine him thoroughly before any of that,’ said Watson. ‘Alone, if you don’t mind. I shall, of course, report my findings back to you.’
‘If you have any findings,’ muttered Myles.
‘Very well,’ said Torrance. ‘But for the moment, Major Watson, I shall have to suspend any further blood transfusions using your method. We shall return to patient-to-patient direct infusion where necessary.’
‘Of course.’ Watson began to unbutton his jacket. ‘Did anyone think to take a blood sample for analysis?’ He waited for an answer from Myles or Torrance. None came. ‘No? Very well.’
The others left for other duties, leaving only de Griffon and Watson alongside the deceased.
‘I’m sure it’s not your fault, Major,’ the captain said.
Watson shrugged. ‘At this stage, it is best not to rule out any possibility.’
‘And the American doctor—’
‘Dr Myles.’
‘Yes. I simply think he feels wretched because he couldn’t save him. It was a pretty ghastly sight to be honest. You come expecting to see some terrible things at the front, but not at a hospital, surely?’
They peered at the cyanotic face and the hideous grin. Myles had been right about one thing: it was an expression one only normally saw high up on church walls. Watson gave an involuntary shudder. ‘No. Not at a hospital,’ he said. ‘If you will excuse me, I have to get along. Unless you want to stay and . . . ?’
De Griffon gave a little smile. ‘I think I shal
l leave this to a professional. The 25th are scattered across the reserve lines at the moment. If I’m not at regimental HQ, I’ll be with the 9th Platoon of A Company, billeted at Suffolk Farm. That’s Shipobottom’s company. We’re there for the next few days. Perhaps you could send word of any results to myself or my lieutenant? Metcalf. The men, they’ll want to know. Shipobottom was well liked by them.’
‘And by me,’ Watson said glumly.
‘Yes. And, of course, I shall have to write to his next of kin. It will be useful to know the cause of his death. Well, good night, Major. And good luck getting to the bottom of this dreadful business.’
‘Good night, Captain.’
Watson stood for a few minutes, looking at the corpse, waiting for the phantom voice in his head to proffer an opinion, a strategy, even a little comfort, but none came. You are on your own, he told himself, as it should be. This is your field of expertise now. No more ghosts.
It felt like freedom.
‘Major Watson.’
He turned to see Mrs Gregson, looking contrite. ‘I’m sorry for my behaviour. I have apologized to Captain de Griffon. Sister Spence was right. I brought my personal feelings into a medical area. No nurse should ever do that. No self-respecting VAD either, as she reminded me. I have agreed with Sister Spence that I shall go back to Bailleul tomorrow.’
‘What on earth was the matter? Do you know the captain?’
‘The captain? No. His family. And only by reputation. The de Griffons were . . . are mill owners in and around Leigh, although they are not from those parts. They live down south in some big pile. Absentee landlords, you might say. My father, when he was a young solicitor, acted for the first unions in the mills. I can’t say the de Griffons were model employers or enlightened in their attitude to organized labour. They broke several strikes at the mill most brutally. Bullied the organizers and worse. Of course, that was before the captain’s time. But in my household the de Griffons were a byword for unnecessary cruelty.’
‘I don’t see much evidence of that in Robinson de Griffon. He seems genuinely concerned for his men.’
‘No, I agree, he seems decent enough. I might have been hasty in my judgement. And not for the first time.’ She pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘Can I assist you here, Major?’ she asked, unhooking a lamp from the doorway and bringing it across to increase the illumination over the corpse.
‘Aren’t you tired after today’s exertions, Mrs Gregson?’ The strain of the last twelve hours had drawn her features; the harsh lamplight made her look older than her years. Although, he admitted, she had a very attractive middle age in prospect.
‘Aren’t you?’
He nodded. By the same token, he must look like Methuselah. ‘I am weary, yes. And I have an unexpected craving for a glass of Beaune. But there is work to be done here.’
‘Then we shall do it together.’
‘Thank you.’ He retrieved the magnifying glass from his jacket. ‘Perhaps you will hold the lantern close to the body while I go over every inch of this poor chap and see what he can reveal to us.’
‘Of course.’
He stood back and contemplated the twisted body once more. The agonies of his demise were etched in his features. That in itself was passing strange: muscles usually relaxed after death. No, always relaxed. Even the most tortured final hours normally give way to an impression of being at rest or peace that brought some comfort to the bereaved. Not here. The savage contractions had denied poor Shipobottom that kind of dignity. Nobody looking upon him could have any doubt about the grim manner of his passage from this life.
‘You know, Mrs Gregson, I didn’t want to say in front of the others, for it might have sounded too defensive, but I do believe I have seen these symptoms before.’
Her answer, low and fearful, made him shiver once more. ‘Dear Lord. I’m relieved to hear it. Because so have I, Major Watson. So have I.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The blade slid smoothly into the skin, parting the fat, cartilage and the walls of blood vessels. He twisted it, moving it in a circular motion back and forth to make sure that maximum damage was done to the tissues. The man’s eyes looked up at him, imploring, and Bloch found himself shaking his head, in sorrow and regret. If only you hadn’t woken up, it was meant to convey. If only you hadn’t seen me going through your pockets, prior to me slipping into your uniform. If only you had not made to cry out in alarm. I wouldn’t be here now, digging into your neck with your own clasp knife, my hand clamped firmly over your mouth. You probably thought I was some kind of common thief. I am a very uncommon thief.
The sergeant stopped struggling after a while, although blood continued to squirt out over Bloch’s hand and onto the blankets and sheets. Eventually he felt the geyser slow and he risked letting go of the man’s mouth. Fate had put this man in the same room as he, the same capricious fate that had decided there were no more transports available that night and the opinion, voiced by a medic, that a decent sleep might see a change of fortune for the pair. Well, this night had certainly seen that for the sergeant.
Bloch rinsed the knife and his hands in the enamel bowl that stood on the makeshift nightstand. He dried them on the sheets of his cot and then set about completing his dressing in the sergeant’s uniform, which fitted him reasonably well. A little short in the sleeves perhaps, but an ill-fitting uniform was no novelty in any army, and would not arouse suspicion.
It was raining outside again, and he knew this would suit his purpose admirably. He would stride out of the headquarters and make his way to where he had stolen the identity of the Tommy. He would grab one of the rolls of barbed wire and, exuding as much confidence as possible, head towards the trenches. Everyone would be alert for a German coming towards them. Few would expect one from behind. Especially one who looked intent on repairing the coils of wire that had been blasted apart by the German guns. If he could make the Warnave Brook, to the south of where he was now, a watercourse that pierced no man’s land, he could follow that to safety.
Of course, he would need a hefty dose of luck to get into no man’s land in the first place, and an even bigger issue of it if he were to avoid being shot by his own side as he approached the German lines. The drumming rain he could hear would help; the men on both sides would be dreaming of the warm and the dry, and taking advantage of any opportunity to avail themselves of it.
He finished buttoning up the tunic, put on the sergeant’s steel helmet and shouldered the man’s Lee Enfield. He practised a salute. Something told him, looking down at the man’s throat, the wound raw in the guttering candlelight, that luck was on Ernst Bloch’s side that night.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The weather had resorted to bullying once more. Low, ominous clouds rolled across the entire region, blotting out the moon and the stars, and a cutting east wind sprang up. It drove before it a slanting, icy rain that suddenly gave way to hailstones the size of boiled sweets, which battered Watson as he staggered up the hill to his billet in the Big House. He was drained of all energy. His breathing was shallow and his old wounds throbbed mercilessly. The lumps of ice were like blows of recrimination, and he cried out as they drummed on his exposed knuckles as he raised his hands to protect his face.
By the time he reached the monastery, the marbles of ice had reverted to sleet. Breathless, sodden and miserable, he trudged up to his room, lit the lantern and then the circular radiator lamp on the floor, and collapsed onto the bed fully dressed, tempted to sleep where he lay. Some nagging feeling, though, made him uneasy. Despite his hasty entrance, he was aware that the room was not entirely as he had left it. Colder, yes, but there was something else. The picture had changed. He levered himself up onto his elbows. The first of the alterations was easily located, as his head had flopped down on it. The post corporal had been, leaving a foolscap package on his pillow. It took him a moment to spot the second: there was a mahogany box on the chair that sat beneath the tiny window.
He pushed off the bed and we
nt over to this. He undid the two brass catches and lifted the lid. Inside was a gleaming, seemingly unused pistol. A Colt .45 1911, an automatic pistol, of the sort much coveted by young officers, being deemed more modern than a mere revolver. Watson had heard that complexity was its Achilles heel; that, in the gritty mud currently filling the trenches outside, such a lovely weapon might malfunction. But, as an old soldier who appreciated such things, he had to agree it was a sleek, handsome weapon.
There was a folded note with it, which he read.
You won’t need wheels for this. And I cannot foresee me having much use for it. But just in case you ever run into any more gigantic hounds.
Apologies for my crassness earlier.
Caspar Myles
He couldn’t accept it, of course. Not now, not after the way the American had spoken to him and his own petulant responses. Not that he bore Myles a grudge. Who could blame him for being suspicious of the blood? He wasn’t certain that, had positions been reversed, he might have made similar accusations. Although he would have behaved with more temperance. Still, the pistol was a nice gesture.
Then it struck him. This over-generous gift predated the confrontation about Shipobottom. The American had left this after the exchange over Staff Nurse Jennings. Well, he was certain Myles would accept it back now; he clearly thought Watson a bungler at best, a murderer at worst. But then Myles didn’t know the two crucial pieces of information the night had given him. One was the markings revealed by his magnifying glass, scores that had been inflicted post mortem. And Myles did not know that Shipobottom was not the first to die like this. Mrs Gregson was adamant she had seen that grin and the blue skin before.
So the question to be answered was, superficially, simple: were there any similarities in the two deaths, Shipobottom’s and the one seen by Mrs Gregson? Had the first victim had a blood transfusion? Was it possible that something in the environment of the trenches somehow reacted with elements in the blood to create a toxic condition that could not be duplicated in a laboratory or in the heat and dust of Egypt? After all, gas gangrene was a disease seemingly unique to Flanders and France, a product of fighting on and, perhaps more to the point, in heavily cultivated soils, rich in manure.
