by Tessa Arlen
“Yus, sir.” A little boy elbowed his way to the front of the silent crowd. “See that blue door?” His thin arm extended well beyond the edge of his frayed and buttonless cuff as he pointed a grubby forefinger. “That’s number ten. Course yer gonna avta leave yer big posh motor ’ere, won’t be able to fit down our street.”
“Oh dear,” Lady Montfort said, looking at the group of threadbare boys who were either crowded around the motor or, if they were older and taller, leaning back against the grimy brick walls of the street’s terrace of houses, their arms folded. “Better stay here with the motor, Harry.”
“I am not letting you out of this car on your own,” her son said firmly. “I am quite sure they are perfectly decent boys … really.”
“Are you the queen, then?” A skinny little boy with a runny nose and his hair sticking out from under his cap asked Clementine hopefully.
Clementine smiled. “No, I am afraid not,” she said. She was used to the candor of the village children but no country child was ever this thin and worn-looking. “I am Clementine Talbot, and what is your name?”
“Cloive,” the boy said in the round vowels of Gloucestershire.
“Well, Clive, do you know the name of the gentleman who lives at number ten?”
“Yus, ’is name’s Mr. Glenn. ’E lives with ’is mum, Mrs. Glenn.”
“You in the war then?” An older boy still propping up the wall levered himself forward with one elbow to address Harry. “How did you ’urt your arm?”
“Flying. I am a pilot in the Royal Naval Air Service.” Lord Haversham got out of the motor and the group straightened up with new respect, and one of the smaller boys saluted and Harry returned it. “Now then, chaps, we are here to see a war hero on this street. We have come on special army business.”
“Mr. Glenn was messed up good and proper in the war, are yer giving him a medal?”
And the one with the runny nose piped up, “Come on, sir, follow us, we’ll take you to ’im.”
“Good show,” said Harry, and reaching out his hand he straightened the boy’s cap. “Let’s look smart about it then, and you…” He turned to the tallest boy, who had joined the small-fry on the curb, eyes alert for opportunities. “What’s your name?”
“’Arry,” the boy said.
“Same as me,” said Harry. “I am Captain Harry Talbot. You?”
“’Arry Smith.”
“Right then, Harry Smith, I want you to keep an eye on things here. Look after the motor and see no one touches it.” Harry jingled loose change in his trouser pocket in an encouraging sort of way, and then opening the door for his mother and Mrs. Jackson he handed them out onto the street.
The gang of children marched up the street and stood in a group around them as Harry knocked on the door of number ten. Clementine was struck by the bleak poverty of the street she found herself in: not a tree gave shade in the relentless heat of the afternoon, paint had long peeled from casements and doors, and wherever there was space that offered bare earth there grew clumps of straggling weeds. As she stood in front of the shabby front door she realized that working-class people, especially those in the towns, were having a far worse time of it than anyone she knew in the country. She glanced at Jackson. “Well here we are, Jackson, let’s hope that the Glenns are at home to see us.” Mrs. Jackson evidently felt the same way as she did about the street and its inhabitants. She had opened up her handbag and was rapidly dispensing mint imperials to the youngest boys closest to her.
The woman who answered their knock was a tiny little thing. Seeing the smartly dressed trio on her doorstep, she lifted a soapstained hand to push wispy graying hair back away from her forehead. Her expression remained unchanged as her tired eyes took in their uniforms, coming to rest last of all on Clementine, who was standing behind the tall figure of her son. Her eyebrows lifted a little and Clementine stepped around Harry. “Good afternoon, I am Clementine Talbot and this is my son, Captain Harry Talbot, and Mrs. Jackson of Haversham Hall Hospital. I am hoping you are Mrs. Glenn?” She surely was Mrs. Glenn, as she looked old enough to be the mother of the twenty-two-year-old Private Glenn, and not his sister.
The woman wiped her hands on her apron. “Yes’m,” she said, “I’m Mrs. Glenn. Have you come about Sam?” Clementine felt relief wash through her like a cool glass of water—so he was still living here and not tucked away in some out-of-the-way hospital. “Yes, we have come to see your son. Might we come in for a moment or two?” The door was opened wider to admit them, and they filed in. “I am afraid we are a bit cramped in here at the moment, Mrs. Talbot. I am staying with my daughter and her two young boys, all our men being at the war, except Sam.” She stood to one side in invitation to walk down the narrow corridor that ran from the front door to the kitchen at the back of the narrow house, where several people were gathered eating what was evidently their cooked tea, as a strong smell of haddock wafted up to them.
“Mrs. Glenn, perhaps you should know that this is…” Mrs. Jackson started to say that Clementine was not Mrs. Talbot but the Countess of Montfort, but she shook her head. They were three invaders into the privacy of this woman’s house, best not to overpower the situation with titles and rank.
Mrs. Glenn opened a door to the right and showed them into the stale, airless heat of her front parlor: a cramped room with a strip of drugget on bare boards, dark wallpaper, and three worn chairs arranged around a low deal table on which were the framed photographs of the men in Mrs. Glenn’s family. All three of them were in uniform.
It was a moment before a young man came into the room accompanied by a thin woman in her late twenties whom Clementine judged to be Private Glenn’s sister, for they bore a strong family resemblance to each other. Until the young man turned his head Clementine did not at first see the disfigured side of his face, puckered and seamed with recent scars, which pulled the eyelid and most of his cheek down on the right side of his face, almost to the edge of his nose. They were followed by two very young boys who stood looking at the three strangers towering over them. Mrs. Jackson groped in her handbag for the depleted bag of mint imperials.
“What do you say, Herbert?” the young woman said, pouncing on her eldest child as he thrust the offered sweet into his mouth, his eyes wide with delight. “What do you say to the nice lady?”
Herbert managed to say, “Thank you, miss.” He looked up at his mother uncertainly; he was about five years old. “And God bless yer,” he added as he took in Clementine’s hat, perhaps wondering if she had anything interesting to offer.
Mrs. Glenn dusted off a horsehair chair with the tea towel she had been holding when she opened the front door. “Please to take a seat, ma’am,” she said to Clementine and pulled a cretonne-covered side chair forward for Mrs. Jackson.
Clementine waited for everyone to settle themselves. Corporal Glenn, she noticed, had recovered some of his sight because when he turned the smooth, undamaged side of his face toward her, his left eye, which gazed thoughtfully at her, was quite clear. It was easy to see how this young man had looked before the war: a well-proportioned pleasant face, a firm jawline, and intelligent and alert brown eyes.
“I am awfully sorry to barge in on you like this without writing first, but we are here on a very important matter and must be as speedy as possible.”
Clementine was hastily assured by the entire Glenn family that she was most welcome.
“Corporal Glenn, may I ask if you served under Captain Bray of the Gloucestershire Regiment when you were in France?” In the silence that followed her question, Clementine wondered if he had heard them, for the damaged half of his face remained completely devoid of expression. He turned his head to look at his sister as if asking her a silent question. When she nodded, he said, “Yes, I was. Old Hee-haw we used to call him.” He almost smiled as he referred to his commanding officer, and Clementine remembered that Captain Bray’s laugh, on the rare occasions she had heard it, had been rather like his name.
“A
nd were you with Captain Bray and several other men on the sixteenth of March this year, when they were cut off from their company at Beauville Wood?” Another pause, and then Corporal Glenn said, “Yes, it was on the sixteenth at Beauville Wood, or what was left of it. I’ll never forget it.”
“I am sorry to bring back unpleasant memories, but do you remember the names of the other men with you?”
No pause this time. “Private Hector, Lieutenant Carmichael and me, and of course the captain.” Lady Montfort glanced at Mrs. Jackson; her eyes were positively gleaming with triumph.
“Thank you. Would you please describe Lieutenant Carmichael for me? I mean height, build, coloring, that sort of thing.”
If he found her question strange he did not look put out by it but said immediately, “He was a tall man, lanky like—brownish hair, dark eyes, ordinary-looking sort of bloke.”
Clementine smiled her thank-you. “And what about private Hector? Can you describe him?”
Private Glenn almost smiled. “Hector was a good-looking chap and made the most of it at the town estaminet with the local girls. Goldish hair I suppose you would call it, and blue eyes. He was tall, well built.”
Clementine caught Mrs. Jackson’s eye; they were certainly on the right track so far.
“Thank you, Private Glenn. Now would you be prepared to tell me about that day, that is after you were cut off from the rest of your company?”
If he was puzzled why an upper-class, middle-aged woman was sitting here in his sister’s parlor asking questions about battles in France, he had the manners not to look surprised. But he hesitated as if reluctant to put into the words the horrors of that day. Clementine leaned forward and said in her calm and unemphatic way, “We believe that something occurred on that day that later resolved itself in the murder of Captain Bray several days ago. Whatever you can tell us about what happened during or before the battle might be of great importance.”
“The captain was killed here, at home, after all he went through?”
“Yes, I am afraid he was, and we need your help to see if we can discover who killed him.” He turned the scarred side of his face away from them for a moment. “I am sorry to hear that he is dead, I can’t imagine why anyone would want to do a thing like that. But war can have a strange effect on some people. I would be happy to tell you all I know if it would help; you see Captain Bray was one of the bravest men I knew,” he said with quiet sincerity. “He was the best officer in our battalion. I am proud to have served under him, and lucky he was with us that day, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. It was all about the men for the captain, you see. It will take a little time for me to tell you what happened, if you will bear with me.” He cleared his throat.
“After the second day of the battle we went back for the men who were stranded after the attack earlier that day—the men in Captain Bray’s company who got separated from us out there. The captain and me had to wait until it was dark and then we made our way forward very slowly—crawling we were because the ground was uneven after being blown to bits all day. It was as black as pitch and it seemed to take hours just to move about twenty feet. We knew that several of our company was lying low in a shell crater. When we got to them we found that four had died of their wounds and Private Hector and Lieutenant Carmichael were the only two alive, but the lieutenant had been wounded: he had been shot in the leg. Captain Bray asked the lieutenant about the rest of the men and he said they were either dead or maybe taken prisoner. As we came out of the crater a land mine went up on our right. We saw it going sky-high, a huge mass of soil. It alerted the Germans and they opened fire … there were bullets everywhere, like a swarm of bees round you, you could almost feel them plucking at your clothes.” He paused. “I got caught by a bullet.” He lifted his hand to his face. “It knocked me for six: went straight up the side of my face and through the side of my helmet and I couldn’t see a thing for the blood. I don’t know how the captain got us into the shelter of the wood, I really don’t. I just held on to the edge of his coat, and stumbled on as best I could, because he was carrying Lieutenant Carmichael…” He glanced at both women. “In the dark and the confusion we didn’t know which direction we were going in.” He paused and dropped his gaze, as if recounting the horrors of that night had brought back memories he would have preferred to forget.
* * *
“Did you get the information you needed?” Lord Haversham had been called away halfway through their visit with the Glenns; Clive had come to the door and said that most of the street were sitting in their motorcar.
Lady Montfort leaped into the Daimler with such nimble speed that Mrs. Jackson had trouble keeping up with her, but she understood the urgency. Their conversation with Private Glenn had rightfully put the fear of God into her mistress. “Drive, Harry. No, we don’t have time to stop for a quick bite at a public house, we have to get home tonight, I don’t care how hungry we all are.” Her ladyship was a little out of breath with the speed at which she had raced up Balaclava Street, that and the anxiety caused by Private Glenn’s account of the Battle of Beauville Wood. “I simply can’t believe that our hospital has been so unfortunately used by such an unscrupulous and cowardly individual,” she said as her son obediently started the motor and drove back toward town.
* * *
“What a tale! What a frightful story of betrayal and cowardice.” Mrs. Jackson could almost see Lord Haversham’s smile at his mother’s rather colorful beginning.
“You have evidently been given more than you had hoped for,” he said, turning his head now that they were on the open road outside of the town.
“Yes, we have, and the sooner we get back to Iyntwood the better. How long do you think it will take us?” She looked out of the window at the peaceful pastures of grazing sheep they were passing in the last of the early evening light.
“It’s nearly six o’clock and the light will last another hour or so. We might be lucky and be back in Haversham by eight o’clock at the very latest.” He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and the powerful motorcar surged forward. “So are you going to tell me what you both learned in there?”
“I don’t know quite where to start.” Lady Montfort’s earlier energy was beginning to dwindle and she sounded tired and anxious as she began to relate Private Glenn’s story and their rescue of Lieutenant Carmichael and Private Hector. “Captain Bray wanted to get Carmichael, Hector, and Glenn into the shelter of the wood before going back for help. Private Glenn said that Hector was in a terrible state, babbling on about the wood being full of German soldiers waiting there with flame-throwers and refusing to leave the shelter of the crater, until the captain told him to pull himself together or he would be up on a charge for disobedience. But somehow Captain Bray managed to get them into the safety of the wood.”
There was silence in the motorcar for a moment. The sun was sinking lower on the horizon, turning the woods and fields around them into a deep rose gold. “Well, there they were in the shelter of the wood. Captain Bray did what he could for Lieutenant Carmichael, who was weak from loss of blood and incapable of moving. Glenn, who could no longer see a thing, said that he sensed they were in a dip in the center of the trees and Captain Bray covered both him and Carmichael with dead leaves to keep them warm as it started to rain. After a while Private Hector pulled himself together and asked the captain how they were going to get back to their lines. Hector said that they should make their way southwest, away from enemy lines, and Bray said no, they should go southeast. Hector insisted he had kept his bearings straight in his head as he had lain in the shell crater, and in the end Bray left to reconnoiter the area to the southwest of the wood. Glenn lay there blinded, in pain and unsure how it would all end. At one point he said he started to pray, he was so sure they would not make it back. As he lay there in the dark he said he could here Carmichael’s groans on his left. Even though he was confused and in pain, he says he felt quite sure that Carmichael’s last cry had been stifled, as if som
eone had put a hand over his mouth. He guessed it was Hector, worried that if Carmichael made too much noise they might be found by German soldiers. He asked, ‘Hector, is Lieutenant Carmichael still alive?’ But there was no answer. Every so often he would ask, ‘Hector, are you there?’ But there was no answer at all from Hector and complete silence from Carmichael. And then he heard what he took to be, hoped to be, Hector uncovering the leaves around Carmichael to see if he could perhaps make him more comfortable. He asked Hector several times: ‘Is the lieutenant alive? Any sign of the captain?’ but there was no answer either from Carmichael or Hector, just what he took, at the time, to be Hector perhaps seeing to the field dressing that Captain Bray had put around Carmichael’s shattered left leg. He thought at one time that the wound in his head had made him hear things, and he was parched with thirst. ‘Do you have any water, Hector?’ he asked, and there was no reply from Hector. He thinks he must have lost consciousness for a while because he came to and felt completely bewildered by the silence. He wondered if Captain Bray had returned and taken the other two back, and that he was now lying in the wood alone. He got to his hands and knees and started to crawl first this way and then that. Then he found a body, he assumed it was Lieutenant Carmichael, and if it was he was quite dead; he groped around, searching for a canteen of water. But there was none. He realized at this moment that Hector had gone. That he was indeed alone, and he lay back down and prepared for the worst.”
“You mean this Hector character had just abandoned him?” Lord Haversham asked.
“Yes, he had deserted them. But the worst didn’t happen to Private Glenn, as Captain Bray came back. Hector had sent him off in the wrong direction, but he had managed to get his bearings and had cut around behind the wood to get back to them. He told Glenn that even in the dark he would be able to get him back safely to their lines. It was then that Glenn told him that Carmichael had died and that he thought that perhaps Hector had run off. He remembered quite clearly the captain saying, ‘Yes, you are right, the vengeful little swine sent me off into enemy fire, and now he’s probably run off in the direction of Guillement. He’s deserted us.’
