As he made his way from the station towards Thames Street, the inspector’s progress was impeded by an old man in an invalid chair. A three wheeled affair, it had a chassis of battered and split wickerwork, its single front wheel attached to a long metal handle that served as a tiller. The figure in its seat looked scarcely any more robust. A frail, old man with a lined face, he gazed up at Bowman through bloodshot eyes. A shapeless coat, a world too wide, was thrown across his shoulders. Even in the heat, a faded blanket lay across his lap, but this could not disguise the loss of a lower limb.
“Charity, sir?” the old man pleaded with an outstretched hand.
Bowman slowed his pace and reached into a pocket. “I am here for Combermere Barracks.” He sorted through some change in the palm of his hand as he spoke, trying hard to hide his distaste at the smell that rose from the pitiful figure before him.
“I know it well enough,” the old man rasped. “I gave Her Majesty the best years of my life, now I sit beneath her window to remind her.” He gestured with a trembling hand over his shoulder to the castle. The walls rose high from the road like a cliff edge, sheer and impregnable.
“Were you stationed here?”
“Twelve years with the Blues on a shilling a day,” the old man replied, a note of bitterness in his voice.
“The Blues?”
“The Royal Horse Guards,” the old man explained. “A shilling a day spent on kit and provisions left me with nothing.” He tapped the stump of his leg with a cane. “Lost m’ leg at Balaclava,” he grimaced. “Discharged in Fifty Five, been here ever since.”
Bowman was taken aback. Then the man had been in this condition for almost forty years. He had done far better, he mused wryly, to survive four decades in this decrepit state than he had the Battle of Balaclava. In short, he was lucky indeed to be alive at all.
Bowman leaned as far forward as he dared to drop his change into the palm of the old man’s hand. The smell was almost overpowering. “Is there no help to be found?”
“Ask Her Majesty,” the old man replied, dryly. “I’m sure she could spare a jewel or two.”
Bowman nodded. “Where might I find the barracks?”
“Follow the road round away from the river.” The old soldier peered at the coins in his hand. Seemingly satisfied at the amount, he sat back in his chair with a sardonic grin. “Tell them Trooper Fenton wants his leg back.”
Bowman tipped his hat and rounded the corner onto Thames Street, glad of the sweeter air. The cobbled street was devoid of the usual weekday bustle, but even so there were sightseers aplenty. A family sat on the grass slope beneath the battlements, basking in the shade afforded them by the grey walls above. Well-dressed couples promenaded slowly from the Great Park, picnic baskets in hand, parasols whirling gaily over their shoulders. Children stood playfully to attention before the statue of Queen Victoria that stood at the castle entrance. Erected just five years before, the likeness was a testament to the sculptor’s artistry. The self-styled Empress of India stood, imperious in bronze, atop a plinth of polished red granite. She was dressed in the formal regalia suited to her exalted position, a sword in one hand, the orb of state in another. Looking down from her lofty height, she seemed to hold herself apart from the mortals of Windsor. Perhaps, mused Bowman, this was how her subjects preferred their queen; resolute, eternal and a world apart from the frail old woman that dwelt within the castle precincts.
Turning his feet from the statue, Bowman continued past the Guild Hall and a haphazard parade of pretty shops, all closed, on his way to Combermere Barracks. Named for Field Marshall Lord Combermere, they lay a mile to the southwest of the castle and occupied an area of some twenty acres. Home to the Royal Horse Guards for almost a hundred years, the sprawling barracks included a riding school, opened just a decade before. Soon, the red brick wall marking its circumference reared before him, and Bowman made for the impressive gatehouse.
Presenting himself before a man in full military uniform, Bowman reached to retrieve his papers from his jacket pocket. He noticed the three stripes emblazoned across the soldier’s upper arm.
“Detective Inspector George Bowman,” he announced. “Of Scotland Yard.”
The sergeant was an officious looking man with a lean face and what could only be described as mocking eyes. Lifting his head from a ledger on his desk, he looked Bowman up and down before reluctantly giving his attention to the identification papers before him.
“And just what brings you here, Detective Inspector Bowman,” he began in a clipped, nasal voice, “that cannot be laid at the hands of the military police?”
Bowman cleared his throat, already irritated at the man’s manner. “I am investigating certain matters in the village of Larton.” The man returned him a blank, bored look. “To aid my enquiries further, I wish to have access to the muster rolls of the Royal Horse Guards.”
The sergeant raised his eyebrows. “On a Sunday?”
Bowman regarded the man before him. He had about him the air of one who had found his station in life, far from the front line and its attendant dangers, and had settled there with relief.
“The law never rests,” Bowman breathed.
The sergeant stared back, daring the inspector to break his gaze while folding the papers slowly with his delicate fingers. With just the hint of a smile playing about his thin lips, he waited for Bowman to snatch the papers back before pushing his chair from the desk. As he rose, Bowman saw that he was tall and ramrod straight. He wore a pair of riding jodhpurs tucked into polished, knee-high boots and a smart, black tunic decorated with gold braid.
The sergeant led Bowman out and around a bustling parade ground, busy with mounted soldiers. Aside from their military regalia, they were each armed with a curved sabre clipped to their side and a tall helmet with a red plume. At a command from a senior officer, the men presented their arms from on top of their chargers. Several of the horses snorted their displeasure at being pressed to perform on such a warm evening, before being led in formation through the main gate on some engagement about the town.
“That’s Fourth Company,” the sergeant announced as he walked stiffly across the parade ground. “Back from Africa where the Boers are causing trouble. Mark my words,” he barked, “we’ve not heard the last of them.”
Bowman, as tall as he was, fought to keep pace with the man ahead of him.
“We’re a proud regiment, inspector,” the sergeant intoned, “with a long history. I hope your enquiries are of a specific nature. Our records go back a long way.”
“There is a soldier I wish to know more of, that is all.”
The sergeant shook his head, clearly irritated at the seeming mundanity of the matter. “These records exist for our own purposes, inspector, not for public perusal.” He led the inspector round a corner to a quieter part of the barracks. Long, low buildings stretched away in uniform rows between a square of stable blocks. Bowman saw groups of soldiers marching in unison, turning to salute their senior officers as they passed. Impeccably dressed in their tunics and jodhpurs, they were an impressive sight. Bowman could not help but compare the fresh-faced soldiers before him with the shadow of a man he had met at Windsor Station. How many of those before him, he wondered, were doomed to such an end? A life on the front line was harsh to be sure, but it seemed to him that life after service might be harder still. The sergeant was standing before a squat building resembling a small chapel. He held the door open impatiently, gesturing that Bowman should enter.
“This is the library and archive,” he said absently. “If your man was ever part of the Royal Horse Guards, you’ll find him here.”
It was like stepping into another world, far from the bustle of the parade ground. Bowman was immediately struck by the silence in the vast room. He was suddenly aware of the blood rushing in his ears. The room was open and airy, but the dark wood panelling gave it a strangely claustrophobic feel. Light streamed through the large, stained glass window set in the furthest wall, b
ut was soon smothered by the gloom. Dust motes rose and fell as the air shifted about shelves and bookcases, each of them groaning with books, papers and albums. Bowman turned to face a mezzanine, a third the length of the ground floor, home to yet more records and ledgers. There was a damp, leathery smell about the place. The sound of the door closing behind him resonated to the ceiling and Bowman turned to see the sergeant waiting expectantly as if for instructions.
“You must at least tell me the man’s name,” he sighed, testily.
“Jedediah Sharples,” Bowman replied. “Trooper Jedediah Sharples, invalided out the army some time around Eighteen Eighty Four.”
The sergeant pursed his lips in thought. “Just after the campaigns at El Teb.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “There were dreadful losses for us there.” He seemed to relish the very idea.
Turning abruptly, the soldier made for the ladder that rose to the mezzanine. The dust disturbed by his feet hung in the air behind him as he climbed. Bowman, having noticed the man had walked to a regular internal rhythm across the parade ground, saw that he even climbed the ladder in time to some unheard military drumbeat.
“The Royal Horse Guards were raised in Sixteen Fifty on the orders of Oliver Cromwell,” he was declaiming into the room as he climbed. Bowman thought that very fact explained much. “Upon the restoration of King Charles II, we became the Earl of Oxford’s regiment.” The sergeant stepped off the top of the ladder, reaching out to the balustrade that ran the length of the mezzanine floor for support. He stood for a moment, scanning the shelves before him.
“Why ‘The Blues’?” Bowman asked.
“An assumed name taken from the colour of the regiment’s coat at the time. The coat has changed,” the sergeant added. “But the name remains.” He turned to gaze down at Bowman from the balustrade. “And there’s no man that’s served with the Blues that doesn’t carry pride and gratitude in his heart.”
Bowman thought of Trooper Fenton in the station concourse. The inspector was sure he harboured many feelings in his heart towards the Blues, but he doubted gratitude was among them.
The sergeant had retrieved the required volume from a low shelf to his left, and carried it down the ladder with a practised care. “We served in the French Revolutionary Wars and in the Peninsular War.” He walked to a desk near a low window, gesturing with his head that Bowman should join him. “We fought with distinction at the Battle of Waterloo.”
“You are quite the historian,” Bowman relented. The man before him had taken on a whole new persona. Where he had been stiff and formal, he now seemed at ease, his eyes alight with a fervent enthusiasm.
“I am a soldier sir,” he snapped. “And any soldier lives and breathes for his regiment.” He caught Bowman’s eye. “And yes, dies for it too, if the occasion demands it.” Bowman thought the man might burst with pride.
The sergeant slammed the book down on the tabletop, dislodging a cloud of dust as he did so. Bowman noticed the regimental badge embossed in the leather, the motto beneath proclaiming, ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense’; Evil be to him who evil thinks.
“Muster rolls,” he announced. “First and Second Battles of El Teb, Eighteen Hundred and Eighty Four.”
Bowman looked around him with fresh eyes. “Is every campaign recorded here?”
“Every man who has ever served, fought or died in service with the Blues is to be found amongst these shelves,” the soldier responded, haughtily. “Every campaign of every battle is catalogued, many of them represented on the walls around you.”
Bowman peered around the room. In the gloom, he had not noticed the pictures on the wall. One entire length of the building was given over to formal prints of The Royal Horse Guards. They stood in stiff, formal poses, some astride their horses, some on foot, in divisions and companies. “Daguerreotypes,” Bowman whistled, impressed.
“The regiment has been fortunate enough to retain the services of a photographer for the best part of twenty years.” There was something in the manner he adopted as he spoke that gave the inspector to understand that the sergeant himself was responsible for the pictures on the wall.
The sergeant leaned over the table to lift the cover on the volume before him.
“This is part of the record of the campaigns at El Teb, including troop movements, provisions and personnel. You should find your man listed here.” He stabbed at the page with a finger then stood back, clearly convinced he had done enough. Bowman shuffled closer to the table, leaning on the table to survey the book before him. The sergeant had opened it on a page showing a list of names in alphabetical order.
“These are all the men who fought with the Blues at El Teb?”
“Half the regiment were engaged in action, some two hundred men. They are listed before you.” The history lesson over, the sergeant had adopted the same, bored tone Bowman had noticed at the gate.
The inspector traced his finger down a column on the left hand side of the page displaying the surnames of those involved in the campaign.
“Sandford, Scanlon,” he intoned to himself. “Sharples!” He followed the row with his finger. “Jedediah, Trooper.” He saw entries for the man’s date of birth, hometown and service number. Then, a single word; ‘injured’.
“Here’s our man,” Bowman confirmed, his brow furrowed in thought. “What becomes of an injured soldier?”
The sergeant cleared his throat, suddenly awkward. “He would be treated in the field for his injuries and then, if he could not fight, sent home.”
“Back here?”
The sergeant shrugged, “If his injuries were sufficient to prevent a return to duty, and he was of no further use to the Army, he would be discharged.”
Bowman’s moustache twitched. He balked at the idea that a man could be considered no longer of use. There, in the final column of the page, he could indeed make out the abbreviation, ‘dis.” Whoever had held that pen hadn’t even done the trooper the courtesy of spelling out the word in full.
“Trooper Sharples ended his days in an almshouse some ten miles from here,” Bowman whispered.
The sergeant nodded. “Then he was fortunate, indeed.”
Bowman flicked absently through the pages as he thought. Trooper Jedediah Sharples had suddenly been given flesh in his mind. Injured during a battle on foreign sand, it seemed to the inspector that Sharples had been forsaken by his regiment and, by extension, his country. He had enjoyed just three months in the almshouses at Larton Dean. Bowman did not consider him at all fortunate, as the sergeant had maintained.
As Bowman’s eyes fell again to the pages before him, he noticed an entry in a final column that perplexed him. “Des.,” he read aloud, “What is meant by that?”
The sergeant shifted uncomfortably where he stood. “Deserted,” he said, as matter-of-factly as he could.
“Is such a thing common?”
The sergeant chose to take the question as a personal affront. “Certainly not!” he barked, a little too loudly. Noticing his own voice echoing back to him from the rafters, he took a moment to compose himself. “El Teb was brutal, but there was only one incident of desertion.”
Bowman looked back along the row on the page where he had stopped. “Talbot, Joseph,” he read aloud. “Corporal Of Horse.”
“That’s the man,” the sergeant spat, barely able to disguise his disdain.
“What is known of the circumstances?”
The sergeant approached the table again, snapping the book shut in front of him. “Warfare is a complicated matter, inspector,” he said curtly, “One must remember that the success of a war may be built on incidents of failure.”
“Was El Teb such an incident?”
“It was,” the sergeant marched back to the ladder with the book. “And Corporal Talbot is well known for his part in it.” On the mezzanine once more, the sergeant returned the volume to its place on the shelf. “A raid at El Teb by the Mahdists took the British expeditionary forces by surprise. They were a thousand str
ong.”
“How can that be laid at Talbot’s door?”
“Corporal Talbot failed his men in the heat of battle.” The sergeant stepped off the ladder, his face distorted into an expression of contempt. “He mistakenly led them to open ground rather than the safety of the mountains.” He grit his teeth. “Such an action was bad enough. Rather than face the consequences with his superiors as a gentleman would have done, the rascal turned his heels and fled.” The sergeant’s face was flushed with emotion. “He deserted.”
“Was he caught?”
The sergeant paused, barely able to speak the word. “Never,” he said, at last. “Fifty seven men lost their lives as a direct consequence of his actions, and scores more were injured.”
“Including Trooper Sharples,” Bowman nodded. “Had he been caught, what would have been Talbot’s punishment?”
“With such a catastrophic loss of men,” the sergeant offered, brusquely, “there could be only one punishment. He would have been put to death by firing squad, and that would have been too good for him.” The sergeant was making fists with his hands as he spoke, barely able to contain his rage.
Bowman turned to the wall behind him. A sea of faces gazed back from their places in the picture frames, each company or division and the personnel it contained identified by a small, metal plaque beneath. His habitual frown cut deep into his forehead.
“Is Trooper Sharples to be seen in these photographs?”
“Of course,” the sergeant replied haughtily, pulling himself up to his full height. “Took the picture myself in Eighty Three.”
The soldier led Bowman two-thirds down the room and pointed to a picture some eight feet from the ground. “The Blues of Eighty Three,” he announced solemnly. “This is Sharples’ company,” he took a breath. “And Talbot’s, too.”
The Body in the Trees Page 20
