by Robert Ryan
‘It’s too late to stop the Americans coming to fight.’
Miss Pillbody stirred sugar into her coffee. ‘We know that. But there is still a large anti-war contingent over there. One that will grow once the first Americans come home in wooden boxes and when the first news reports filter back about exactly what trench warfare involves. We need to win that propaganda war. U-boat captains are, therefore, currently expressly forbidden to fire on hospital ships. No torpedo sank that ship. No German one, anyway.’
‘Well, it can’t have been a mine; those lanes are kept mine-free.’ Watson sipped his coffee and wrapped his still-chilled hands around the cup. ‘But suppose you are right . . .’
‘Let me give you another quandary. Gothas were heard over London the night before last, the 23rd of September.’
‘And last night. And probably tonight.’
‘Perhaps. But consider this. No German aircraft flew against England on the 23rd. There were gales in the North Sea that were blowing planes into neutral Holland. All activities were cancelled.’
‘You’re certain of this?’
‘I’m a spy, Major; it’s my job to be certain.’ She fluttered her eyelids at him and he felt physically sick at this coquettishness.
‘But my— an acquaintance of mine was killed in that raid. Porky Johnson.’
‘Not by a German bomb. Maybe shrapnel from a British antiaircraft shell.’
‘No, he was blown to pieces.’
‘Not by us.’
Was it possible a British bomber had done this? Confused and off course? It seemed unlikely to Watson. London could hardly be mistaken for a German city. The pilot would have to be deranged rather than simply befuddled. And as far as he knew, Great Britain didn’t yet have heavy bombers to rival the Gotha.
Miss Pillbody walked around the benches, scooping up the gun as she went, and stood before Watson. He had a fantasy for a second of reaching up and grabbing that pretty swan-like neck . . .
‘For what it’s worth, and it isn’t worth much, I regret killing Mrs Gregson now. All I can say is, the alternative was you or Holmes.’
‘You didn’t have to kill anyone on that damned bridge.’
Miss Pillbody looked slightly shocked at the suggestion. ‘No, I suppose I didn’t, did I? But, as I said, it’s what I am trained for.’
‘Why me? Why tell me all this?’
‘Who do you think I should tell? Lloyd George? Churchill? I know you have good reason to hate me, but you are a man of logic, too. I would not risk exposing myself as being in London for nothing, for a mere diversion.’
‘What’s in it for Germany? Apart from some propaganda value.’
‘That ship was sunk for a reason,’ said Miss Pillbody. ‘The air raid was for a reason. We’d like to know what those reasons are.’
‘I’m not sure what I can do. I’m in the middle of a terrible scandal—’
‘The War Injuries Compensation Board?’
‘You know about that?’
She inclined her head slightly in a way that said “of course”. She took a step closer and looked down at him. ‘I would like to make you an offer.’
Watson drained his coffee. If he shattered the cup, he might have a shard that would open a vein quite easily. ‘You can try.’
‘Let me take that,’ she said, prizing the cup from his grip. ‘I will help you discover who mutilated these men. If you help me find out what happened to the Dover Arrow.’
‘Team up, you mean?’
‘A temporary alliance.’
Watson laughed at her audacity. ‘You must be mad.’
‘While you were sleeping, Professor Holbeck was found. On a barge in the Thames.’
Watson felt bile burn his throat. ‘Had he . . .?’
‘They’d cut his hands off.’
‘Damn them.’ He stood so quickly that Miss Pillbody leaped back, her grip on the gun tightening. He brought his clenched first down onto one of the benches, causing knives to clatter to the floor.
‘I need hardly remind you that there are two men left. They have blinded, deafened, taken away a surgeon’s sense of touch. I would imagine the next man might turn up without a tongue. Or a nose.’
Taste and smell, of course they would be next. They were literally rendering the five poor men senseless.
‘What makes you think you can help me?’ he asked her.
‘You’re no Sherlock Holmes.’
‘And you are, I suppose?’
‘No. But I have skills you lack.’
‘Such as?’
The gunshot made his heart jump. The report rang off the hard, tiled surfaces. The spent cartridge case pinged onto the cement floor. Miss Pillbody’s face was wreathed in smoke from the barrel. Watson looked up at the hole in the ceiling. ‘You are sentimental, Major. I am not. I will use this and other weapons to get to the truth where you might dilly or dally.’
‘I think we would have to lay some ground rules about your methods.’
‘So, you will accept my help?’
‘If it means saving the two remaining men, yes. But I fail to see how I can assist with the Dover Arrow.’
‘With some questions.’
‘Of whom?’
She laid the gun down, sure now he wouldn’t make any move against her until the business at hand was resolved. ‘Didn’t I tell you? We have a survivor.’
THIRTY-ONE
Holmes was sitting up in bed when Watson came in to visit. Watson had changed from his soiled military uniform into civilian clothes, a rather fine dark chalk-stripe number that pre-dated the war. He came alone. The sight of Miss Pillbody, he reasoned, might well have triggered another cardiac incident in Holmes. Watson was not the only Englishman with good reason to loathe the German spy. He would have to break the news carefully to Holmes that the woman who had once tried to drown them was his new, if temporary, ally.
‘Watson! A sight for sore eyes as always.’
‘I’ve been told I can’t be long,’ said Watson. ‘Matron made that very clear.’
‘Sit down, sit down. The police were here, looking for you.’ There was just the slightest pause, almost imperceptible, before he pulled the name out of his memory. No other man might have noticed this hesitation, if that’s what it was, but Watson did. ‘Inspector Bullimore.’
‘I have sent a message that I am well, and for him to meet me.’
‘Have a care. I feel the police are not entirely to be trusted. There is pressure for results. It can lead to hasty assumptions.’
‘How are you feeling, Holmes?’
‘Impatient to be out of here, I can tell you.’
As Holmes peered at him, Watson felt the gaze of old, the one that seemed to pierce your innermost thoughts. There was colour on his cheeks and those dark smudges under the eyes had softened somewhat. ‘You need to rest, Holmes. You were lucky.’
Holmes reached over and patted his knee. ‘Lucky to have you, Watson. Now, where have you been? On the Dover Arrow case? Or chasing those villains who kidnapped the Compensation Board? Did Mycroft tell you about the nightwatchman?’
The colour on the cheeks had deepened and a flush appeared at the collar of Holmes’s pyjama jacket. ‘Calm down, Holmes. All in good time.’
He resolved not to mention Miss Pillbody after all. He would work around it. He gave an account of his evening, omitting the kidnap, making out he had been rescued from Trenchard by members of MI5.
‘It is you who were lucky, then Watson. You knew this Trenchard?’
‘I did.’
‘Did he strike you as the sort of man who would cut the hands off a famous surgeon? Or, indeed, be party to this?’
‘No.’
‘The man with the false hand? What news of him?’
‘None,’ Watson admitted.
‘If the hand was porcelain, then I could direct you to the two men who have pioneered the casting of realistic hands. Alas, non-articulated, but better than painted wood. One is in Stoke, the other is Regi
nald Coates at Sidcup.’
‘I have heard of Coates.’
‘He also practises at St Thomas’s.’
‘What are you thinking, Holmes?’
‘All in good time. There is something else you want to tell me.’
Watson explained to Holmes about the sinking of the Dover Arrow and the mysterious phantom bombing raid. He kept Miss Pillbody’s name out of it.
‘The assertion is that the Germans did not sink the boat-train?’
‘So I understand,’ Watson said cautiously.
‘And this came from?’
‘The MI5 men.’
‘Names?’
‘Names?’ Watson repeated.
‘Yes, what are the names of the MI5 men? Your saviours. Come, come. Surely it is good manners to ask the names of the men who have just killed to save you?’
‘If you do not stop getting agitated and relax, Holmes, I shall leave this instant.’
‘With me snapping at your heels until you tell the truth.’ He sunk back onto the pillow, and touched his fingertips together. ‘You really are the most frightful liar, Watson. It’s what I admire about you. You wear your integrity like a badge of honour.’ He thought for a few moments. ‘Who would tell you that the Germans are not behind the sinking of a boat carrying an ambulance train but . . . someone with German interests at heart. And who would know that no German plane flew that night. Not MI5. They are not party to the Imperial German Flying Corps’s bombing schedule. So this points to a German. A German agent here in England, perhaps. Are you in touch with a . . .’ His jaw dropped as the synapses fired. ‘That woman? You have seen that woman?’ It was as if he could not bear to say the name.
‘Miss Pillbody, yes.’
‘So-called Miss Pillbody,’ Holmes reminded Watson. ‘Frau Brandt, as she is more correctly known. It was she who rescued you from Trenchard? Yes, she would kill without compunction. I thought it strange that MI5 had taken to hiring cold-blooded executioners. But Frau Brandt . . . murder is in her blood.’ A long finger lashed out at him, coming to rest a few inches from his nose. ‘Have a care, Watson. I know, somewhere in the back of your mind, you’ll be thinking about what she did to Mrs Gregson.’
Watson didn’t argue the point. He reached over and poured two glasses of water, handing one of them to Holmes.
‘She would crush you like we might step on a cockroach,’ said Holmes. ‘But, I grant you, there is something not quite right about the Dover Arrow affair. The fact that Mycroft was put off the scent doesn’t sit easy with me. Nor does a secret inquiry. So, whereas I am inclined to disbelieve every word uttered by that woman, she might just be telling the truth this once.’
‘And she claims to have a survivor from the Dover Arrow. A nurse, she said.’
Holmes’s right eyebrow arched up. ‘Has she indeed? Your nurse?’
‘She doesn’t know the name. All she knows is that the survivor will not speak to the Germans about anything.’
‘And where is this survivor?’
‘Belgium.’
‘Which side of the lines?’
Watson drank some of his water. He was hungry, too, he realized. Perhaps he should have had some steak after all. ‘Their side. In a German hospital. But Miss Pillbody has a way to get me over there. The same way she came in. By aeroplane.’ He shuddered as he said it.
‘But you hate flying.’
‘Needs must, Holmes, needs must. But I have told her we need to clear this affair of the Compensation Board up first.’
‘As I said, have a care. She wants you to fly into German-held lands. You have been there before. It didn’t go well.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Watson said glumly. ‘But if this nurse can give us answers . . .’
The pictures of the King and Queen on the walls rattled as the guns in the park barked once more. The glare through the windowpane told them the companion searchlights were scanning the skies. ‘If your spy is right and there was no air raid the night poor Porky was killed, then the explosions were not real German bombs. Which means, as we suspected, it was really was murder, Watson.’
‘I still consider it rather an elaborate ploy to disguise murder.’
‘Perhaps. But also perhaps it is not the first time the air raids have been a convenient cover. It might be that the next step is to provide your own sham air raid as a distraction. I suggest we look at the names of all those killed in the air raids – the newspapers have published them – see if anything strikes us as odd.’
‘Us?’
‘You’ll need help, Watson; you can’t do this alone.’
‘I have Bullimore.’
A roll of the eyes. ‘A policeman? Have all your years with me taught you nothing?’
‘Even a policeman can read lists of the dead.’
Holmes tapped the side of his head impatiently. ‘But can he make connections? Eh? He can read, but can he understand?’
‘I think this Bullimore is a cut above, Holmes. And I have Miss Pillbody.’
Another moment of hesitation before he gave a great guffaw. ‘What strange bedfellows. The doctor, the policeman and the enemy spy.’ The finger wagged at Watson again. ‘You will keep me informed or I shall be out of this bed in a trice.’
‘I will, of course. I shall leave you to it now.’ The metal bed rails jangled as more guns fired. ‘Try to get some rest. If the Germans let you.’
‘Where are you meeting Bullimore and Miss Pillbody?’
‘Well, Holmes, I think it best we avoid 221b. We don’t want to add a journalist to our little coterie. So, Wimpole Street.’
‘My cuttings are still there, I hope.’
‘I would expect so.’
‘Mrs Turner struck me as someone who wouldn’t idly throw such things away.’
‘No.’ Watson stood to leave. ‘One thing, Holmes,’ he said. ‘The nightwatchman?’
‘What’s that?’
‘You told Mycroft to tell me something about the nightwatchman. John Crantock, who was killed in the school raid.’
‘I think we can be fairly certain that, whoever was found dead at that school site was not John Crantock. This Bullimore, perhaps he could be persuaded to get an exhumation order?’
‘If we think the body has been misidentified, then, yes. Was that it?’
‘No, I wanted you to remind me where he worked. If you ever told me.’
‘I don’t believe I did. He was at St Luke’s, the mental hospital on Old Street.’
‘Ah.’
‘You think it important?’
‘The little details are usually by far the most important things about a case. Go. I expect you back here tomorrow, with news of progress.’
With that Holmes rolled on his side and appeared to fall fast asleep.
The severed finger lay on the low table in the sitting room of 2 Upper Wimpole Street. It was, for a few moments, like a frozen tableau, a gruesome version of the Adoration of the Magi as all stared at the digit, which Bullimore had unwrapped from a handkerchief. Bullimore was crouching next to the table, Watson was standing in front of the fire, Miss Pillbody – whom Watson had introduced as his ‘companion’ – was sitting and Mrs Turner was holding a tray with a teapot, four cups and some biscuits on it. Watson scooped up the finger and the cloth and allowed her to put the tray down.
‘That gave me a turn, I can tell you,’ she said.
‘It is very realistic,’ conceded Watson. ‘Where was it?’
‘After I couldn’t sleep,’ Bullimore explained, ‘I went back to the park, to where we found the dead men. I borrowed a flashlight from a bobby . . . didn’t take me long. I can’t imagine how we missed it.’
Watson turned the porcelain object over in his hand. ‘It must have been shot off when . . .’ he sensed Miss Pillbody stiffening, ‘. . . when those men pulled me out of the taxi and then fired after him when he was fleeing.’
‘I’m intrigued by this, Major,’ said Bullimore. ‘You say you were kidnapped by one lot of men, one
of whom you knew, and then taken from them by other men who never actually gave their names, who detained you but then, equally mysteriously, let you go.’
‘That is about the size of it. Baffling.’
Bullimore certainly looked baffled and not a little disbelieving. Watson could feel a pulse of doubt coming from him. Maybe Holmes was right and he could be read like a book.
‘Do you take sugar, Miss . . .?’ Mrs Turner asked.
‘Adler.’ Watson had almost given the game away when Miss Pillbody had given her new pseudonym to Bullimore, by blurting his outrage at her co-opting of that surname from that scandal in Bohemia. ‘But please, call me Elsie.’
Nobody but Watson saw the fast wink Miss Pillbody gave him. A wink! From a woman. It was very unsavoury. But it simply signalled that Ilse had become Elsie. At least she hadn’t gone the whole hog with Irene.
‘So,’ said Watson, ‘we can ask Reginald Coates and his team if there is any way we can trace the owner of this finger. Thank you.’ He took his tea from Mrs Turner. ‘Coates is the leading expert on false limbs of this sort,’ he explained.
‘The chances are he will have asked for a replacement,’ said Miss Pillbody as she sipped her tea. ‘After all, a man with a missing real finger might arouse suspicion in a hospital. Someone with a damaged prosthetic simply asking for a repair . . .’
Bullimore turned his puzzled expression towards her. ‘That’s very true.’
‘So a telephone call to Coates might suffice to confirm if any such enquiry has been made.’
‘I shall do that first thing,’ said Bullimore through pursed lips.
‘St Thomas’s and the new facility at Queen’s, Sidcup, are where he is based,’ said Watson.
‘And the exhumation order,’ added Miss Adler, in the voice of someone used to being obeyed. She followed it up with a sweet smile.
‘If you think it relevant,’ Bullimore said to Watson.
‘Mr Sherlock Holmes thinks it is relevant,’ Miss Pillbody said.
‘And how is Mr Holmes?’ Mrs Turner asked before Bullimore could answer.
‘Recovering well, I would say. He wondered if you had kept the clipping he made?
She nodded and put down her cup. ‘Just a moment.’
