He knew that members of Sixth Form Select were allowed to wear silver buttons on their waistcoats, and that House Captains could wear a mottled-grey waistcoat.
And though he didn’t like to admit it, he was starting to see some point to Sam Blackstone’s disdain for pomp and ceremony.
He grinned to himself. He loved meeting people who had an unjustifiably high opinion of themselves, he thought. They were so much fun to play with.
General Fortesque sat at his desk, deep in troubled thought. He was wondering if he had been open enough with the chubby detective from Scotland Yard, or if he should have told him more.
‘You don’t know any more,’ he said aloud. ‘You do no more than suspect – and even that’s putting things too strongly.’
Besides, suspicion, if it was to be of any value, must have a firm foundation of expert knowledge, he argued to himself – just as it had always done in his soldiering days.
He thought back to a time – long ago – when he’d been in command of a small company of cavalry men, out on a routine reconnaissance mission in the high Hindu Kush.
Military intelligence had assured him before he set out that there were no hostiles in the area. His scouts had reported the same. But the enemy were not the only people not in evidence. There was no sign of the caravans of traders, bringing goods from British India across the mountain passes, either. And not a single villager had come to the camp he had established, attempting to sell dried fruits and ‘good clean girls’ to his men. They knew something – those traders and villagers – and he needed to know what that something was.
The tribesmen were planning a surprise attack, he decided. It was the only possible explanation. But where would the attack come from?
He had made a detailed study of the tactics they had used in the past, and had discussed those tactics with friendly tribal leaders, and looking round him now, he fixed his attention on a ridge in the near distance.
The enemy were behind the ridge at that very moment. He could sense it. But he knew that since it was the eve of Friday, they would never think of attacking before their holy day was over.
He deployed his men under the cover of darkness, and as dawn broke on Friday, he was ready to launch his own attack. He had still not known, even an hour before the attack, whether, by the end of the morning, he would be regarded as a hero or a fool.
‘It turned out that my suspicions were right,’ he told his study wall. ‘But I would never have had them if I hadn’t already known something about the way the Afghans thought and acted.’
So whichever way he looked at it, suspicion without knowledge was no suspicion at all. It was mere whimsy – a fancifulness quite unsuited to a military man.
He had argued his case well, and he should have been both satisfied and calmed by the conclusion he’d reached.
And yet a nagging doubt still persisted.
Perhaps, if he’d confided his suspicions – or whimsy, or fancy – to the fat sergeant, it might have helped Sam Blackstone to find his grandson’s murderer, he thought.
Perhaps, by keeping them to himself, he was sending Blackstone into battle without the covering fire he was entitled to expect.
He looked out of the window, and saw his head gardener walking around in the sort of dazed condition which he now seemed to inhabit almost permanently.
He really should pension the old man off, he thought.
Yet, was he any better himself? he wondered – suddenly remembering that there was a task he’d been meaning to complete all morning, but which had completely slipped his mind until he saw the gardener.
He reached for a piece of paper, picked up his pen and began to write.
Dear Captain Carstairs,
I must thank you for your kind words when informing me of my grandson’s death. You say that he was an outstanding soldier who was an inspiration to his men, and though these are standard phrases which flow from the pen on such occasions, I think I can detect a real sincerity when you apply them to Charlie.
As you no doubt know, Charlie’s body disappeared en route to England. Such things happen in wartime, and I blame no one, especially his company commander who, I am sure, treated the dear boy’s remains with all due respect while they were still in his charge.
Thus, what I am about to ask of you should not be seen in any way as giving you the opportunity to discharge a debt, since there is no such debt to discharge. Rather I would like you to view it as a humble request from an old soldier who has debts of his own to pay.
The General put down his pen.
‘If all you have is suspicion without knowledge, then why the devil are you even writing this letter?’ he asked himself angrily.
The housemaster, Edward Harrington Cardew, was in his fifties, and had the arrogant eyes and haughty expression of a man who firmly believed that the world was divided up into gentlemen and others. He did not inform his visitor that he’d been a pupil at Eton himself, but Patterson – who never started digging a hole before he was sure his spade was in perfect working order – did not need to be informed, because he already knew it as a fact.
The interview took place in Cardew’s study, a room which smelled of ancient leather-bound books and was garlanded throughout with sporting trophies. The housemaster asked the detective to sit down – though in a tone which suggested he was bestowing an honour on Patterson which they both knew he was clearly not worthy of.
‘I would not usually agree to see a member of the constabulary – especially such a low-ranking one,’ he said in a drawling voice, ‘but since the request for an interview came from General Fortesque – who is himself a distinguished old boy of this school – I’m prepared to grant you fifteen minutes of my time.’
Patterson settled back in his chair and rubbed his stomach. ‘Oh, I think it will take considerably longer than that,’ he said, easily.
‘I beg your pardon!’ Cardew exclaimed.
‘There’s no need to,’ Patterson replied. ‘I wanted to ask you about some of your former pupils—’
‘I know,’ Cardew interrupted him. ‘Fortesque, Maude and Soames – all of them outstanding young men.’
‘And Hatfield,’ Patterson said.
‘Ah, yes, and Hatfield,’ Cardew agreed, with considerably less enthusiasm.
‘Isn’t he an “outstanding young man”?’ Patterson wondered.
‘Hatfield started out with certain disadvantages,’ Cardew said.
‘Meaning he’s not quite from the top drawer?’ Patterson suggested.
‘You may phrase it in that manner if you wish. I would prefer to say that he has had to learn, by diligent effort, what came naturally to the other three. But, for all that, he was a reasonably pleasant boy and very earnest in his approach to his work – though he had a certain need for approval which I, personally, found rather irritating.’
‘What about Fortesque?’ Patterson asked.
‘He was the President of Pop,’ Cardew said. A thin, unfriendly smile came to his lips. ‘Need I say more?’
‘No,’ Patterson replied. ‘I don’t think so.’
Cardew looked distinctly disappointed, and Patterson chuckled.
‘What is so amusing?’ Cardew asked.
‘I find it funny that you seem to think you can make me feel inadequate by throwing words at me that I can’t possibly be expected to understand,’ Patterson told him.
‘And I, for my part, find it funny that you so obviously feel the need to pretend that you do understand them, even though you clearly do not,’ the housemaster countered.
Patterson’s grin broadened. ‘Pop is more properly known as the Eton Society,’ he said. ‘Its members are entitled to wear checked spongebag trousers – though why anybody would want to is beyond me – and design their own waistcoats. They’re allowed to administer beatings to younger boys – which we’ll probably come back to later. They’re the only members of the college who can furl their umbrellas within school grounds or sit on the wall in the L
ong Walk. It’s every boy’s ambition to be a member of Pop, or, to put it another way, they spend their entire school lives striving to earn privileges that no one in their right mind would want in the first place. Have I got that about right?’
‘I can’t say I care for your attitude, but you’ve certainly done your research,’ Cardew admitted. ‘At any rate, now that I’ve made it clear to you what splendid chaps they all are, I think we can draw this interview to a close.’
‘In case you’ve forgotten, I’m conducting a criminal investigation,’ Patterson said. ‘I don’t need to be told what it is about these particular boys which makes them such “splendid chaps”. I’d rather hear about the sides of their characters that make them complete bloody bounders.’
‘A bounder would not last a week in this college!’ Cardew said, outraged. ‘In fact, in EHC, my house, he would not last a day!’
‘Ah, your house!’ Patterson exclaimed. ‘Am I right in thinking that when parents apply to Eton, they put their son’s name down for a specific house?’
‘You are.’
‘And should I assume that there is some competition to be admitted into your house.’
‘Considerable competition,’ Cardew said, complacently.
‘The better the raw material, the better the end product,’ Patterson mused, ‘You measure your own worth by the quality of the splendid chaps you turn out, don’t you?’
‘To a certain extent,’ Cardew agreed, cautiously. ‘What schoolmaster does not?’
‘And if they do well in life, some of that glory is reflected on you?’
‘Yes, and that is just as it should be. I mould them. Half of what they become is a result of my efforts’
‘But what if they don’t do well? Is some of the opprobrium then reflected on you?’
‘The question simply does not arise.’
Patterson chuckled again. ‘Of course it does. What about Hadley Featherington Gore?’
Cardew paled. ‘Who?’
‘Good try,’ Patterson told him, ‘but not quite good enough. You said I’d done my research well – and so I have. Featherington Gore was in your house from 1903 to 1910. And now, as a result of him trying to pass off one bad cheque too many, he’s in quite another kind of house – one with bars on the windows.’
‘One bad apple,’ Cardew said miserably. ‘One bad apple in a whole life dedicated to excellence.’
‘Is it time for me to make my threat now, do you think?’ Patterson asked casually.
‘Threat?’ Cardew repeated. ‘You dare sit there and say you’re going to threaten me?’
‘Well, I suppose I could call it something nicer, if that would make you any happier,’ Patterson conceded. ‘I could say it was an inducement. Or perhaps an incentive.’ He shook his head. ‘No, on the whole, I think threat would be by far the most appropriate word.’
‘You can’t seriously expect—’ Cardew began.
‘I want you to be quite frank about the little weaknesses of the boys I’m interested in,’ Patterson interrupted. ‘And if you’re not prepared to cooperate, then I’ll dig up all the dirt I can on every other boy who’s passed through EHC. It wouldn’t take much to make your name mud – I’d only have to come up with a few sordid disclosures before parents start putting their boys’ names down for every other house but yours.’
‘This is outrageous,’ Cardew said.
‘Ain’t it, though,’ Patterson agreed.
Cardew gulped. ‘Some of the boys thought Fortesque was too soft to be considered a great President of Pop,’ he said. ‘Is that . . . is that the sort of thing you’re interested in?’
‘It may be,’ Patterson said. ‘Why did they think he was soft?’
‘I suppose it was mainly because he never held a Pop-Tanning during his whole term of office.’
‘Pop-Tanning,’ Patterson repeated, rolling the word slowly around in his mouth. ‘Now, I have to admit, that is a new one on me. What exactly is a Pop-Tanning?’
‘It’s a beating which the President is permitted to inflict on a miscreant from lower in the school,’ Cardew said.
‘Oh, it’s a bare-arsed tanning, is it?’ Patterson asked.
‘Of course not,’ Cardew said disdainfully. ‘Only masters are allowed to thrash naked buttocks. In a Pop-Tanning, the boy is told to report to Pop wearing an old pair of trousers.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Cardew asked, slightly shiftily.
‘No, but I expect it will be once you’ve explained it to me,’ Patterson said firmly.
‘The boy wears old trousers because, during the course of the beating, the trousers will become shredded.’
‘It’ll shred the trousers, will it?’ Patterson said thoughtfully. ‘If there’s enough force behind it for that, it’ll cut through the flesh and make his buttocks bleed as well, don’t you think?’
‘Most probably.’
‘And Fortesque disapproved of it?’
‘Of course he did not disapprove of it! He respected our traditions as much as the next boy. He merely chose not to enact one of them.’
‘He disapproved of it,’ Patterson insisted.
‘In many ways, he was a rather gentle boy,’ Cardew admitted reluctantly. ‘Not on the rugby field – there, he was a lion who would crush anyone who got in his way – but certainly when he was not playing sports . . .’
‘What about the others?’ Patterson asked.
‘Soames was all for giving a boy a good beating when he deserved it. He thought it would make a man of him – and so it does.’
‘Maude?’
‘Maude went through his whole school career without being beaten once himself. I believe that may make him unique.’
‘But did he enjoy seeing other boys beaten?’
‘He certainly did not shrink away from observing it.’
‘And Hatfield?’
‘If the others thought something was a good idea, so did he. If they were against something, he opposed it. Since his friends were divided on the question of beating, he tried to sit on the fence – which is typical of his class! He was never truly respected here, you know. Even his own fag despised him.’
‘Did Fortesque and Soames ever argue about their different attitudes to beating?’ Patterson asked.
‘Never. They were always the very best of friends.’
‘Did Soames resent the fact that Fortesque was elected President of Pop, rather than him?’
‘Not at all. He thought that Fortesque truly deserved the honour, and would have been most distressed if he hadn’t been elected.’
‘So, as far as you understand the situation, Soames had no reason at all for hating Charles Fortesque?’
‘For hating him?’ Cardew repeated, with an incredulity which Patterson was sure was entirely genuine. ‘Soames didn’t hate Fortesque. Quite the contrary – he admired him tremendously, and would have laid down his life for him without a moment’s thought.’
SIXTEEN
They stood there, side by side, in front of Calais Town Hall. Their heads were shaved, and – to make the executioner’s job easier – they had already placed nooses around their own necks.
They really had expected to die, Blackstone thought, examining the bronze statue first from one angle and then from another. It was obvious, not just from the expressions on their faces, but from the tension in their muscles and the tightness of their chests. These Six Burghers of Calais had accepted that someone would have to pay the price for resisting the siege, imposed by Edward the Third of England, for eleven long months. And when they walked through the city gates – barefoot, and naked except for their long simple shirts – they were praying that their deaths alone would be enough to satisfy King Edward, and that their city might yet be spared.
At the last moment, they’d been saved. Touched by their willingness to sacrifice themselves for the greater good of their town, Philippa of Hanault, Edward’s queen, had interceded with her husband on their
behalf, and Edward had proved willing to forego what he saw as his just revenge.
It was sacrifice that this war was all about, too, Blackstone thought, as he turned away from the statue – not conquests or spoils, or any of the other things that war was normally concerned with – but sacrifice. The young men at the front were being asked to throw away their own lives in order that their country – as they knew it – might go on living.
And as much as he might personally despise the three lieutenants who Patterson had called the three musketeers – as much as it would give him satisfaction to see them swinging from the end of a rope – he had no doubt that they were just as willing to make the sacrifice as the Six Burghers of Calais had been.
‘Mr Blackstone!’ said a voice behind him. ‘What a great pleasure it is to see you, sir.’
Blackstone turned, and shook the hand of the new arrival. ‘It’s good to see you, Bob,’ he said.
‘Did you have a comfortable journey, sir?’ the corporal asked.
‘It was tedious,’ Blackstone replied. ‘I lost track of the number of times we were shunted into the sidings in order to let another train through. And two or three times – for some inexplicable reason – we actually went into reverse. As a result, it took me nearly twenty-four hours to complete a journey that probably wouldn’t have taken more than four or five by road.’
‘Well, that’s the war for you,’ Baker said. ‘You should have asked for a car and driver.’
Good idea – at least on paper – Blackstone thought.
But he doubted that Captain Carstairs would have been at all receptive to the request. Besides, just making the request would have meant telling the captain where he was going – and why he was going there – and he suspected that Carstairs wouldn’t have liked that one bit.
‘Well, well, well,’ Baker said, enthusiastically, ‘who would ever have thought that, after all this time, you and me would end up meeting like this, in the centre of Calais.’
Blackstone and the Great War Page 15
