(2011) What Lies Beneath

by Sarah Rayne

  Gil said messages were smuggled in and out by the Pasha and his aides, but they were almost entirely in code so it was no good trying to intercept any of them. When Crispian asked how he knew this, Gil said, oh, he occasionally met up with some of the soldiers in one of the bars that somehow remained open.

  ‘And the rumours get wilder all the time,’ he said.

  ‘D’you know what I find so terrible,’ said Crispian, having taken a moment to digest the fact that Gil met up with soldiers in bars. ‘It’s the way this has become almost commonplace. We’re hardly hearing the incessant bombardment from the guns and we’re becoming impervious to the deaths – the fires, the destruction and suffering . . . If you look out of a window on almost any night, you see little groups of people carrying dead bodies. You don’t know if they’ve been killed by shells or if they’re dead from starvation, but either way they’re just tumbled into graves.’

  ‘We’ll all end up being tumbled into graves if those go on much longer,’ said Gil. ‘Because if a burst of cannon-fire doesn’t get us, we’ll die from starvation.’

  ‘But we’re no longer shocked by any of it,’ said Crispian. ‘Even those appalling burns from that stuff that’s being used—’

  ‘Sulphur mustard,’ said Gil.

  ‘They scream with the pain, those poor wretches who’ve suffered burns,’ said Crispian, half to himself. ‘I can hear them sometimes from my window.’

  I did not tell the others, but I heard the screams, as well. Sometimes, in the depths of those nights, unable to sleep, hearing the agonized sobbing from the other rooms, I used to imagine the sounds were coming from my own soul.

  ‘But we’re accepting it all,’ said Crispian, with angry despair. ‘That’s what sickens me. We’re seeing it as normal – we’re hardly even upset by it any more.’

  I wrote, ‘Speak for yourself,’ on the slate, and Crispian sent me one of his intense looks that usually heralded the start of some deep and searching discussion. Gil just winked at me and went off somewhere.

  It pains me to record this, but during those weeks I don’t think I ever heard Gil complain and I don’t think I ever saw him give way to anger or fear. Somehow he maintained that air of flippancy all the way through. I suspect it was a mask, and I suppose he was trying to appear in a favourable light to Crispian. I don’t know if it did him any good with Crispian, who, as far as I could make out, remained in chaste celibacy in his own bedroom every night. Gil could have been in half a dozen bedrooms every night, for all I knew, and probably was. Even war and famine don’t prevent people from fornicating. I shouldn’t think anything ever prevented Gil.

  But one day it would all end – I clung to that thought. And then we would be back in England, and England meant Cadences – the bank, the old manor, the money . . . everything I wanted and had been cheated of having. Everything Crispian was preventing me from having.

  ‘Crispian’s my legitimate son,’ Julius had said to me all those years ago. ‘My heir. I’ll make sure you’re looked after, of course, but you won’t inherit Cadences.’

  You won’t inherit Cadences . . . The words still reverberated in my mind even after so long. To Julius’s ghost, I said, Oh won’t I, though?

  It was almost the end of May before we were finally able to leave Edirne. And although it’s probably unusual to record gratitude to a man you intend to kill, in the name of justice I have to admit that when we finally got back to England, Crispian did everything he could to help me.

  Crispian had always known that when they finally got back to England he would do everything he could to help Jamie.

  In the infirmary within the fortress, Raif had told Crispian that Jamie’s wounds would eventually heal. Then he said, ‘But I’m afraid his face – his mouth – will always be . . .’ He paused, obviously searching for the word.

  ‘Scarred?’ said Crispian.

  ‘Misshapen?’ said Gil. ‘Deformed?’

  ‘Deformed,’ said Raif. ‘That will always be there. I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do about that.’ He paused again, then said, ‘Has he ever offered any explanation as to why they believed him a spy?’

  ‘No,’ said Crispian quickly. ‘And I haven’t asked him. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.’ He looked at Raif and said, ‘You don’t believe he was innocent, do you?’

  ‘Mr Cadence, I have no opinion. I heal bodies. Souls and minds I leave to others.’

  Souls and minds. Many times during those weeks, Crispian felt as if the images of famine and suffering and loss were etching themselves on his mind as if corrosive poison was dripping onto it.

  ‘When you reach England, what will he do, your cousin?’ asked Raif.

  ‘There’s a place in the country where he could live,’ said Crispian.

  ‘Your family’s house?’

  ‘Yes.’ An image of Cadence Manor, remote and quiet, flickered on Crispian’s mind. He said, ‘I think it’s what he’ll want. I’ll find some kind of work for him, though. He’ll need to be occupied.’

  ‘While you go off to fight the war that is coming?’

  ‘No,’ said Crispian. ‘No, I shan’t fight in it.’

  ‘No? I thought the British were great ones when it came to fighting wars.’

  ‘We are. But after what I’ve seen here I’m too sickened by violence. I won’t fight in this war.’

  ‘You surprise me,’ said Raif.

  ‘I surprise myself.’

  Chapter 34

  Jamie Cadence’s Journal

  Crispian did not often surprise me, but he surprised me over his decision not to fight in the war against Germany.

  We learned about the declaration of hostilities with Germany at Cadence Manor. I remember we were all in the big drawing room and the early August sunshine was streaming through the French windows. Crispian and Gil – Gil was often at the manor in those days – were arguing rather listlessly about going along to the billiard room for a game or two. If they did they would probably include me and I would probably shake my head. Serena Cadence was seated a little apart from everyone – she always was. She always sought the shadowy corner of any room, even in those days. In strong sunlight it was sometimes possible to see that her hands were slightly marked. She covered them with trailing sleeves or those lace mittens ladies sometimes wore for evenings, but every time I saw her hands, it was as if I was seven years old again, standing by the bedside of the nightmare creature that was my mother. It looked as if the disease had gone from my mother to Julius, and then to Serena. If I had been given to biblical thoughts, I might have dwelled on the hoary old lines about the sins of the fathers descending unto the third and fourth generation.

  The coffee tray had been brought in, and Colm and old Dr Martlet were considering embarking on a game of chess in the library. But shortly after that Flagg returned, bearing a telegram on a small tray. Most of the country probably heard about the war from neighbours, or in the taproom of their local pub, or even by listening to the wireless – wirelesses were becoming quite common by 1914. Not the Cadences. The information was carried to them by their butler on a silver salver.

  It was a long telegram, as those things go. I think it was from someone at the Treasury who was letting all the leading financial houses know what had happened. I do remember it contained parts of the statement made by Herbert Asquith, the Prime Minister, to the Government, and also parts of the King’s speech to the armed forces.

  Asquith and the King said many things, but the core of the message – the words that I remember so vividly – were these. ‘His Majesty’s Government has declared to the German Government that a state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as from 11 p.m. on 4 August.’

  The King’s statement, in summary, said, ‘Germany tried to bribe us with peace to desert our friends and duty. But Great Britain has preferred the path of honour.’

  We all listened as Crispian read it out. We were all there, even Saul. He was only a few months old, of course, but I can still
remember the bassinet in the corner, and the swathed child lying inside it. They used to place him away from the light, hoping the marks on his face wouldn’t be noticed. They were more noticeable as he grew older, but no one ever commented on them.

  I remember that old Martlet, stupid old fool, made some crass, sentimental observation about how sad to think an innocent child had been born into a world that was about to see a bloodbath rage across Europe.

  Inevitably it was Crispian who said, ‘Oh, the war will be all over by Saul’s second birthday.’

  Cadence Manor, 1914

  ‘I’m not a coward,’ said Crispian defiantly.

  ‘I know you’re not.’ Gil was reading that morning’s Times, apparently absorbed in the latest news.

  ‘But I find the act of war – of inflicting pain, violence – entirely wrong.’ Crispian frowned, trying to sort out his thoughts, aware of Gil watching him. ‘They’ll all think I’m a coward for not fighting, though,’ he said.

  ‘Does that bother you?’ said Gil, finally looking up from his newspaper.

  ‘It does, a bit.’

  ‘But not enough to alter things?’

  ‘No. It’s because of everything we saw and experienced in Edirne,’ said Crispian. ‘Not only what was done to Jamie, but the rest of it. All those months of people dying and starving. The sheer bloody waste of human life. It’s a – a deep feeling. And yet . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And yet I know this is what’s called a just war,’ he said. ‘I know it’s one that has to be fought – and it’s certainly one that has to be won.’

  ‘And you’re having trouble reconciling those two feelings?’ said Gil, putting the newspaper aside.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, I see that. But if you could fight it in another way,’ said Gil, thoughtfully, ‘would you do so?’

  ‘I think so. Yes, of course I would.’

  ‘Even if it meant going to France? Belgium? Being in the thick of the actual fighting?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Crispian again.

  ‘What about Cadences? Finance is a part of war, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you be needed there?’

  ‘It runs itself,’ said Crispian. ‘Well, there’s a good Board of Directors. Why?’

  ‘The government needs medical help,’ said Gil. ‘They’re already trying to recruit people through Guy’s Hospital. And the Red Cross organization wants volunteers – they’re joining forces with the Order of St John. How would you feel about becoming part of that?’

  ‘But I haven’t any medical training,’ said Crispian.

  ‘If we’re being accurate, I’ve only got three-quarters,’ said Gil. ‘I never qualified. But I’m going to see if they’ll take me in one of the medical corps, although I don’t know yet in what capacity.’ He leaned forward, his expression for once serious. ‘Crispian, if I could get you in with me, would you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Crispian. ‘Could it be done? And would I be of any use?’

  ‘God, yes. The Red Cross have already said they need untrained people to man first-aid posts and provide transport. There’s talk of motorized ambulances on the actual battlefields – you can drive.’

  ‘Well, after a fashion.’

  ‘Please come with me,’ said Gil, and for the first time his voice was stripped of the flippances and the mocking edge. ‘Crispian, please,’ he said.

  Crispian stared at him. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘Yes, all right.’

  After Crispian went away, not to fight, but to act as some kind of medical assistant, people jeered at Serena if she went out, and shouted that her son was a coward. She refused to let anyone see how upset and humiliated she was, but once, on one of her very rare outings through the lanes (Flagg had learned to drive out of sheer necessity), a group of women stood in the road, barring their way.

  ‘Where’s your son?’ they shouted. ‘Not fighting the Hun, is he? Not like the rest of the men.’

  ‘Coward,’ yelled another. ‘Husband and brother and two sons, I had, and all of them dead save my youngest and he’s left a leg in France.’

  ‘We sacrificed our men to the war,’ cried the first. ‘What have you sacrificed?’ She darted forward and thrust a handful of something through the grille of the car.

  Serena said, ‘Flagg, what . . .?’

  ‘White feathers,’ said Flagg. ‘But pay them no attention, madam, for they don’t know the truth of it, as we do. Mr Crispian’s fully as brave as anyone, going onto the battlefields like he does, bringing the wounded men out.’

  ‘Drive on,’ said Serena stiffly. ‘Drive round them.’ She had been determined to remain seated upright, but as they went around the women she shrank involuntarily into the car’s dim safe interior, putting up a hand to shield her face. There was a hot lump of angry misery in her throat but she would not cry – she would not – purely because a few ignorant angry village woman had shouted at her. She knew the truth about her son, and that was all that mattered.

  As if to balance things out, when she got back, there was a letter from Crispian, which the post had just delivered. Serena was pleased to hear from him, even though the letter was a scrappy one. But it said he was cheerful and well, and that he hoped he might get leave very soon, and he was looking forward to some of Mrs Flagg’s cooking after the meagre rations he was getting.

  Hetty and Dora thought it ever so romantic that Mr Crispian was coming home, although Hetty thought he ought to be fighting properly. Bandaging people up was not real war, she said, and was told very sharply by Mr Flagg to hold her tongue.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘It takes a deal of courage to go onto a battlefield and carry off wounded men.’

  Mrs Flagg said she supposed Hetty would have let the poor men lie there like animals, dying in the heathen mud.

  ‘Madam read the letter out to me,’ said Flagg. ‘I think it was a comfort to her to get it after those stupid women screaming at her in the lane. I’d have to say, though, that the letter didn’t tell much, not really.’

  ‘They censor letters from France,’ said Hetty, who had walked out with a soldier for a few weeks before he went back to the front.

  ‘Mr Crispian said it was difficult to write clearly because the billet – the place where he was sleeping – wasn’t very well lit,’ said Flagg. ‘Sad that, I thought.’

  ‘We’ll light every lamp in the house for him when he comes home,’ promised Mrs Flagg.

  There was never much light inside the small Red Cross post and even on the first day of July only a smeary greyness trickled in. Crispian thought it was as if all the mud and the suffering and the despair had leaked into the whole landscape. At times, struggling to help men who had been shot or wounded from shellfire – helping to carry stretchers, sometimes driving one of the battered motorized ambulances – he had time to think that he had wanted to avoid violence, yet was now in the middle of a violence he could not have imagined.

  But the day was starting and it had to be faced, and he thought he would get dressed and go in search of a cup of tea; there was generally a large urn simmering over somebody’s fire. He was pulling on his shoes when there was a movement from the bed.

  ‘I thought you were still asleep,’ said Crispian.

  ‘No. I was watching you. I like watching you get dressed. You’re so neat and graceful. You looked sad, though,’ said Gil. ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘Oh, how similar all war is when you get down to it. The stench of gangrenous wounds, the lack of sanitation.’

  ‘Dysentery and overflowing latrines, and stale cooking and cordite,’ said Gil. ‘Oh, and that awful stuff they use to sluice down the trenches – chloride of lime. And before much longer there’ll be the stench of rotting carcasses. They won’t be able to bury a quarter of them until all this is over. Do you ever regret accompanying me, Crispian?’

  Crispian looked at Gil for a moment. His hair, which needed cutting, was tousled on the pillow like spun flo
ss, and it was probably several weeks since he had been able to shave.

  ‘I don’t regret any of it,’ he said.

  He did not. Nor had he ever regretted what had happened between them on the night they reached the first Red Cross post. They had been in France for only a few weeks – the Red Cross was still setting up first-aid posts near to what would become the ravaged battlefields along the Somme – but Gil had tapped lightly at his door late one night and asked to come in. Crispian had been deeply apprehensive about what the war was going to mean, and when he left England there had been jeers and accusations of cowardice because he had not volunteered for active service. On that night he had been homesick and in a highly emotional state, and it had been the night he stopped fighting Gil, finally and for always.

  He had supposed the physical satisfaction with a man would, in the end, be much the same as it was with a woman. What he had not expected – what he did not think he could have achieved with any woman – was the extraordinary mental fusion that took place. He had no idea if this was simply that two masculine bodies were experiencing the same sensations and were both aware of the other’s emotions, or if it was because he and Gil had some affinity that went beyond the physical.

  And now, almost two years later, he sat at the narrow, grimed window, staring out at the grey morning and tried to think how they would arrange their lives, he and Gil, when this war was over and they were back in England. He could not imagine how they could live, but he could not imagine a world without Gil. He could not, however, really visualize any world other than this grey half-world.

  He was about to say he would try to get two mugs of tea to bring back, and that with luck there might be some hot food as well, when a burst of sound from the east reached him.

  ‘They’re shelling again,’ said Gil, scrambling out of bed and reaching for his clothes to dress with the careless haste that was now part of life. ‘You’d think they’d let up for a couple of hours at least, wouldn’t you? I think it’s back to the main post for me,’ he said.

  ‘I’d better come with you,’ said Crispian, abandoning all thoughts of breakfast. As Gil opened the door, he said, ‘We may as well go together.’