Anthem for Doomed Youth

by Carola Dunn

  As the mist cleared further, he saw men crouched beside bollards, stacks of crates, the bases of the cranes, the other lorries. The dray was surrounded.

  What were they waiting for?

  The first rays of the rising sun glinted on windscreen glass. Within the cab of the dray, a figure sat up, stretching.

  A whistle blew. Sparrows scattered in alarm as a dozen helmeted figures converged on the dray. Someone shouted an indistinct command to surrender in the name of the Law.

  With a startling roar, a motor revved. The dray jerked forward – apparently no one had considered the possibility of its being able to start without being cranked, that it might have a self-starter. Swearing, Alec glanced behind him, at the fence. Though it looked sturdy, if Rosworth drove straight at the gates he might be able to break through. The two guards dithered, alarmed and uncertain, all too obviously unprepared for the situation.

  But the front wheels of the dray turned towards the water. The two men closest to it leapt for it. One failed to get a hold on the rope fastening down the tarpaulin. The other grabbed the door and hung on with one hand, the other arm reaching in to wrestle for control of the steering wheel.

  Accelerating madly, the lorry sailed off the edge of the quay, out over the river, and disappeared.

  Alec ran. He was in time to see a bubble of air break to the surface from the cab, and the tarpaulin belched out a series of smaller bubbles. A moment later, the dray was invisible in the murky harbour.

  ‘Deep water,’ said a constable, shaking his head. ‘He’s gone.’

  Alec took off his hat, but the time was not ripe for a moment of silent contemplation of the death of a man who, whatever his misdeeds, had deeply loved his son.

  Two coppers floundered in the water. Already a pair of rowboats was pulling towards them. From the quay, men shouted encouragement and confused directions. In no doubt that they would be rescued, Alec trudged off to find the superintendent and arrange for divers to recover Rosworth’s body.

  That, of course, was the least of it. Over an hour passed before Alec was able to tear himself away from explanations, apologetic self-justifications, and, on his part, qualified congratulations. After all, they had found the man and hadn’t exactly let him escape.

  ‘I really must report to the Yard,’ he insisted at last. He escaped into a small office with a telephone, with Tom and Ernie, who had lain low in the background, in tow.

  Alec dropped into the nearest chair, the sense of urgency he had lived with for days no longer making up for lost sleep.

  ‘So it’s all over, Chief,’ said Tom, slumping on the other chair, leaving Ernie to lean against the desk.

  The youngest of the three, DC Piper was the least frayed at the edges. He reached for the telephone. ‘The Yard, Chief?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Alec said to him, and to Tom, ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Not quite?’

  ‘Well, apart from at least another couple of hours sorting things out with the people here, we’ve got a lead on the firing squad sergeant. I’ll explain in a minute. I’m hoping to get hold of Mackinnon before the super turns up.’

  ‘Before six in the morning? Come off it, Chief!’

  ‘Not likely, but he was there till well after midnight last night. This case has had the brass worried stiff.’

  ‘Mr Mackinnon, Chief.’ Ernie pushed the telephone towards Alec. ‘Operators got nothing better to do this time in the morning than put you right through.’

  ‘Mackinnon? You haven’t rung Mr Crane yet?’

  ‘No, sir. Seven, you said. Hae ye collared Rosworth already?’

  ‘Not what you might call “collared.”’ Alec explained what had happened.

  ‘Ye’ll no be wanting me to break it to the super, sir!’

  ‘’Fraid so. Think you can handle it?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ Mackinnon’s tone suggested a squaring of the shoulders. ‘If I must, I must.’

  ‘Since there’s no longer any urgency, you can let him sleep till eight. He’ll ring me here, I expect, but with any luck he’ll have to make do with his local counterpart. I hope to tie things up and be on my way before he gets through.’

  ‘To Saffron Walden? I rang the local station earlier and they confirmed that Harriman was a sergeant in the war. He was killed Saturday night, by a blow to the head. I didna talk to DI Gant himself, but—’

  ‘Gant’s in charge? Bloody hell! I’m off to Saffron Walden as soon as I can get away.’

  ‘I was just about to tell you, sir, there’s word come through from DS Miniver in Newcastle. He rang up as soon as he came on duty, early shift. The inspector on duty yesterday sent a man over to see Mr Chivers about the sergeant. He didn’t think it was urgent so he left it for—’

  ‘And?’ Alec cut him short.

  ‘Chivers remembered a Sergeant Harriman, sir.’

  ‘That confirms it, then.’ Alec sighed. ‘So Rosworth bagged his fourth victim. The AC, the home sec and the Great British public are not going to be pleased. Be glad it’s only Mr Crane you have to report to.’

  Ringing off, Alec told Tring and Piper the bad news.

  ‘Sounds like Rosworth hit him too hard,’ said Tom. ‘The shooting scene he liked to set up was superfluous.’

  ‘Or, knowing we were on his trail, he didn’t have time for the fancy touches,’ Piper suggested. ‘He had to get here, too, to catch the ship. So we’re going to Saffron Walden, Chief?’

  ‘I am. I’ll take Tom. If they haven’t brought up the body yet, I’ll have to leave you, Ernie, to deal with Rosworth’s personal effects and so on. But Daisy’s there, and involved in the business at least to the extent of being asked not to leave the town. I’m Gant’s bête noire at the moment, after taking the Epping Executioner out of his hands. If the two get together, there’s no knowing what might happen! I daren’t even think what the Super’s going to say …’

  CHAPTER 26

  Daisy couldn’t sleep. Or perhaps she did, she wasn’t sure. Much of the night she was in that half-waking, half-sleeping state where thoughts and dreams are so interwoven one can’t tell which is which.

  The centre round which her musings meandered was the war.

  People swirled past her inner eye: Tesler, the conscientious objector, crippled by the meaningless task set to punish him for refusing to kill people; Pencote, crippled by the war Tesler had refused to fight, no longer believing he had suffered for a just cause. How could either not be bitter? How could either not resent Harriman’s brutal teasing, Tesler damned as a coward and Pencote a hero who saw himself as a victim?

  Pencote, though, considered Tesler a hero for standing up for his principles to the point of going to prison.

  Miss Bascombe, her hand on Tesler’s arm …

  Michael came to Daisy, his face as clear as the day she heard of his death, blown up driving a Friends’ Ambulance at the front. Awake, she could no longer picture her ‘conchie’ fiancé with such clarity, and she had destroyed her photos of him out of loyalty to Alec.

  ‘Blessed are the peacemakers.’ The vicar had spoken the phrase at Evensong that very afternoon. Yet most of the officers going like patriotic sheep to war must have been Anglicans. On the whole, one simply was.

  Alec’s Colonel Pelham, for instance – she would be extremely surprised to hear he hadn’t considered himself a member of the Church of England, however rarely he attended services. It was the colonel who had first made Daisy’s thoughts turned to war. She had said as much to Alec hadn’t she? He was looking for connections, and she had wondered …

  Connections. Three bodies connected by burial close to one another in Epping Forest, connected by the manner of their death, connected by the paper targets pinned to their chests. Where had Daisy heard of such a thing before?

  Gervaise, she thought. Her brother, patriotic, Anglican, an officer, and dead, hadn’t he told her, on his one and only leave from France, that they pinned targets over the hearts of deserters when they were shot? Or had it been one
of the officers in the military hospital where she had worked in the office? Too cowardly to be a VAD nurse tending their gruesome wounds, she had talked to them when they were safely bandaged. Those capable of speech.

  Someone had told her only the rank and file were shot when they ran away. Patriotic Anglican officers were sent to special hospitals, whence, once deemed cured of cowardice, they were returned to the front.

  Pencote – she didn’t know whether he had been an officer, but if once he had been patriotic, he was no more, not as Gervaise would have understood it. Perhaps if he had been a coward, he’d have been sent to a hospital instead of having his legs blown off. Pencote, striking out in vain at his tormentor with his crutch … Miss Bascombe with her hand on Tesler’s arm …

  Tesler, attaining serenity in Meeting … Miss Bascombe scared to death of something …

  Who the coward, who the hero, who the villain, who the fool?

  Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall … Shall what? Trying to remember, Daisy drifted off to sleep at last.

  In the morning, when a chambermaid came in with early-morning tea, Daisy awoke with jumbled, fading memories of last night’s ideas, fancies, or dreams floating through her head. Just one image was still clear in her mind: Pencote flailing at Harriman with his crutch. Could Harriman, after long hours supervising sports day, have failed to move fast enough to get out of range?

  She had to talk to Sakari. What time was it? She reached for her wrist-watch – nearly eight o’clock already. The hotel stopped serving breakfast at nine on weekdays, so they had agreed to meet in the dining room at half-past eight.

  Daisy got up and washed, wishing she had brought more clothes. She was supposed to be at home by now. She had washed out her knickers and stockings last night, and they were dry enough to wear. It wasn’t raining, thank goodness. Sun and cloud alternated, so her summer-weight costume would do, and the flowery blouse she had worn on Saturday evening was still presentable.

  She knocked on Sakari’s door.

  ‘Daisy? I’ll be with you in five minutes.’

  ‘All right. I’m going down.’

  Hardly anyone was about. The parents who had come for the weekend had apparently escaped Inspector Gant’s clutches, presumably leaving their names and addresses behind them. The commercial travellers who made up most of the Rose and Crown’s usual clientèle wouldn’t arrive for a few hours. The dining room was empty but for a couple of professional-looking men sitting alone, who had an indefinable air of being bachelors who always breakfasted here, and a lounging waiter.

  Daisy sat at a table by a window and ordered coffee and breakfast for two, knowing it wouldn’t come for at least five minutes. Sakari arrived first.

  ‘Good morning, Daisy. I hope you slept well?’

  ‘Actually, no. I hardly slept a wink. Did you?’

  ‘Oh yes. You suffered from indigestion—’

  ‘I never get indigestion!’

  ‘—from a surfeit of religion, perhaps, not to mention murder. I leave the worrying about murder to you.’

  ‘I am worried. You don’t mind talking about it?’

  ‘Not in the least. I am all agog to hear your latest theory.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  They dropped the subject momentarily as breakfast arrived. The waiter poured coffee and removed the silver-plate dish covers. Milk and sugar; salt and pepper; toast, butter and marmalade were passed.

  Hungry as she was, Daisy scarcely noticed what was on her plate. As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, she said, ‘Sakari, I have an awful feeling that Mr Pencote might have killed Harriman.’

  ‘Nonsense, Daisy, he is a cripple. Inspector Gant has already considered him and decided it would be impossible.’

  ‘That in itself is almost a good enough reason for thinking it’s possible!’

  Sakari chuckled. ‘This is true. But only almost a good enough reason. The man has no legs.’

  ‘I still think he could have done it. I saw him take a swipe at Harriman with one of his crutches. Harriman was already moving onwards so the crutch missed by a mile. I doubt whether he even noticed. But supposing he stopped to talk and was his usual offensive self. Like everyone else, he’d think of Pencote as harmless, defenceless. He wouldn’t be watching out for an attack. And Pencote, having missed before, might have hit out again with no expectation of landing a blow.’

  ‘You do not believe he intended to kill Harriman?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m sure he didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Surely he cannot be strong enough to hit hard enough to kill!’

  ‘Think about it, Sakari. Imagine how much effort it must take to hang your whole weight from your arms, not just for a second or two, but for a long time.’

  ‘I could not do it for a second or two.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I could, either. Pencote does. And on top of that, he has to move the crutches with his weight hanging from them, controlling them with his muscles so that he doesn’t lose his balance. I’m sure his arms and shoulders must be very strong.’

  ‘I do not like this, Daisy.’

  ‘I told you, nor do I.’

  ‘Fortunately, even if he has the strength to kill Harriman, you cannot persuade me that he could then move the body to the Garden and hide it in the maze.’

  ‘No, I can’t work out how he could do it. But I like the answer even less. Tesler and Miss Bascombe must have done that part. Pencote and Tesler are close friends, and Miss Bascombe is in love with Tesler. Knowing it was an accident, they would have helped him.’

  ‘Why are you so certain Mr Pencote was involved? Is it not possible that the other two were responsible for everything? After all, Harriman’s insult to Tesler was much more unpleasant than that he offered Pencote, which, indeed, he himself may not have intended as an insult. There are few men who would be angry at being called a hero.’

  ‘True, and of course it’s physically possible. But psychologically – you’re the one who goes to lectures on psychology. Can you imagine Mahatma Gandhi attacking someone who called him a coward?’

  ‘No. He has been subject to worse insults.’

  ‘Tesler also suffered for his abhorrence of violence. What makes it still more improbable: if it was Tesler, it would have had to be a deliberate attack, not an unthinking striking out.’

  ‘This I like still less! I am exceedingly glad that we are merely speculating. You do not feel obliged to explain your theory to the inspector, I trust?’

  ‘To Ghastly Gant? Certainly not! I doubt I’d even tell Alec, if it were his case. As you say, it’s pure speculation.’ But if nothing of the sort had happened, why was Miss Bascombe so upset?

  ‘If you intend to do nothing about it, you had best stop worrying about it,’ said Sakari practically. ‘What are your plans for today?’

  ‘I thought I’d walk up to the San to see how the girls are doing. Will you come?’

  ‘Walk!’

  Daisy shook her head with a smile. ‘You take a taxi, if you prefer. I could do with the exercise. It’ll clear my head, and it’s a nice day, not too hot and not raining.’

  ‘Yet. I want to read the newspaper, and I have some letters I ought to write. I shall get on with those. Tell Deva I shall come and see her this afternoon. I dare say Sister will be happier if her Sanatorium is not overflowing with anxious mothers.’

  ‘All right. I’ll be back by lunchtime.’

  Daisy went upstairs to fetch her hat and gloves. One of the school umbrellas leant against the wardrobe, where she had left it after returning from church. It ought to be returned, as should the one Sakari had borrowed, but Daisy refused to carry two umbrellas through the town and up the hill. Her shady straw cloche was adorned with a jaunty cockade, and she did wonder for a moment whether she should buy a black ribbon to substitute. However, it would be pure hypocrisy to don any sign of mourning for Harriman, she decided, besides looking very odd with her flowered blouse.

  The Market Square, King Stre
et and the High Street were busy with Monday morning shoppers. Two or three women nodded to Daisy in a friendly way. They must be Friends, with a capital F, who had seen her in Meeting, she presumed.

  Considering all Gant’s bustling about, the news of Harriman’s death must be widespread, even if it hadn’t yet reached the national press, but the inspector might very well have kept quiet about Daisy’s connection with it. The last thing he’d want was to have the name of Fletcher – Mrs Alec Fletcher – associated with his murder case.

  Daisy paused at the top of the High Street, where it forked, to look at the War Memorial. So many names, representing so much misery! She crossed the street to read the inscription: ‘For perpetual remembrance of the men of Saffron Walden who laid down their lives for their country in the Great War 1914–1919. The victor heroes rest in many lands but here the symbol of their glory stands.’

  What price glory? The glory faded but the misery dragged on and on.

  Daisy crossed to the Debden Road and went on up the hill to the Sanatorium. A ping on the bell in the hall brought no response. She assumed Sister was dealing with a patient, so she sat down to wait.

  Several minutes passed. Wondering whether to go in search of Sister, or even the girls, Daisy regretfully decided that the risk of walking in on some embarrassing nursing procedure was too great. Then the front door opened and Miss Bascombe came in.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Fletcher. I didn’t … Sorry, I …’ As she turned slightly to close the door behind her, Daisy saw that her face was very pale, her shoulders slumped.

  ‘Come and sit down, Miss Bascombe. You don’t look at all well. I’m not sure where Sister is. Shall I go and find her?’

  ‘Oh no, I’ll wait. I just …’ She dropped limply onto a chair. ‘I have a simply awful headache. Matron gave me a powder last night, but it didn’t really help. I hope Sister’s got something stronger.’

  ‘I expect so,’ Daisy said, sympathetic and encouraging. ‘Headaches are miserable. One can ignore pain in a foot or an elbow, but when it’s in one’s head, it’s impossible to get away from. I thought you looked not quite comfortable in Meeting yesterday.’