THURSDAY
THIRTY-EIGHT
The rejuvenating power of sleep once more worked its wonder, dragging Watson back from what had been a yawning abyss of despair when he had laid his head on the pillow. His mood was lifted further by the discovery of a pair of thick socks at the foot of his bed. They had been hand-knitted. He remembered what Churchill had said. The way to win a soldier’s heart and mind was through clean socks.
He was already up and dressed when Brindle arrived with tea and he was again busy writing down his own account of what had happened over the last forty-eight hours. Watson hoped that putting things down in logical order might present some sort of solution, but no new insight was granted him. The link, if it was a link, suggested that all the victims had come from the same regiment, indeed the same company, although this Hornby was from a different platoon.
As he supped his tea, his mind drifted off to what, exactly, Mrs Gregson had promised in order to establish Hornby’s identity. He knew his moral standards were formed in another century, but nevertheless he felt uneasy. It was true that widows were not expected to have the same level of decorum as an unmarried woman – he certainly did not feel as defensive towards Mrs Gregson as Staff Nurse Jennings or Miss Pippery – but he hoped she hadn’t compromised herself for his sake. Or, the sake of the investigation he should say.
On whose authority are you investigating?
It was the stentorian tones of Major Torrance invading his thoughts this time. And the major was right. Once he had a full set of facts, he had to involve the Military Police. He would do so that very day. And he would have to tell Mrs Gregson that exhuming Hornby’s body without official sanction – did that include the permission of the next of kin he wondered? – was out of the question. But first, he had a few small chores to perform.
He scooped up the mahogany box containing the Colt .45 and went along to Caspar Myles’s room. There was no reply. He hesitated before turning the handle on the primitive latch system – the monastery had clearly not believed in keys or privacy – and entered the room. The curtains were still drawn and he pulled them back to let in some of the grey morning light.
The bed, as far as he could tell, had not been slept in. It was possible that Dr Myles had bedded down in the wards – that was not unusual if there was a patient that needed a careful watch.
And then, plucked from his memory apparently at random, came a phrase. ‘And I told Dr Myles I would not even contemplate a dinner this evening without a chaperone.’
There it was: this evening. Somehow the timing had failed to register or his ageing brain had not had the wherewithal to hang on to it.
Myles had asked her to dinner the previous evening, she had nominated Watson as chaperone and come to find him at the transfusion tent. He, of course, had clearly been in no position to come along anywhere. So she had . . . what?
He hurried out of the room, slamming the door behind him, and went down to the transfusion tent, where he found de Griffon sitting up in bed, a smile on his face and a mug of tea in his hand. He and Mrs Gregson were giggling about something, but stifled the laughter when they saw Watson, and the concern distorting his features.
‘Morning, Captain,’ he said. ‘Feeling better?’
‘To be frank, I didn’t expect to be feeling anything. I owe you a debt of thanks, Major Watson, as Mrs Gregson here was just explaining.’
‘Mrs Gregson and Miss Pippery played their parts. I’d like to ask you some questions, if you feel strong enough, Captain.’ De Griffon nodded. ‘And Mrs Gregson, I wonder if I could ask you a small favour. Do you think you could locate Staff Nurse Jennings for me?’
Mrs Gregson, clearly suspecting a ruse to exclude her from the session, hesitated. She wanted, and deserved, answers as much as the major.
‘It’s important,’ Watson said, with a grimness that convinced her it wasn’t mere subterfuge.
‘Very well.’
‘Oh, by the way, my feet are lovely and warm,’ he said, to try and lighten the mood.
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
‘New socks,’ he explained.
‘Congratulations,’ she said, as if baffled.
Watson still had the Colt box in his hand and he laid it down on a spare bed. Before he began the questions, Watson took the captain’s temperature and pulse. He appeared to be entirely back to normal.
‘You were lucky.’
‘Lucky to have you two,’ de Griffon said.
‘Mrs Gregson seems to have got over any objection to you and your family.’
‘Really, we capitalists are not so bad once you get to know us, Major. I think she was confusing my family history with the current generation. My father is dead, my brother is dead. I have spent time with the men of Leigh. I have seen what fine fellows they are on the whole. Rough and ready perhaps, but salt of the earth. Look at Platt, the sergeant. One of twelve children, of whom four survived. You know when the children died, they couldn’t afford to bury them? The hearses up there have little compartments at the front, so a child could be buried with an adult, any adult, to defray the cost.’
Watson nodded. He had seen plenty of child deaths in his time: scarlet fever, diphtheria, consumption, polio. He knew what a burden the burial could be on a family that could barely afford one meal a day.
‘His mother died of TB when he was twelve, which is when he started doing split days – morning at school, afternoon at the mill. Father was a drunkard, by all accounts, so it was Platt who raised his brothers, starting full time at the mill at fourteen. The lives we made those people lead . . . I tell you, I intend to be a very different kind of owner if God spares me this war.’
‘I am pleased to hear it. But first, we have to establish who or what did this to you. Whether one of your salt-of-the-earth is not quite as benevolent as you think. You were poisoned, you know. Just like Shipobottom.’
De Griffon looked grave. ‘Even I worked that out for myself, Major. But I can’t imagine who in my company would want to kill me. You have to remember, Major Watson, that I never had any dealings with Leigh. The mills were the business of my brother and my father. I was being groomed to look after the estates. But with them both gone, well, it changes things.’
‘One of which is that you are now Lord Stanwood?’
‘I am, but I’m not about to shout about that. The “de” in de Griffon is bad enough. If I called attention to my new status, why, they’d be wondering if they should call me Captain, Sir or your lordship. Do they tug at their forelock? Take their caps off? No, that’s something to address later, if I get through this. And if I don’t, there is a young cousin who will inherit. So please, do not use the title.’
‘Of course. But you’ll continue with the family business? With the cotton?’
‘We shall have to see. Major, I have never even visited our Satanic Mills, except for once when I was young, paraded through the spinning rooms like . . . well, I blush to think of it. Like some visiting prince. All I really remember is the sparks off the steel caps on the women’s clogs as they walked down the cobbled streets. Fascinated me. But it’s not my town. Everything I know about Platt, for instance, I know from talking with him or keeping my ears open. Not first-hand.’
‘But someone could have a grudge against the whole family? In the same way Mrs Gregson reacted badly to the de Griffon name.’
‘It’s feasible. Although let me assure you, the de Griffons weren’t the worst of the owners by a long chalk. Some would say that we’ve been enlightened for decades.’
‘Except for union s.’
‘With respect, we were no different from the other mills, as far as I know. From this distance, it looks like unreasonable behaviour, but you underestimate the threat the owners felt from organized labour. It seemed likely they could lose everything. But it’s different now. Most mills have union s. Including ours. Look, even if there was a vendetta against my family, why kill Shipobottom?’
‘Did Shipobottom work at your mill?’
‘Yes. One of them. And his father before him. But as spinners. Regular folk, you might say. Not bosses. Not even overseers.’
‘And Hornby?’
‘Eddie Hornby? Yes, I believe he was a Blackstone lad, too. He wasn’t in my company. And he was gassed, I believe. Not poisoned.’
‘That’s not necessarily true. Mrs Gregson recalled that, in death, Hornby’s face reminded her of poor Shipobottom. And Mrs Gregson checked: there was no record at Bailleul of any gas attack victims from this section of the line. How could he have been exposed?’
The captain bit his lip.
‘What is it?
‘The thing is, Major, C Company have been put under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Charles Foulkes. Do you know what that means?’
Watson shook his head. ‘I am afraid I don’t.’
De Griffon scratched at his forehead. ‘This is all rather difficult. Foulkes has been raising Special Companies for each section of the line.’
‘Special in what way?’
He laughed at the absurdity of it all. ‘I’m not allowed to tell you. The full title is BSGC, but nobody is allowed to say the “G” word.’
‘Gas?’
‘I didn’t say that. Any soldier mentioning it is likely to find themselves strapped to a gun limber.’ This was Field Punishment Number One, being left tied to the wheel of a gun carriage with no food or water for a specified period, often in atrocious weather. ‘So you’ll hear the words “special measures” a great deal, or “accessories” or some such euphemism.’
‘But we’ve used gas before,’ objected Watson. ‘At Loos.’
‘Yes. In so-called “retaliation”. But the powers that be don’t want the scale of our offensive preparations known. How can we decry the beastly Hun for its barbaric methods when we are preparing to do the same? If not worse?’
Watson rubbed his forehead like a magic lamp. No genie of clarity appeared, however. ‘So these symptoms could be caused by accidental exposure to gas?’
‘Certainly in Hornby’s instance, because he was in charge of one of the special measures dumps at Burnt-Out Lodge, as we call it. It’s the next farm along from Suffolk. How Shipobottom and I could have been exposed is another matter.’
Watson fetched himself some water while he considered this. Had he been barking up the wrong tree? Had he made a fool of himself insisting there was murder – or in de Griffon’s case attempted murder – here? It was well known that both sides were busy creating ever more hideous ways to kill and maim. There were anonymous men in hidden installations all across Europe whose jobs were the perfection of death in all its forms. The Germans had certainly used cyanide formulations to cause heart problems. But, he reminded himself, there was no gas yet invented that he knew of that could scratch Roman numerals in a man’s skin. Or had he been wrong about those marks and read too much into a couple of scratches?
He remembered Burnt-Out Lodge. It was next to the field of mules, the place with the sentries on the tower, covering all the approaches. So it was gas that needed protecting.
‘Have you ever drunk from the well at the farm?’
‘No. Early on the Germans threw some dead livestock down there. I know what you are thinking – it is contaminated, but not by gas.’
Watson instantly dismissed that train of thought. ‘Captain, when you left me with Shipobottom’s body, did you go straight back to Suffolk Farm?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘I need to establish what you ate or drank or came into contact with prior to your attack.’
‘Well, I was going to ride back immediately – I brought Lord Lockie, my best horse, over – but I was intercepted by Caspar Myles. He invited me for a drink.’
‘Why would Dr Myles do that?’
The captain shrugged to show it was perfectly routine. ‘Well, we’d never actually met before, but he is a friend of the family.’
‘Myles?’ asked Watson, unable to hide his surprise, ‘A friend of the de Griffons?’
‘Yes. I know he doesn’t sound like a Southerner, but his family is big in American cotton. To be honest, I suspect they were Yankee carpetbaggers at the end of the civil war, who grabbed themselves a few choice plantations. So, the Myleses and the de Griffons have been doing business for, oh, half a century.’
‘And you had a drink with him?’
‘Several, in fact there was a lot of gossip to catch up on. Look, you don’t really think—’
Watson raised a hand to prevent any futile speculation. ‘I don’t know what to think at this juncture.’
Mrs Gregson returned, alone. ‘I couldn’t find Staff Nurse Jennings, Major. I did find Sister Spence, who was a little, um, surprised to see me back. Although furious might be a better description. I am to vacate the premises at once. However, she did manage to squeeze out of her pursed lips that Staff Nurse Jennings apparently took the several days’ leave owing to her last night. Sister Spence didn’t seem best pleased about her behaviour.’
Watson didn’t like the sound of this one little bit. The American and Jennings absent at the same time pointed in a direction he didn’t care for. Watson turned back to de Griffon. ‘Has Caspar Myles ever visited the mills?’
‘In Leigh? Yes, as a matter of fact, a few years ago, before he decided to pursue medicine. Major Watson, you are scaring me now. Are you saying my having a drink with Caspar Myles—’
‘Did Myles say anything about where he might be going today?’
De Griffon furrowed his brow trying to remember. ‘No, but he did moan a great deal about the British. Apparently we are a terribly stuffy bunch with no sense of fun. Said he missed the company of Americans and had a mind to go and visit his old chums at the All-Harvard Volunteers sometime soon.’
‘Mrs Gregson, will you please write down every movement that Captain de Griffon here made after leaving Dr Myles. I just need to look into something.’
‘What about Sister Spence? She told me to go and never darken her wards again.’
Watson had already steeled himself to tackle bigger foes than a razor-tongued sister. ‘Leave her to me.’
Watson found Torrance’s adjutant, Captain Symonds, in the main house, in a small anteroom next to the major’s office. He barged in and kicked the door closed behind him. Symonds looked up, his pen frozen in the act of countersigning an order.
‘I am afraid Major Torrance is rather busy this morning, Major,’ he began, once he had recovered from his shock at such a rude entry.
‘It’s not the major I want to see, Symonds, it’s you.’
‘Me?’
‘What had Dr Myles done to disgrace himself?’ he asked bluntly.
‘I’m sorry . . .’
‘When we first met, you were rather keen to steer the conversation away from Dr Myles and the fact he had come here under a cloud.’
‘He’s a fine doctor—’
Watson brought a fist down on the desk and an inkpot toppled over, bleeding a blue-black pool over some papers. Symonds leaped to his feet with an oath and grabbed a sheaf of blotters. ‘Major, for crying out loud. These are important documents.’
Watson swept them off the desk with one brisk movement of his arm. Symonds looked aghast. In fact, he looked as if he would like to convene a firing squad there and then. ‘This is an outrage. Major Torrance said he thought the balance of your mind was disturbed—’
‘It is,’ Watson agreed, enjoying the look of discomfort on Symonds’s face. ‘It is disturbed at how you people can be so complacent. So he is a fine doctor. I hear tell Dr Crippen’s patients spoke highly of him, too. I am sure somewhere there were people who thought Jack the Ripper was a first-class surgeon, such a pity about his other little hobby. Now, what did Myles do?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, there was some unpleasant personal business.’
Watson leaped on the mealy-mouthed word like a big cat onto the back of a gazelle. ‘Unpleasant? Unpleasant? What on earth does that mean exactly?’
‘I don’t know. We didn’t ask for details. The chap was in a bit of trouble. His commanding officer asked if we’d like a doctor, no questions asked. Well, we had to check whether there was any professional incompetence. It turned out there was an incident with a nurse. But you know what these girls are like around doctors. No, perhaps a man your age doesn’t. But I have seen them at work. Bag a doctor and the whole war has been worthwhile to them. If they can’t get a doctor, an officer will do just as nicely.’
Watson felt like taking a leaf from Holmes’s pugilistic handbook and striking the man full on the chin with a left hook, but instead he took a moment to recover his composure. He was still suffering from having donated a fair percentage of his blood volume, and his head was thumping wildly. The last thing he needed was to find himself on a ward, having fainted or worse. ‘Where are the All-Harvard Volunteers based?’
‘Major Watson, if you are going to stir up trouble—’
‘I am not going to stir anything that isn’t there already. We have a man who nearly died last night, poisoned by an unknown hand or agent, plus two who did expire, and we have a missing nurse and a lost American doctor with what Scotland Yard would call “form”. And everything points to them being connected. I just want to know where the Americans that foisted Myles upon you are.’
Symonds took a deep breath, considering whether to answer this madman. In the end, he concluded it was the easiest way to get rid of him. ‘The Harvards are attached to a French base hospital, just southwest of Armentières. A village called Nieppe, across the border.’
‘Right. Thank you.’
‘I shall have to report this to Major Torrance,’ said Symonds to Watson’s back as he left. Watson glanced over his shoulder and gave the man a parting glare. He was surprised to find that he had enjoyed his little moment of madness. He should burst his stays more often.
And he wasn’t worried about Torrance; he had other matters on his mind. Firstly, he had to send a cable to his old friend Dr Anwar back in Egypt. Then, he had two things to collect from the transfusion tent. One was a sample of de Griffon’s blood. The French base hospitals had excellent haematology labs, the country being a great believer in the analysis of bodily fluids of every description. The second was the Colt .45 that Myles had presented to Watson, doubtless never thinking his own gun might be used against him.