FORTY-SIX
‘See?’ Robinson de Griffon cried triumphantly. ‘See this?’
He was pacing up and down the tent at double speed, his arms pumping, legs straight out and stiff. Cecil followed him, snapping at his heels.
‘And this!’
The captain began to hop, alternating one leg with another, pyjama bottoms flapping. He looked so ludicrous that Mrs Gregson had to laugh. ‘Can you stop now? One of us will burst an organ.’
He collapsed onto the bed, a smile on his face, his chest heaving. ‘I am well enough to be discharged,’ he said at last.
‘Major Watson ought to have the last say in that,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘And I have to go and serve tea. Would you like some? As long as you don’t tell Sister its provenance.’
‘Mrs Gregson, have a heart. I can’t rely on Major Watson. Lord knows where he is off gallivanting to now.’
She had to agree. He had come in with Cecil under his arm, his eyes wild with excitement, almost feverish, she would have said. He had asked Captain de Griffon a few questions about poison gas, and then declared his intention to visit Burnt-Out Lodge. He had also mentioned something about Winston Churchill and sending Miss Pippery off with a telegram. He had been babbling, as if a whole clutch of sentences were trying to get out of his mouth at once. Mrs Gregson wondered if his brain had scrambled into dementia or, rather unkindly, if he had been at the morphia. The calm, reassuring gentleman doctor she knew seemed to have deserted, leaving a voluble Mr Hyde in his place.
‘Look, my whole company has pulled out,’ said de Griffon, in measured tones. ‘All gone up to the front for another stint. I really need to be with them. There are young, frightened men in their ranks who, strange as it may sound, look to me for guidance. I’m not a professional soldier. Not that long ago I was an idiot subaltern. But my job is to lead the men by showing them the correct way to behave, both in and out of combat. If they think their officer is shirking—’
‘Nobody can think that,’ she objected. ‘Not after what you have been through.’
He shook his head ruefully. ‘Mrs Gregson, I wouldn’t be the first officer to find a creative way out of this madness. But upon my return to England, if God spares me, I will take up my role as Lord Stanwood.’
‘You are Lord Stanwood?’
‘Both my father and brother are dead. My mother lives in that great house all alone but for a cook, a single maid, and Harry the chauffeur. Who is not the man he was. My job will be to return Flitcham to the house it was before my father took ill, and to make sure the mills are ready for the peacetime economy. A great many of the lads in my unit will be my employees. They’ll want their jobs back. Imagine if they lose all respect for me, for the family name. It’s a recipe for disaster. One thing that is going to be very difficult when all this is over is getting back to normal, to bring back the old order. Dereliction of duty by me won’t help.’ He pushed back his hair from his forehead and Mrs Gregson thought he was really quite attractive when he was agitated.
‘I didn’t realize. That you’d lost . . . that you were now the head of the family.’
‘Head of the wicked de Griffons.’
‘I didn’t say that . . .’
‘I think you did. But I promise. After the war, no more wickedness. I know I said I wanted the old order back, but it will never be quite the same. Good Lord, how many lords have shared a trench or a shellhole with their men, watched them die, carried them from . . . ? What I mean is, I can’t see them as faceless pawns on a board after this. Ever. Nor will I ever think of women in quite the same way.’
’I’m pleased to hear it, Lord Stanwood.’
‘Good Lord, no, not here. That’s for the future. Robinson, please.’
‘I think that might have to wait a while longer, too,’ boomed Sister Spence. She had slid in behind them, unseen and unheard. ‘I thought I told you not to fraternize with the officers, Mrs Gregson.’
‘Sister, this is all my fault. I sent for Mrs Gregson. I needed to know how Major Watson’s investigation was proceeding. Please, if you are going to shout at anyone, shout at me.’
Sister Spence tutted at the thought. ‘I knew having VADs would turn the place upside down. What with Field Marshal Haig on the way—’
‘Sir Douglas won’t be here long,’ said de Griffon. ‘Not in any hospital. I hear he doesn’t like to see the end result of his grand schemes.’ He winked. ‘Better to think of them as faceless pawns on a board, eh, Mrs Gregson?’
The VAD wondered how he could possibly know this about Haig, but for once she kept quiet.
‘So, there we are,’ de Griffon announced, as if a mutual decision had been reached. ‘I’m going to get dressed now and I’d appreciate it if neither of you lovely ladies stood in my way. I’ll answer to Major Watson for my actions. Oh, and one last thing, Mrs Gregson.’
‘Yes?’
‘I wouldn’t mind that tea before I go.’
Watson’s first thought was to grab a wooden hay rake and push the belching hose back under the door. He scooped one off the wall and advanced on the cloud, but already, in less than a minute, the sickly-coloured fog was so thick he could hardly see the point of origin. He held his breath, turned his head away and sent the wooden implement into the mist, jabbing like an ineffectual prizefighter.
The amorphous monster, however, struck back and within an instant Watson’s eyes were aflame as the chemicals attacked his conjunctivae. It was like having oil of vitriol flung in his face. He squeezed his lids shut as tightly as he could and retreated towards Lord Lockie. The horse could now smell the pungent gas and he began to shake his head and snort violently.
Think, Watson. Think, man.
He looked around the solid, stone barn, but the only windows were piercings high up by the roof line. There was no hayloft to clamber up to. At the end of each stall divider, upright wooden beams, fat and square, ran from the floor to the open rafters and tie beams. No doubt the roof tiles could be penetrated, if only he could reach them. But they were twenty-five feet away.
Now he began coughing for real as the first of the corrosive molecules attacked his upper airways. He looked down. Tendrils of the whiteish gas were curling at his feet and slowly climbing his leg. Very slowly. The straw was rippling in places as rats and mice scurried away from the danger.
Heavier than air.
The phrase leaped into his head. Chlorine gas was heavier than air. He had to get higher. He put a foot on a crossbeam and heaved himself up onto a stall divider, clinging on to one of the vertical supports. Could he shimmy up that? Unlikely. If he did, would he be able to lift the tiles? Nearly every building he had seen hereabouts had lost part of its roof, but here it was maddeningly intact.
‘Help!’ he tried to yell, but that just ended in a terrible hacking. Now, though, even coughing was beyond him. He was choking. His throat was constricting. He fumbled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, folded it and held it to his mouth and nose.
Lord Lockie was stamping, thumping the ground and making strange barking noises. He reared up, and Watson’s perch shook under him as the hoofs thumped down. The horse did it again, his calls of distress louder. There were equine nose plugs, anti-gas hoods and goggles in sporadic use along the front, but Watson could recall no evidence of them in the stable. Man and beast were in this together.
What was the antidote to chlorine gas? What did they soak those hypo helmets in? Calcium hypochlorite and glycerine. No help. But there was another possibility. The first anti-chlorine pads were impregnated with urine. The ammonia in the urine had a delaying effect on the gas. But, as he balanced precariously on the divide, he thought of the impossibility of trying to successfully soak his handkerchief in his own urine. Tricky to balance. And would his bladder comply? But perhaps there was no alternative except to try. He had to buy himself some time. With a free hand he reached down for his buttons.
Lord Lockie reared up in the stall to his full height, his teeth exposed and head blurred as he tried to shake off the terrible burning that was afflicting him. His whole body quivered in pain and he flung himself against the side of the stall. There was a terrible crack and the wood underneath Watson twisted and splintered. He managed to hang on to the upright with one leg waving free. Then, the thrashing head caught the doctor a full blow on his flank. Watson found himself in mid-air, arms flailing, falling head first into a swirl of billowing green vapour, a series of gaseous arms that appeared to reach up to welcome him into their embrace.