FIFTY-EIGHT
Watson had just read the telegram from Egypt and was digesting the contents when Lieutenant Tobias Gregson arrived. The major had been anticipating this all morning. Staff Nurse Jennings had suggested that the man must be a relation of Mrs Gregson, but Watson had assured her this was unlikely, once he had discovered the man’s Christian name. He knew Tobias Gregson of old. He must be almost the same age as Watson, certainly no more than ten years younger – what a gap in age and experience that had seemed at the time.
Miss Pippery ushered the policeman into the transfusion tent where, in the absence of any major offensives or hate bombardments, Watson was still the only patient. ‘Major Watson, sir,’ Gregson said, as he took off his red cap.
Watson was confounded. The man was thirty years junior to the chap he had expected. He had a young, unlined face and a handsome black moustache. His eyes were bright and unclouded, with dark hair swept back from the beginnings of a widow’s peak. This was certainly not the Tobias Gregson he had once known.
‘Lieutenant Tobias Gregson of the Military Foot Police, Investigations Division. Are you all right, sir?’ He glanced at the VAD. ‘I can come back.’
‘No, no. Miss Pippery, some water, please.’ He took the glass and gulped. ‘And tea? Lieutenant?’
‘Splendid, yes.’ He waited until they were alone. ‘How are you, sir?’
‘Well,’ said Watson. ‘They tell me every day from now on I should treat as bonus. I’ve won the tontine. Lucky to be alive.’
‘We are all pleased you are, Major.’ He unbuttoned his top pocket and took out a notebook. He adopted a more formal tone. ‘I am here to investigate the exact circumstances that led to the death of a soldier at Suffolk Farm.’
‘Which soldier?’
‘And also, I am afraid, to evaluate your role in the proceedings.’
‘Why afraid?’
Lieutenant Gregson sighed. ‘My superiors feel that you should have involved the RMP earlier, sir.’
‘Do they? And been laughed at?’
The policeman shook his head in a grave manner. ‘We take this very seriously.’
‘Only now there has been a casualty you can’t blame on blood transfusion.’
He looked puzzled. ‘You’ve lost me there, sir.’
‘Pull up that chair, Lieutenant.’ The policeman did so and Watson gave a quick recap of the deaths of Hornby and Shipobottom, and the near-demise of de Griffon.
‘I see,’ he said in a manner that suggested he had no such insight.
‘And had I suggested that in the midst of the carnage of the Western Front, someone was taking the time to murder fellow soldiers, I would have been given short shrift. I get the distinct impression you MPs are more concerned with AWOLs, desertions and traffic control than actual crime.’
Gregson looked offended by the slur. ‘That’s primarily the mounted division. At the beginning of 1915 twenty of us were seconded from Scotland Yard—’
‘You’re from the Yard?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Now he was really confused. ‘I knew a Tobias Gregson. Of the Yard.’
‘I know, sir. He told me all about you. My father.’
‘Really?’ He couldn’t help feeling a warm glow at such a connection to his old life. ‘Holmes always said he was the best of the Scotland Yarders.’
Gregson nodded, then added with a twinkle, ‘He also said that wasn’t actually saying all that much.’
Watson, who had been the real author of that comment, said, ‘Nonsense. We always liked him. How is he?’
‘He passed away just before war broke out.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes. Although in a way, a blessing. He would have hated,’ Gregson waved his notebook around the ward, ‘all this. All this noble sacrifice, as they call it. He would even hate me being here. But I must get back to the matter in hand.’
‘You can begin by telling me the identity of the man shot by Captain de Griffon.’
The lieutenant flipped a few pages in the book. ‘It was a sergeant. Man called Platt.’
‘Platt?’ Watson almost shouted the name.
‘You’d met, apparently.’
‘Yes, he helped me saddle poor Lord Lockie. The horse that had to be put down. Why on earth . . . ?’
‘We think the reason he killed Sergeant Shipobottom was to take his place. Promotion.’
‘Promotion? And de Griffon? The man who promoted him?’
‘Perhaps he was afraid the captain would change his mind. Or discover the murder. He also had a written undertaking from de Griffon that he would have a position as a tattler in the mills once hostilities had ceased. It’s some kind of overlooker, by all accounts.’
Watson grunted his assent. ‘Oversees the looms, I believe.’
‘Well, with the captain out of the way, I have no doubt that the family would have honoured the appointment.’
Watson didn’t feel the usual excitement that came when a solution presented itself. Instead, he heard the swirl of waters being muddied. ‘And me? Why try to kill me?’
‘Perhaps you were getting close to the truth.’
It wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. ‘Not to that truth, Lieutenant. That truth wasn’t even a twinkle in my eye.’
The tea arrived. Watson was glad of the interruption. The whole business didn’t make any kind of sense to him. There was an inevitability about, an elegance to, the correct interpretation of a series of events. He had seen it time and time again, a golden thread running through a Gordian knot of dead ends and diversions. Not in this case. ‘You’ve spoken to de Griffon?’
‘Yes. Something of a broken man, sir,’ said Gregson.
‘After shooting Platt? Understandable.’
A slight raise of the eyebrow. ‘After shooting the horse, I think.’
‘Ahh. Of course,’ said Watson. ‘So, will the Military Police take action against de Griffon for the killing? Of the soldier, not the horse.’ Although with the British Army, one could never be sure. Sometimes there were more tears shed over one dead pony than a thousand slaughtered men.
Gregson shook his head. ‘Good officers are in short supply. He acted in self-defence. And to rescue you. We are assuming the balance of Sergeant Platt’s mind was disturbed.’
Watson picked up the telegram and handed it to the policeman. ‘Read that.’
‘Sugar?’ Miss Pippery asked.
‘Two please,’ said Gregson, as he read. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘My friend Anwar in Egypt. A doctor who helped me with the transfusion experiments. I asked him to investigate the death of a captain in Egypt. Leverton. He died sometime after I left the country.’
‘Cyanosis,’ the policeman read.
‘A blue colour to the skin.’
‘Thank you. Terrible grin. Spastic limbs . . .’
‘And?’
‘A roman numeral carved on one arm. Post mortem.’
‘Which numeral?’ Watson prompted.
‘The number two.’
‘Two. Which suggests this man was the second victim. If Platt was the murderer, this little spree began back in Egypt. Perhaps before. We still have no idea who number one might be. You’ll need a motive to explain all that. A promotion to sergeant and the promise of a foreman’s position just won’t do.’
‘You don’t suspect who number one might be?’
‘No. And we aren’t certain yet that Hornby is three.’
‘And could you be mistaken about Shipobottom’s mark?’
‘I could be mistaken about a great many things. But I’m sure that was a number four on Shipobottom, not random scratches.’
‘And Captain de Griffon . . . if he was a potential victim?’
‘He should have a “V”, a Roman five. But remember, Shipobottom’s marks were post mortem. The poisoner might have intended to score de Griffon once the toxins had done their work.’
‘I see.’ Gregson looked thoughtful. ‘Does that not suggest the murderer might be someone who would know he would have access to the body?’
‘Such as?’ Watson asked.
‘A doctor. A nurse.’
‘An orderly, a stretcher-bearer or a gravedigger,’ Watson completed. Talking of which, where was Brindle? he wondered. ‘Possibly. We don’t tend to guard our dead as well as we might, though.’
‘Thank you,’ the policeman said to Miss Pippery as she handed him the tea. He took a sip and smiled. ‘Perfect.’
‘Sir, I hope you don’t mind me interrupting, but we have a Mrs Gregson here. Or did have until recently,’ said Miss Pippery.
‘I have interviewed her. At Bailleul hospital.’
Miss Pippery glanced at Watson. Her cheeks were glowing red with embarrassment. ‘We were wondering if she was a relative. Of yours.’
‘We’ were wondering? Watson began a gentle admonishment. ‘Miss Pippery, I’m not sure this is appropriate—’
‘That’s perfectly all right,’ Gregson said. ‘The answer is no, not really.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Pippery. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it—’
Watson spotted the evasion. ‘Not really? What is she then?’
The policeman swallowed hard and squirmed a little in the canvas chair. ‘Wife. Ex-wife, to be perfectly frank. We were divorced some years ago.’
Miss Pippery’s eyes grew to saucer size and her hand went to her mouth. She gave a small gasp of dismay. ‘But she told me . . .’
Gregson waited for her to finish the sentence. But Miss Pippery was unable to. ‘Divorced? From George?’
‘Georgina, yes. I am afraid so,’ he confirmed.
Miss Pippery turned and ran from the tent, leaving only the dying echo of a sob behind her.
‘Tricky subject. Divorce,’ said Watson. ‘Mrs Gregson told me she was a widow, too.’ What had she said? ‘In my experience nobody seems too concerned about the honour of an aging widow.’ He had naturally assumed she was referring to herself. But he hadn’t pursued it, not wanting to open old wounds.
‘I can’t blame her,’ said Gregson, running a hand through his hair. ‘There’s still a stigma.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the departed Miss Pippery. ‘Your nurse seemed rather upset by the news.’
‘Miss Pippery is a Catholic. At least I assume so by her cross,’ explained Watson. ‘She might be modern in some ways. But perhaps not divorce.’
‘I never wanted it, Major. I had no choice. Georgina was, is, a headstrong woman.’
‘Headstrong enough to save my life. If de Griffon hadn’t inveigled upon her to give him a lift to Suffolk Farm to collect Lord Lockie . . .’
‘Yes, quite.’ He paused. ‘Georgina joined the suffragettes in late 1906, perhaps early ’07. Just as I was making progress in my career at Scotland Yard. I blame myself. I couldn’t pay her my full attention. A policeman’s hours . . . Well, she got up to mischief. She couldn’t see how untenable the situation was for me. Always being arrested, civil disobedience and what have you. And then there was the trial. The last straw. I was told in no uncertain terms that if I wanted to remain a policeman, I would have to separate myself from her. Which I did.’
‘Trial?’
‘At the Old Bailey. You probably remember it. The Sutton Courtenay Outrage.’
It rang an ominous bell, but it was around the time he had been so wrapped up in the death of Emily, he had hardly picked up a newspaper. It was more a sensation than a clear memory, a prickling of the skin. ‘What was she on trial for?’ Watson asked, dreading the answer.
‘Attempted murder.’
‘Of whom?’
‘The Prime Minister.’