SEVENTY
‘I’ve had a lot of names in my time. I was Harry Legge for a while. Fond of that one. That could have been a good life. Nice cars, willing maids who didn’t mind a bit of upsie-daisy. I even did the cook, the old bat, just to keep her happy. Very popular man was Harry Legge. Thing is, I was there to get rid of Stanwood. Arthur de Griffon. Bimmy, as they called him. Now, originally I intended to go and do it quick. But then, I thought, why not make him suffer? After all, my mother suffered for years and years, didn’t she? I was having fun in the house. Real fun. So I poisoned him nice and slow. You don’t get the strange grin if you administer it over time. That only happens when you are in a hurry. Like here. Do you know what it is? This poison? My auntie discovered it when we were in Italy. The Sardinians used to use it for the ritual killing of the elders, people who had outlived their usefulness. Are you listening, Tugman?’
He tweaked the handle of the bayonet and the eyes popped back open. Tugman nodded.
‘It’s an extract of the water dropwort. Latin name Oenanthe crocata. Although Aunt Bess added her own little twist. Oleander, such a pretty flower, so lethal. Then, to cause the fitting, an extract of nux vomica. The three alkaloids together . . . well, I don’t have to tell you. Ah, the shitting the pants. Whoo, what a stink. That’s the oleander. I used a little more of that in your tincture. So, once the old man died . . . he was one of the hooded men in the Trolley Woods, wasn’t he? Although my Aunt Bess told me the song is wrong. It happened in the spinning room. No matter. Seven men in hoods took one young, frightened woman while the other was forced to watch. When they had finished they scratched seven lines on her breasts, one for each of them. Anyway, the old man finally died. I think it was the effort of trying to tell the doctor that I’d done it. Like with you, I waited until he had lost the power of everything till I whispered in his ear who I was. That’s the important thing. You have to know why you are dying. Otherwise, where is the justice? Where is the satisfaction?’
De Griffon unscrewed the lid of his hip flask and took a swallow. ‘No, don’t worry. This is the good stuff. Two flasks, you see. Just have to be careful to remember which is which. So, where was I? Yes, the old man expires, horribly, and then an opportunity presents itself. The son, Charles, whom I had no issue with, was killed not far from here. Lady Stanwood is bereft. They’ll be coming for Robinson next. Well, they would be if he wasn’t soft in the head. But nobody knew that. The shame of his being a simpleton had been kept from all but a few family members and loyal staff. He was harmless but, as you might say, daft as a brush. So Harry Legge had an idea. The de Griffons could pull a lot of strings up north. Harry would volunteer for the Leigh Pals as Robinson de Griffon. Over two years, he’d learned how to act posh. It was easy.’ Well, a slight exaggeration. It had taken a while to create the hard carapace of privilege that members of such families developed from birth. ‘And the Pals – all the men from the mills. There was a good chance I’d be able to get a few of the hooded men. I knew their names by now, of course. ’Cause some of them boasted about it. Wasn’t hard to discover who had been there under the canvas sacks.
‘So, Lady Stanwood would put it about that Harry had been injured – and badly scarred – rolling a car on the estate. And Robinson was going up north, where nobody knew him, to volunteer. He’d been there only once, as a child. At the end of the war, we were to swap back, and Harry gets a big fat stack of cash for his troubles. Nice cottage on the estate. Worked perfectly. It was a shame about Caspar Myles. Old friend of the family. I got cocky. Thought it amusing to carry on the deception. After a chat, though, he knew something was wrong. I made a few errors, apparently. I could see he was puzzled. So, I invited him to come for a drink. Whisky and water dropwort. Well, time moves on. I see I have to draw things to a conclusion.’
A rattling was coming from Tugman’s throat, squeezing its way past the billiard ball and the gag. The first grand mal took hold and his back arched.
‘You must have been what, Corporal, fifteen or sixteen when they told you they were going to teach those Trueloves a lesson? That you’d be one of the seven who violated poor Anne Truelove just for asking for the same money as the men. She lost her mind, you know. Never really spoke again. But she didn’t lose the baby. Bess saw to that. Bess, whom Anne had nobly saved from the same fate. Let you all have your way, while the little sister watched. Aunt Bess used to tell me that story over and over again. She’s dead now. But I promised her I would find the seven and make them suffer. I know, you’re thinking that young Moulton and Farrar, they weren’t there. No, but their fathers were, weren’t they? One of them’s gone now and the other has the Monday fever, the brown lung. But imagine what Moulton’s mother and Farrar’s parents will feel when they get a letter from me, describing how their sons died whimpering cowards? And how I’ll tell the whole town. I will take their names and make them laughing stocks. Don’t worry, I’ll be telling Farrar and Moulton all this before they die. In fact, their first symptoms should be occurring now. I’d best go.’
With some difficulty he pulled the blade free of the flesh, ignoring the blood that pulsed out in its wake. He took Tugman’s hand and, using the point of the blade, etched a roman numeral on it. Five. Just two to go and he could rest easy. He rooted in Tugman’s top pocket and found what he was looking for. ‘Cigarette?’
He masked the flame and the glowing tip while he lit it, and then forced the Woodbine into the corner of Tugman’s mouth. The corporal began to shake his head. Trying to dislodge it. But Johnny Truelove grabbed him by the waist and, staying low himself, lifted him clear of the edge of the shell hole.
The bullet came within two seconds, a small thump as it entered the skull, and Tugman slumped down dead.
‘Just like Lieutenant Metcalf. Give him my best.’
Truelove extinguished the cigarette and waited for a few minutes before he scrambled out of the shell hole and propelled himself on his belly towards the two men sheltering behind a fallen tree.
Ernst Bloch swore under his breath and broke cover. He crabbed over to where Schaeffer, his spotter, and Lothar were lying under their netting. ‘You f*cking idiot,’ he hissed.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Lothar. ‘That was a clean shot.’
Bloch put himself in the younger man’s face. ‘That was a ruse. Or something. Who lights a cigarette in no man’s land? Only someone who wants to commit suicide. Let’s move, now.’
‘Why?’
‘Before a grenade drops on our heads. Never trust an easy shot. It might even have been a dummy head. Even if it wasn’t, I’d wager it wasn’t an officer.’
Lothar mumbled to himself. Perhaps not an officer, but a good clean kill. And not easy, not without that fancy night sight that Bloch had. The sharpshooter, he thought, was just jealous. Still, he had been warned at the sniper school about dummy bodies out on no man’s land and a host of little deceptions to lull you into revealing your hiding place. Best be cautious. It was how you stayed alive, they said. ‘All right, do we go back or take up new positions?’
Bloch watched as thicker clouds shrouded the moon. The night was still young. And something, ruse or not, was happening out there. ‘New positions.’