A Study in Murder (10 page)

‘All British?’

‘A few French,’ offered Wallace. ‘Hut 18. Keep themselves to themselves. But mostly British, yes, from every service. Navy and RFC as well as army, I mean.’

‘So including the orderlies, we have, what? Just over a thousand men in camp?’ Watson asked.

‘Eleven hundred,’ corrected Wallace.

Still, it was a relatively small camp. Some had ten times that number and a mix of nationalities. ‘Very good. Get on with your work. And I expect a cup of tea when I get back from
Appell
. Understood?’

Both men nodded.

Watson, already tired from the exertion of impersonating a martinet, returned to his cubbyhole and, with no alternative on offer, pulled on the old and cracked artillery boots, slipped into his
greatcoat and hurried outside, pausing only to scowl theatrically at the orderlies. The sky was gunmetal grey and as he looked up small kisses of moisture brushed his cheek. It was starting to snow
and it was settling on the frozen ground.

Well done, Watson.
The voice was loaded with sarcasm.

What have I done now? he asked his tormentor.

Not twelve hours here and you already seem to have made enemies.

Watson grunted. He couldn’t argue with that.

In daylight Watson could take in the structure of the camp. It sat in the lee of a grand, turreted château-style house that had once been a mansion, hotel or sanatorium. A first-floor
terrace allowed what he assumed was the commandant to step out of a salon and examine the massed ranks of his charges without having to enter the compound through the gates. The prisoners were
confined inside a triple layer of fencing, topped with coils of barbed wire and electric lights. Judging from the foul deposits sitting on the soil, which was whitening as the dusting of snow fell
upon them, dogs patrolled in the corridors between the fences. He could hear their whines and yaps from wherever they were kennelled by day. Twelve leggy wooden watchtowers loomed into the sky like
contraptions from an H.G. Wells novel, one at each corner of the main compound and a further eight situated at intervals along each perimeter.

There were twenty huts, each one raised off the ground on blocks, in four rows of five plus a kitchen and a shower block, a ‘tin room’, where Watson’s confiscated foodstuffs
had been taken, a ‘rec’ or recreation hut, a cluster of latrines and, at the far end from the main house, a sports area, marked out as football field and with a rather sad tennis court,
a piece of twine standing in for a net. Beyond that was another compound, entirely separate, with its own entrance to the outside world. It was a third of the size in area and had just a single,
solitary hut in the centre. And next to that, a large crop of wooden crosses sprouting from the hard earth. It looked as if this was where the unfortunate went to die. This was where Sayer would be
now, no doubt.

Surrounding the camp were the mountains, but this was no picturesque alpine scene. There were startlingly few trees, for a start. The slopes had been denuded of cover, leaving only ugly stumps,
and in some places there had been excavations or perhaps collapses due to erosion. Certainly, rain and meltwater flowing unchecked by any vegetation had left deep scarring running down many of the
slopes. One peak looked like a giant magnification of Parsons’ pockmarked face. To Watson’s eye it was a mountainside as envisaged by Hieronymus Bosch, tortured and flayed.

Watson counted off the rather shambolic rows of prisoners and hurried across to that of Hut 7, aware of the comical slapping sound his flapping boot was making. He joined the rear of the line
just as a one-armed
Feldwebel
with a clipboard reached it.

‘You are?’ he demanded.

‘Watson. Major. Royal Army Medical Corps.’

The clipboard was held horizontal from his chest by a metal contraption, so he could tick off the names with his single limb. ‘You aren’t here,’ the German said.

‘Perhaps he’s the invisible man,’ someone from the next group shouted.

‘Quiet.’

‘New arrival,’ said Watson. ‘Last night.’

The
Feldwebel
took a pencil and added the name, checking the spelling. Watson needn’t have rushed after all; this camp’s bureaucracy was no better than any other.

‘You haven’t called Aubrey’s name! Aubrey du Barry. Why haven’t you called him?’

A slight but intense figure, his eyes sunken and wild, had detached himself from further along the line and was coming down between the rows, wagging a finger at the
Feldwebel
. ‘Du
Barry. Check the list. He’s back there.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ someone muttered. ‘Leave it out, Pickering. Every fucking day.’

Pickering, a captain, was at the German now. ‘Du Barry. Shall I spell it?’

‘D-U-B-A-R-R-Y,’ the one-armed guard replied.

‘Well, why haven’t you called him, Brünning?’

The German spoke as if he was tired of the sentence he was uttering. ‘Because we have no du Barry here, Captain Pickering.’

Watson grasped what was happening. He had seen it before. Prisoners, like children, sometimes invented imaginary friends. Most of the time this was a harmless delusion, but sometimes the phantom
acquaintance became flesh and blood, a solid presence. He had seen men go to astonishing lengths to make sure their chums had enough rations to survive, turning a blind eye when others helped
themselves, satisfied that their friend was at least eating well.

Watson stepped forward and put a hand on the captain’s shoulder. ‘Captain Pickering, is it? My name is Watson—’

The Englishman spun round at the touch and wrinkled his nose as if he had just caught the first whiff of gas. ‘Watson!’ He made a hawking noise in the back of his throat, and before
Watson could step back he spat a slimy blob of phlegm in his face. ‘Get your hands off me you damned traitor!’

It was in the company of Robert Nathan, with her arm through his elbow, that Mrs Gregson skirted Trafalgar Square, en route to a small suite of offices just off the Strand.
There was yet another war rally on in the square, addressed by famous authors, among them Kipling and Wells. As always, a recruiting office had been set up. A year or two previously there would
have been a snake of enthusiastic men at its door, falling over each other to serve. With conscription in place, there were far fewer customers offering to do their bit. Most men were content to
wait for the summoning envelope through the door rather than rush to be shipped off as a green replacement to France. Few had any illusions now about the outcome of charging German machine guns at
dawn.

The aim of the rally was mostly to try to keep morale high, especially in the aftermath of the film
The Battle of the Somme
, which had been seen by twenty million people. Its depiction of
trenches and the dead had backfired as propaganda. People now appreciated why the lads on leave came back with those long, empty stares and were plagued by nightmares. They understood why they
sought out the company of other soldiers, because only those who had experienced the front could relate to each other.

‘Something for the maimed and blinded?’ asked a Salvation Army officer, stepping in front of them. Nathan put some coppers in his tin. ‘You’re a Christian gent,
sir,’ the man said, before moving on.

The White Feather girls, the Shameladies, were also in evidence once more, although in smaller numbers than at the start of the conflict, when men of serving age had to swat them away like
flies. As they passed them, some examined Nathan’s face closely, trying to decide if he should be presented with the symbol of cowardice. There was talk of the conscription age being raised
to fifty-one and some of the more aggressive women were already pre-empting that by targeting older men. But whenever the Shameladies received one of Nathan’s just-you-dare scowls, they
invariably walked off in search of a more suitable victim.

Nathan pointed at a barrage balloon rising into the winter sky behind St Martin-in-the-Fields, its wrinkled envelope slowly plumping as it consumed the gas being fed along its umbilical.
‘Remember the rides at Vauxhall?’ he asked. ‘You ever do that?’

Mrs Gregson nodded. There had once been two tethered hot-air balloons on the Embankment and for thrupence you could take a ride in the gondola and have a wonderful view up and down the Thames
before sinking slowly back down to earth. They had disappeared within days of war being declared. ‘Tobias took me. It was all terribly exciting. It seemed so daring at the time.’ She
nodded at the inflatable, which had been joined by a saggy companion, its folds like elephant skin, to the north of the square. ‘I assume those aren’t for pleasure rides?’

‘Noooooo,’ Nathan said slowly, as if he knew more than he dare let on. ‘Just some trials by Balloon Command, I believe.’ He gave what he obviously thought was a
reassuring smile and patted her gloved hand. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

Mrs Gregson bristled at the new patronizing tone, and wondered if they were to defend against the German bombers they all knew were coming eventually. But she didn’t press him.

‘Robert, thank you for finding out the information about the German. I could have gone to Churchill, but . . .’

‘Think nothing of it. Just pulled a few strings. Glad to be able to help.’

Nathan had examined the file on Von Bork and, although Mrs Gregson was not allowed to see it, he had given her an outline explaining why the man might have a lingering grudge against Watson and
Holmes. Apparently the latter, in particular, had been instrumental in dismantling and discrediting Von Bork’s spy ring. So, it was possible he had blocked the release of Watson as some form
of petty retribution. Now she had this information, she felt compelled to act on it. If the German were intent on doing him harm, Mrs Gregson had to find a way to counter him, even from afar. She
owed it to her friend to explore every avenue to keep him alive, no matter how madcap.

‘You know Kell tells me there was a request recently to exchange your Miss Pillbody? For one of our boys in Berlin.’

‘She is not
my
Miss Pillbody,’ Mrs Gregson corrected with a shudder. ‘As you well know her name is Brandt. Ilse Brandt. And she is a monster. A She Wolf. And I would
have thought we’d be glad to see the back of her.’

Ilse Brandt, a member of the Sie Wölfe group of female spies specially trained in Germany for infiltration into Great Britain, had almost killed Holmes and Watson out on the treacherous
sands off Foulness in Essex. She had been apprehended and Mrs Gregson had fully expected her to be shot at the Tower, given the trail of bodies she had left across England. Then the Germans shot
Edith Cavell for spying and it was decided that Britain’s right to moral outrage – and the propaganda value of the poor nurse – might be blunted if they, in turn, executed Ilse
Brandt.

‘Did they agree?’ she asked. ‘To exchange her?’

Nathan shook his head. ‘No. The authorities are biding their time. There are several cases of civil murder against her – an old, defenceless woman in Essex, for one. My guess is
they’ll wait until after the war and hang her.’

Mrs Gregson was still analysing how she felt about that when an excited voice boomed through a megaphone from the fringes of the meeting behind them, and a dozen skittish pigeons took off,
skimming over their heads. ‘Stop the war! Sue for peace! No more killing!’ Nathan turned and looked at the young man, who was barely of conscription age. It was a peace protestor,
perhaps even a ‘conchie’ who would refuse when his call-up papers came. There was a time when the mob would have lynched him, but his tirade was simply cut short when two policemen
bundled him away, one of them kicking the youth’s ankles as they went.

‘I was wondering if we could try dinner again, without the excitement of the windows being blown in,’ Nathan said once they resumed their walk. ‘The Café Royal
perhaps?’

There was something about the hopeful gleam in his eye that made her hackles rise. She tried not to show her resentment at the usual problem of a quid pro quo raising its head. She had thought
Nathan above the ploy of getting her information and expecting dinner – or more – in return. ‘Perhaps tea,’ she said. ‘Might be more appropriate this time.’

‘Tea? I was hoping that . . . well, Mrs Gregson, the thing is . . . Georgina . . . I hope you know . . .’

It was her turn to squeeze his hand. How bizarre that even the most eloquent of men become tongue-tied when it came to discussing their emotions, she thought. Of course it could be worse, he
could put his feelings into poetry, as was the current vogue. That would be intolerable. ‘Robert. Not now, eh? We have business to attend to.’ She gripped his forearm, steering him to
the right. ‘Here we are. First floor.’

‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘Bad timing. Story of my life.’ He gave a staccato laugh.

Once through the street door, they began to climb the wooden stairs. ‘Please don’t think me ungrateful,’ she said.

‘I never would,’ Nathan replied, with a slight pout that suggested he thought just that.

‘It’s just that I have to focus on one thing at a time. My personal life isn’t important right now. What matters is getting my friend Major Watson out safely.’

‘And once you have achieved that?’

‘A celebration might be in order,’ she said gaily.

‘Splendid.’

But not necessarily with you, poor Robert, she added to herself.

They had reached the door of a small set of offices. Nathan rapped the pane of glass with his umbrella handle and they entered. The bulk of the room was hidden by a screen of oak panels topped
with stippled glass, the entrance guarded by a solitary, elderly clerk who looked at them over pince-nez. ‘Sir? Madam? What can I do for you? I am afraid the editor is at lunch.’

‘No matter,’ said Mrs Gregson briskly. ‘I am sure your good self will suffice. My name is Gregson, this is Mr Robert Nathan, late of the Indian Army, now a senior member of the
Wartime Constabulary. We wish to see your subscribers’ list.’

The clerk frowned, moving his bald head from side to side with great deliberation. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as he did so.
‘I’m afraid that is impossible. The
British Beekeeper’s Journal
does not simply hand over private information willy-nilly.’