A Study in Murder (11 page)

‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘But there is nothing willy or, indeed, nilly about this.’ She took a half-step to one side to cede the stage to Nathan.

The SSB man approached the clerk’s desk, leaned over it and produced an identity card of some description from his inside pocket. ‘I am afraid this is a matter of national security,
sir. One that comes under the DORA regulations.’

The clerk visibly flinched. He pursed his lips, as if sucking a particularly astringent dose of sherbet powder. ‘I see.’

‘It is but one subscriber we need to access the details of,’ said Mrs Gregson with abundant reasonableness. ‘We are fairly sure this chap wouldn’t be without his copy of
the
British Beekeeper’s Journal
. I assure you, the source of this information will go no further than these four walls.’

Nathan nodded solemnly to show his complicity.

The clerk sighed and pushed his chair back, preparing to rise and fetch the documents. ‘Very well. What is the name of this subscriber?’

Mrs Gregson smiled at her victory and said, with all the flourish of a magician at the twice-dailies removing a rabbit from the hat. ‘A Mr Sherlock Holmes.’

When the
Appell
broke up and he wiped away the insult from his face, Watson became aware that he was the subject of some curiosity. As the clumps of men drifted back to
their huts, there were sly glances and bold, almost challenging stares. One chap, a spindly, hunched lieutenant with a riot of unkempt curly hair, stood ten yards away, appraising him as if he were
an ox he was about to bid on. When Watson returned the gaze the man broke into an unexpected grin and nodded, before turning on his heel. Another deranged specimen, Watson thought.

He was about to make his way across to the messing area, where a breakfast of sorts was being served, when he spotted an old friend. Or rather, a pair of old friends. Three men were standing
smoking, each wrapped in a smart, nearly new great-coat and woollen scarves. The centrepiece of the group was a man who had the air of a matinée idol, his hair gleaming with oil, the black
moustache well trimmed. He looked for all the world like he was waiting for the two forty at Ascot to begin. And on his feet were a pair of well-cared-for Trenchmasters.

‘Good Lord,’ Watson blurted at the impertinence. The trio slowly became aware of him. The one with his boots examined him with a languid, unhurried gaze through a curtain of
cigarette smoke. Watson was just about to stride across and give the man a piece of his mind, when he felt a tug at his shoulder.

‘Watson, is it? Would you care to take a turn round the camp with me? Be ever so grateful.’

The voice was surprisingly soft and velvety, with a slight air of world-weariness that suggested standards at the club had slipped.

Watson pointed across to the group. ‘That man has my—’

‘Never mind that, Major,’ he said, gently guiding him away with a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m Lieutenant-Colonel Critchley. King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. And
I have the misfortune to be the Senior Officer in Charge here.’

Watson made to salute, but Critchley gripped his arm.

‘No need for that, old chap. Not at this precise moment. Come, I’ll show you the lie of the land. Then we can have a spot of breakfast at my quarters. One of the perks of being
Senior British Officer is you can eat with some privacy.’

The snow had stopped, leaving the ground a mottled patchwork of white and brown, firm underfoot. They walked towards the wire fence and began a slow circumnavigation of the perimeter.

‘You must have plenty of questions, Watson.’

‘I do. Why wasn’t I woken for
Appell
? Why did that man spit in my face . . . ?’

Critchley stroked his lantern jaw, as if checking the quality of his morning shave. ‘I am afraid newcomers are always treated with some hostility. Especially as we heard about that
unfortunate incident at your last camp. And on the way here. To lose one fellow soldier to German fire might be considered unfortunate . . .’

‘My servant was murdered,’ Watson protested. ‘Shot in cold blood.’

‘That’s as may be. But the word is you might be a chat. A German chat.’

‘Chat?’ It was slang for lice, but he doubted any camp needed the Germans to add more.

‘Spies.
Agents provocateurs
. Put in here to find out about any escape attempt.’

‘I am no spy,’ Watson protested.

‘I am afraid the
Lager
Poldhu has different ideas. It went into a frenzy yesterday and then you pop up.’

Poldhu, like Marconi, was prisoners’ slang for the grapevine that spread rumours and gossip and even, sometimes, genuine news both within camps and, by some means nobody could ascertain,
throughout the entire chain of
Lagers
in Germany. Poldhu in Cornwall was the location of Marconi’s pioneering radio transmitter.

‘And you come trailing a dead soldier, with orders for him to be buried at once without a by-your-leave. Like they had something to hide.’

‘Sayer, you mean? I know nothing about that. And they do have something to hide. They murdered him in cold blood, on the way here. Said he was trying to escape. Where is Sayer
buried?’

Critchley ignored the question. ‘And why should a man of your vintage end up here? We heard that any man over forty-eight was being sent to Holland.’ He paused. ‘You are over
forty-eight?’

Watson appreciated the reason for his uncertainty – the constant accretion of tiny privations meant men in POW camps often looked a decade or more older than their biological age.
‘Of course I am. But my transfer was blocked.’

‘Blocked by whom?’

‘Let me tell you my side of things,’ Watson offered.

‘Very well.’

By the time he had outlined his story – holding back the exact detail of why Von Bork should hate him so much, simply alluding to pre-war animosity – they had reached one of the
watchtowers and Watson looked up. A German guard peered down and used his Mauser to indicate they should keep walking.

‘So, there you have it. I am no spy, sir.’

‘Well, I’ll have to take your word for it,’ said Critchley. ‘I mean to say, I believe you, old chap. I know how vindictive the Hun can be when he feels slighted. I just
hope the others do. Mud sticks, Major Watson; you’ll have the devil’s own time shaking the suspicions of some of the men.’

‘But why should they put chats in at all? I thought this place was escape-proof?’

‘In a manner of speaking. Not so much physically. There’s no such thing as an escape-proof camp. But the commandant says he will shoot two British officers for every one who goes
over the wire, recaptured or not. Well, if you know your best friend might be put up against a wall if you go over it . . . quite a disincentive.’

‘I would imagine so. Is that approach entirely . . . ?’

‘Legal? Allowed under the Hague Convention?’ Critchley’s shoulders shook with a mirthless laugh. ‘I am not sure Mad Bill worries about such things.’

‘Mad Bill?’

‘Commandant Wilhelm Kügel. Late of Indiana, where he travelled in ladies’ underwear . . .’ Critchley gave a weary smile. ‘At least that’s what the wags say. He
was certainly some sort of salesman and he speaks English with an American accent. What you have to understand is that Mad Bill runs this camp for profit. You’ll be charged a hundred camp
marks a week for messing. You will be encouraged to get funds from home. A camp mark is worth half a real mark, but is the only currency allowed. You have to keep all your transactions in a special
black book.’ He tapped his pocket. ‘They cost two camp marks.’

‘This is outrageous. I had heard this was the worst camp in Germany, but . . .’ Watson was momentarily lost for words.

‘Not the worst exactly, although it has its difficulties, God knows. It’s simply the most profitable. For the Germans, that is. All Red Cross and personal parcels are searched and
any suspicious items that might be used for an escape confiscated. Especially food. Although, oddly, you can often buy the items back later.’

Watson said nothing, simply seething within.

‘And if you object to these arrangements? There are solitary cells – Stubby, as we call it – in the basement of the big house, where Mad Bill lives and the guards are billeted.
Now, they really are pretty grim and he uses them at the drop of a hat. He didn’t appear on his balcony this morning, but he often does, perhaps eating a plate of sausages and drinking a
brandy, just to taunt us. Our food’s abysmal, needless to say. In fact, it probably is the worst of any Allied camp in Germany. I hope you like soup. Make friends with Hugh Peacock in your
hut. Manages to have a bloody feast most days. Must be costing him a fortune. Questions?’

‘Red Cross visits?’

‘You’ve seen the typhus signs? On the road?’

Watson nodded.

‘It doesn’t refer to us. Well, not always; we’ve had some cases in the past. Hence the isolation ward.’ He pointed to the lone hut in the separate compound. ‘But
the worst outbreaks are at the Russian camp over the ridge there.’ He was talking about a jagged, treeless piece of skyline. ‘The Red Cross are as terrified of typhus as the Hun, so Mad
Bill makes sure they think it’s endemic in here. Which means their visits are . . . fleeting, shall we say. It’s on the C list inspection roster – which means hardly
ever.’

‘There’s method in this Kügel’s madness, then.’

‘Oh, yes. He’ll probably end the war a rich man. We’ll just end it thin. If we are lucky. It gets damned cold here. Careless men lose fingers and toes. This is a mild spell,
believe me. When that wind comes from the east, the stoves in the huts can barely cope. Get some sweaters sent over or start knitting. Preferably both.’

‘How long have you been here, sir?’

A rueful grin spread across his face. ‘Me? Two years. Before that, various camps . . . well, I got nabbed in 1914. Haven’t seen much of the war, to be honest. Just a lot of
fences.’

They paused, looking through the wire across at the cluster of crosses that constituted the graveyard. ‘He’s in there? Sayer?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am going to lodge a complaint.’

‘Write it and save it. In fact, hide it from prying eyes. Chickens will come home to roost eventually. But don’t get yourself marked as a troublemaker. You’ve seen Pickering, I
know. And Archer? Eyes like Rasputin? Obsessed with the dead.’

Watson recalled the man who had stared at him at
Appell
. ‘I think so.’

‘Both of them were subjected to harassment. Solitary confinement, adulterated rations, repeated searches, sleep deprivation. Both are damaged up here.’ Critchley tapped his temple.
‘Both had threatened to reveal the profiteering, you see. But who is going to give any credence to their words now? One has an imaginary friend and the other talks to the dead.’

‘This du Barry Pickering was talking about – he’s imaginary?’

‘Oh, as good as. He was some school friend of his. Blown to bits, apparently, before his very eyes.’ He sighed. ‘Still, you’ll find this hard to believe, but it could be
worse. We could be digging the mines, for one. The mountains out there are worked hard.’

‘What do they mine for?’ asked Watson.

‘Gold, silver, iron ore. Whole mountain riddled with shafts. If anyone did get over the wire they’d probably end up at the bottom of some hole with a broken neck.’ He shivered,
apparently shaking off a feeling of melancholy, and was much brighter when he spoke again. ‘And look, it’s not all gloom. We have a theatre group. An orchestra. Do you play?’
Watson shook his head. ‘Pity. Short of brass. There’s a magazine,
Harz and Minds
. Do you write or draw?’

‘I have been known to put pen to paper.’

‘Not poetry, I hope.’ Critchley flashed that apologetic grin again. ‘Over-bloody-whelmed with poets.’

‘No, short stories.’

‘Good man. Always willing to consider submissions – I’m the editor, by the way. No promises, though. Got some professional scribblers in the ranks, so standard is high. I turn
down ten for every one published.’

Watson discovered he had lost the feeling in the toes of his right foot and continued with the walk to try to get the circulation moving. ‘Sir, about my boots . . . I have been the victim
of a substitution.’

Critchley glanced down at Watson’s feet. ‘Hmm. Dirty prank.’

It was, in Watson’s eyes, more than a prank. ‘I know the man who has them. Chap who looked like he was about to go on at the Gaiety. Oiled hair, no cap—’

‘Henry Lincoln-Chance. Link, to his friends.’

‘I’d like them back,’ said Watson, wriggling his chilled toes.

‘That might be tricky.’

‘Why? I thought you were senior in the camp?’

‘Only officially,’ Critchley said with some regret. ‘In reality, Link and his chummies wield significant . . . shall we say, influence.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Oh, they are the Escape Committee.’

After a breakfast of tongue, bread, marmalade and tea in Critchley’s office, Watson exchanged some of his marks for camp currency and then ordered fresh funds from Cox
& Co. on the Charing Cross Road. From the tin room he purchased a black book – the price had risen to three camp marks – and a pencil, plus a packet of his own biscuits.

He kept an eye out for his Trenchmasters and their new owner, but the snow returned with renewed vigour and he made his way back to his own hut without spotting the thief. He had agreed with
Critchley that he would run surgeries for patients twice daily, at 10 a.m. and 4 p.m., starting the next day. Apparently for serious cases a German doctor could be summoned, and there was a
hospital some ten miles away, but Mad Bill was loath to use it.

And what of this three-man Escape Committee, he asked. What use was one in an escape-proof camp? But Critchley told him it was a matter of morale, of showing they hadn’t caved in
completely. Watson supposed he was right, but the matter of his boots still grated. He would have to put this Link right at the first opportunity.

As he entered the hut he shook off the snow from his shoulders and was greeted by a fug of woodsmoke and unwashed bodies. Showers, apparently, were available only on Fridays. It was Thursday.
The volume of conversation dipped momentarily, and the soldiers, airmen and couple of naval officers that made up Hut 7 went back to their cards, chess, letters, or just their own thoughts.