A Study in Murder (26 page)

The final part of the jigsaw that was Mrs Gregson’s grand plan needed a large green space in North London, away from prying eyes and, she had been told, to the north-west
of the intended target. If the weather held, that was. After a morning scouting suitable locations on a hired motorcycle, she chose Waterlow Park. Lauderdale House, which stood on its fringes, had
been taken over for the duration by the Air Defence Department of the War office but never utilized, and it was a simple matter to have Nathan seal the park itself for ‘air defence
exercises’. That way any curious locals were likely to think that when David Devant and George Bletchley – Maskelyne’s pilot – turned up, the enormous horse-pulled dray they
used was delivering a barrage balloon. Which was close enough.

With the dray manoeuvred through the entrance by Highgate Cemetery, Mrs Gregson watched the unloading of the cargo. Devant was too infirm to help, and besides he had his own work to do some
distance away, and so Nathan had recruited six burly ‘ruffians’, as he described them. Mrs Gregson was dressed in her Dunhill motorcycling clothes, a totem of more carefree times, and
she had to admit, as insane as her scheme seemed, she was enjoying herself. Inaction was anathema to her and even if the whole pack of cards collapsed at least she could tell herself she had tried
her misguided best.

After Devant left by bicycle to take up his position, the ruffians, whom she discovered were professional
agents provocateurs
employed by MI5 to create or disrupt protests as required,
set about unloading under the direction of Mr Bletchley. The light was fading across the park, he had to be airborne by dusk and he snapped out brisk orders on how to manhandle the giant parcel off
the flatbed of the dray and where to place it on the grass. The ruffians, despite their size and strength, were sweating by the time they had finished.

As Mrs Gregson watched the canvas envelope being unfolded on the grass, Bletchley walked across to her. He was a tall, willowy chap, perhaps sixty, with the wind-beaten skin of someone who has
spent a lot of time outdoors. Or in the sky. ‘It’s a Rozière, you know, miss,’ he said with some pride, pointing at the unfurling inverted pear shape. ‘Very
rare.’

‘Is it?’ she asked.

‘Uses a gas bladder in the top of the envelope. Helps with lift. Usually filled with hydrogen. That’s what happened at the Liverpool Empire with the half-sized one.’ He shook
his head at the memory at a stunt gone wrong.

‘And now? What do you use?’

‘Helium. Bloody expensive, if you’ll excuse my language.’ He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips. ‘But at least we won’t go up in flames.’ He
gave a grin and lit his Woodbine. ‘Sorry, rude of me, would you . . . ?’

‘Yes, please.’ She had cut down since her days of nursing, when the smoke helped mask the smell of gas gangrene and carbolic, but her heart was fluttering like a trapped bird and she
needed to steady her nerves. ‘Thank you.’ She leaned forward into the proffered match. ‘Is the wind to your liking?’

He licked a thumb and held it aloft. ‘Holding up. It’s fortunate we don’t have to be pinpoint accurate. I think luck is on your side.’

Mrs Gregson took a lungful of the coarse smoke and held it for a while, suppressing the urge to cough. ‘Let us hope so. You know, Mr Bletchley, that what we are doing is—’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘Don’t tell me. All I know is I have never seen Mr Devant looking so happy. Not for a while now, at least. And when he told Mr Maskelyne, well, the two
had a right old laugh. If he’d been stronger, he’d’ve been here. OK, I admit it’s a bit of a rum do. What with that.’ He nodded towards the parked dray, where, next to
the wicker basket, a sausage-shaped bundle lay. Valentine’s corpse. ‘But I’m just doing what this strange lady hired me to do. No questions asked. No, I didn’t catch a name,
officer.’ He smiled now. ‘But she paid very handsomely in cash.’

‘I did.’

‘Mr Devant told me it might be unconventional, but it was for a good cause.’

What with all the arrangements she had had to make and the strain of organizing this launch, she had almost forgotten why she was doing all this. To rescue Watson, of course, to bring him back,
dust him down, feed him up, and see where they went from there. ‘It is.’

Bletchley looked at the now enormous envelope and its long fringe of guy ropes and nodded his approval. He began to roll up his sleeves. ‘Then let’s get a fire going, eh?’

The breeze swirled around the roof, plucking at Miss Pillbody’s clothes as she sprinted across an open area until the shadow of the chimney stack swallowed her. There,
she caught her breath and scanned the night sky. It was empty, apart from patchy cloud and the pinpricks of stars.

Below her stretched the terraced homes of North London, the lights hazed by the smoke from a thousand chimneys. No wonder nobody ever tried to escape from the roof, she thought. It was a long
way down and, even though she had a head for heights, she didn’t fancy trying to cling to one of the drainpipes that, anyway, had spiked collars every few yards to prevent anyone shimmying up
or down.

She checked the sky again. Still empty. The thought occurred to her that she had been fooled, taken in by the Gregson woman. She regretted, now, killing Wardress Gray. She could have just tied
her up. But she personified the days of humiliation Miss Pillbody had endured in Holloway. She had to admit to enjoying stabbing her over and over again until the life had gone from her body, which
she used to block the bolted door to the bathhouse. She’d hang now if she was caught, that was for certain. Not as a German spy but as a murderer. Even her own government couldn’t
object to that.

Was this what Gregson had in mind all along? To put her in a corner where she might do something like this and then leave her to face the consequences? The sky was still devoid of any unusual
feature, the promise of rescue looking increasingly empty. Yes, perhaps Gregson had intended the noose all along.

She wouldn’t go without a fight. She could certainly take at least one over the edge of this block, plummeting to the courtyard below on one side, or the streets of Holloway the other.
Better a death like that than the cruel judicial ceremony of the hangman.

From below the sound of a hacking cough carried up from the gatehouse. There were squat towers down there with searchlamps, aligned pointing downwards at the moment to sweep walls and
courtyards, but, no doubt, able to swivel up and rake the rooftops to find any escapee.

Check the sky. Still empty.

She felt disgust at her gullibility. Imagine trusting an Englishwoman who comes along and offers you your freedom. She had been duped. Now she would never see Germany again.

It was a roar, like the noise of a dragon exhaling and the light from it spilled across the slates of the roof. She stepped to one side of the chimney stack and for a second she saw the great
bulbous shape, illuminated from within, like a giant version of a Chinese lantern. It had come from the opposite direction to the one she had expected. But at least now the sky was no longer
empty.

As the burner was switched off the giant lantern disappeared again, leaving the sphere a darker shape against the pinpricked heavens. She could make out its shape by the way it blotted the
stars. Drifting towards her, hundreds of metres away yet, blown inexorably to the rooftop by the breeze, was the instrument of her freedom.

All thoughts of hanging and hangmen dispersed from her head and she went over the instructions that had been delivered to her. She willed the lighter-than-air machine on, agonizing at the
slowness of the approach. It roared again and the envelope glowed as it rose slightly. She imagined sleepy eyes were turning towards it now, guards and inmates wondering what manner of fire had
arrived from the heavens. It was the fire that would take her home.

Watson waited until he was alone in his room to examine the piece of paper that Hulpett had given him. He read and reread it several times, hoping the meaning would leap out at
him.

We made contact with Captain Brevette.

Brevette had been one of the two names written on the square of paper Archer had presented to Watson on his visit to the examination room. What was the significance of Brevette? He heard
footsteps approaching and quickly tucked the paper under the excuse for a pillow. It was Harry, looking breathless and with snow in his hair.

‘You all right, lad?’

‘Never better, sir,’ he said, clutching his heart. ‘Just some of us boys having a snowball fight. One of the Germans joined in and wished he hadn’t. Looked like a
bleedin’ snowman by the time we finished with ’im. He took it in good part, though.’ He paused. ‘I thought you might need a hand settin’ up for the surgery,
sir.’

Watson nodded. He would be glad of the company, even if he did think Harry had something other than his best interests at heart. ‘As long as you aren’t neglecting your other
charges.’

‘I told you, we’ve come to some arrangement, Doctor.’

‘And I said you must let me pay for any expenses in that area, Harry.’

He gave a lopsided grin. ‘I’ll bill you at the end of the month, sir.’

‘I won’t be—’ he began, before he realized the lad was joking. ‘I’ll pay you later on today. No arguments. Now, can you fetch me some boiling
water?’

‘Sir.’

‘Oh, Harry.’

‘Sir?’

‘Do you know a Captain Brevette?’

Harry frowned. ‘Yeah . . . Brevette. He’s not on the list, is he? Must be some sort of mistake. He won’t be turning up for surgery today, though.’

‘And why is that?’

‘He died about three months ago. Maybe more.’

‘Of . . . ?’

‘It was the cholera. We had an outbreak. He was quarantined in the other compound. But it killed him.’

‘Just him?’

‘Only one to die. Some of the others had the . . . you know, the shits, sir.’

‘Diarrhoea and vomiting?’ Watson prompted.

‘Not half.’

‘Lucky.’

‘Not a word many of those affected used.’

‘Lucky you didn’t have a full-blown epidemic. Did they trace its source?’

‘No, but that German doctor had us clean out the latrines and he rerouted the drinking water pipes. They were next to the latrines.’

‘Steigler?’

‘That’s the kiddie.’

‘Good for him. And, Harry, one last thing – where is the chess club? In the rec room?’

‘No, they reckon that’s too noisy for them. Horseplay, they call it. Like a bit of peace and quiet, the serious players do. Hut 15 is where you’ll find them.’

‘Tonight?’

‘What’s today?’ He thought for a minute. ‘Yeah, Wednesday and Friday is backgammon, chess every other night. You fancy a game?’

‘I might,’ Watson said non-committally.

‘Well, be careful, sir. Some of them is demons and they like to suggest a little wager.’

‘Thank you for the warning. I prefer to lose my money on the horses.’

‘Ah, then you’ll be wanting Hut 9.’

‘What for?’

‘The Epsom of Harzgrund, that’s what it is. Only they ain’t got any real horses. So they use rats. But there’s bookies and everything.’

‘Sounds charming. But I’ll try the chess first.’

‘I’ll get that water.’

After he had left, Watson sat on the bed and ran the conversation with Harry through his mind, trying to decipher what was truth and what was a lie, until his head started to thump as if
he’d swallowed more of that hideous alcohol.

It was later that same day that Watson made his way across to Hut 15. More blasted snow had arrived, filling the gauzy cones cast by the perimeter lights. But the snow brought
a calming quiet as all noises were muffled and even the barking of the dogs seemed distant. Most sensible men had retreated indoors to keep warm, by stove and collective body heat. In his own hut,
Cocky had opened up some more of his delights, and word had whipped around the camp that there was pressed ham and tinned pilchards and pickled onions and the atmosphere had grown oppressive as
more and more souls ‘dropped by’ in the hope of some morsels. Watson was glad to be out of it.

He wondered what Holmes was doing at that moment. Probably settling down by the fire with pipe and book. Perhaps his young companion, Bert, would be with him. Watson felt a twinge of envy but
quickly suppressed it. Circumstances had brought him here and there was little he could do to alter those. Holmes would never dwell on past events that were immutable. One should only dwell on
those immediate concerns that can be influenced by your actions.

So what could he influence? He could find out what lay behind this apparent suicide of men who claimed to have contacted the dead Brevette. Something was very peculiar in this camp, very
peculiar indeed. But he felt as if he were looking at events through a fog, that nothing would come into focus. There was foul play at work, but the exact shape and form of it was impossible for
him to grasp, as if he were trying to catch and preserve one of the snowflakes falling around him.

He walked into the shadow of Hut 8 when he saw a figure detach itself from the wall. The man made two steps and turned to block his path. ‘Major Watson?’

‘Yes?’ he asked, trying to place the voice.

The blow from behind was both unexpected and accurate. A short, sharp tap to the temple and Watson’s legs crumpled under him and he pitched sideways, heading for a soft landing in the
snow.

Watson’s first instinct on regaining consciousness and realizing he was lying on his back in darkness was to sit up. He immediately struck his forehead on something hard
and unyielding, sending him back down to the supine position. He kept his eyes closed until the dancing stars slowed and then faded. Then he opened them.