A Study in Murder (31 page)

‘Why not?’

‘The commandant, Mad Bill, he wants to see you as soon as you’ve finished breakfast.’

Mad Bill Kügel did not look best pleased when Watson was shown into his office. He was standing at the French doors, watching the sky gear up for another dump of snow.
Steigler was seated by the fireplace, the smoke from his cigarette conjoining with that of the logs spitting and blazing in the hearth. His legs were crossed and he was gazing into the flames, as
if in deep contemplation.

Watson stood, waiting for someone to speak, and while he did so he idly picked at the loose skin on his fingertips.

‘Major Watson, I assume you did not discover what happened to the three suicides we told you about.’

‘Was I meant to?’ he asked innocently.

Steigler spoke up. ‘The commandant felt sure your curiosity would be piqued.’

Kügel looked over his shoulder, his jaw set in irritation. His lips barely moved as he spoke. ‘Professional curiosity.’

‘I was never a professional investigator. Nor was Holmes. We left that to the likes of Martin Hewitt. We were not driven by a love of money.’

‘So you found out nothing.’

He thought, but didn’t say:
Only to expect a postcard from the—

Steigler unfurled his legs and got to his feet. ‘Are you all right, Major? You have gone quite pale.’

At last, you are thinking straight. Your fingers, Watson, look at your fingers.

He did so, the room spinning so that he had to lean on his staff once more. Steigler was in front of him, guiding him to a chair. He slumped into it. ‘Can I have some water?’ Watson
asked.

Steigler went across to pour some from a pitcher on the drinks trolley.

And where have you been? Watson asked of his phantom friend.

Considering the facts, my old friend. It’s murder, Watson. Murder. I am sure of it.

What is?

But Steigler was in front of him, holding out a glass, which he downed in one. ‘Thank you.’

Kügel had moved away from the window. ‘Well, no matter, it is none of our concern now. Not yours, not mine.’

‘Why is that?’ Watson asked.

‘In two days’ time there will be a full Red Cross inspection. We are, apparently, to be treated like any other prisoner of war camp from now on. Category A. There is also to be a
change of commandant. I am being transferred to Berlin. Apparently they need people who are experts in the United States.’

‘Well, you speak the language,’ Watson said facetiously. ‘And all that means an end to your fiefdom here,’ he added.

Kügel gave his first smile of the meeting. There was little mirth in it. ‘Oh, I’ve managed to put enough aside to see me through to the end of the war. Don’t worry,
though. You, too, will be free of this place.’

‘Oh?’

‘I have had word that you will be collected this afternoon for transfer. Your days at Harzgrund have come to an end.’

Not now, Watson, you need to stay and clear this up.

But Steigler’s utterance silenced the nagging voice in his skull. ‘Pack your things, Major. You are going to Holland.’

The party, driving in an Eysink four-seater hired at the Hook of Holland, stopped for lunch at an inn on the outskirts of Eindhoven. They requested a private dining room,
ostensibly for business discussions, but mainly so they could manacle Miss Pillbody still in secret. Nathan and Buller were masquerading as doctors: an eminent surgeon and his young
protégé. They claimed to be heading to the internment camp just south of Venlo to aid in the repatriation of the more seriously injured POWs. Miss Pillbody was kept in check prior to
her shackling by the fact Buller had a revolver in his coat pocket pointed at her the whole time, and an expression that suggested he was quite keen to put a bullet in her.

While they waited for the food to appear in the wood-panelled annexe that smelled of years of cigar smoke, they shared a bottle of German wine – something that would have been frowned upon
back home – and studied the map of the area around Venlo. Buller, meanwhile, chained both of Miss Pillbody’s ankles to the table cross pieces.

‘If that is the bridge,’ said Nathan, ‘then we should set up base as close as possible. The exchange might not happen tomorrow. Or the next day.’

‘My feeling is that it will be tomorrow,’ said Mrs Gregson.

‘Are we going to try and find Sherlock Holmes before the exchange?’ Buller asked. ‘I am sure he will see reason when he knows we’ve got that–’ he nodded
towards Miss Pillbody – ‘to offer in his place.’

‘It might be worth a try,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘But Holmes has a reputation for not being easy to find.’

‘You know we are being followed?’

They all turned to look at Miss Pillbody, who had made the announcement.

‘At least one car, possibly two. Both taken off that ferry. The Ford, I am sure about. There was a Vauxhall, too. The Ford has a registration plate of A7667. The Vauxhall,
SA983.’

The three others exchanged glances.

‘Why would I lie? I want to get back to Germany as much as I am sure your precious Watson wants to get home.’

Nathan considered for a moment. ‘I did see a number of cars being craned on and off the ferry. It doesn’t mean they are after us. “A” is a London registration I believe.
But “SA”?’

‘Scottish,’ said Buller. ‘Aberdeen, perhaps.’

‘Unlikely they’d be using a Scottish car,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘That must be a motor-tourist. Any theories who it might be in the Ford?’

They were interrupted by the arrival of plates of cold meats and cheese with a variety of pickles. Mrs Gregson made sure the knives and forks provided were kept well away from Miss
Pillbody’s end of the table. She could eat with her fingers.

Nathan, who had clearly been pondering the question, eventually came up with an answer. ‘I suspect it might be Mycroft. Or Mycroft’s people. After all, he won’t want his
brother falling into German hands if he can help it.’

Miss Pillbody gave a grunt of disbelief. They ignored her.

‘So they’ll want to flush him out, as we do. Would they stop us presenting Miss Pillbody here as an alternative prize?’

Nathan considered for a moment. ‘I doubt it. They could have apprehended us by now.’

‘Except they don’t know how little we know about Holmes’s whereabouts.’

‘Which is nothing,’ Miss Pillbody interjected.

‘You might find it difficult to eat through a gag,’ Mrs Gregson snapped at her.

Miss Pillbody scowled and folded a large circle of ham into her mouth.

‘Should we disable the Ford?’ Mrs Gregson asked. ‘It is probably somewhere around here.’

‘The problem is,’ said Buller, tapping the map, ‘they probably know where we are going.’

‘And,’ added Nathan, ‘they’d soon have another car from Eindhoven.’

‘And it is entirely possible,’ said Mrs Gregson after a little reflection, ‘that they are on our side.’

Nathan’s reply was drowned out by the sound of snorting derision coming from Miss Pillbody.

‘What is so funny?’ demanded Mrs Gregson.

‘Nothing, really,’ she said eventually after thumping her chest to aid her digestion. ‘It’s that I’ve only just realized.’

‘Realized what?’

‘You people don’t have a clue what you are getting yourselves into.’

After his meeting with Kügel and Steigler, Watson was escorted back to the compound, where he hurried as fast as he could back to the hut, leaning heavily on the staff as
he went, thus leaving strange tracks in the snow that even Sherlock might struggle to interpret. His mind was whirling like the flakes falling around him. And what was his phantom voice
offering?

Gold!

Over and over again, like a demented forty-niner.

As he crossed the compound he saw a group of prisoners tramping the ground in a line four abreast, pressing down the snow. Watching them was Henry Lincoln-Chance and at his feet what looked like
a sled. Ah, yes, the conqueror of the Cresta Run at St Moritz was creating an ice run down the slope of the ground.

Watson burst into the hut and indicated that Captain Peacock should follow him into his surgery/billet. Cocky raised his eyebrows in hope but Watson gave a barely perceptible shake of the
head.

Once inside, Watson pulled the curtain and kept his voice low but urgent. ‘Cocky, you mustn’t go.’

‘Go? Go where?’

‘You mustn’t try and escape. It’s a trick.’

‘Well, it fools the Germans all right,’ he beamed.

Watson gripped him by his plump arm, trying to convey the gravity of the situation. ‘I don’t know why or how, but I don’t think anyone gets home. I think they are done away
with en route. Perhaps a German betrays them or kills them.’

‘What? Why? Why go to all this trouble . . . ?’

Gold!

‘Oh, be quiet. No, not you, Cocky. Why? Money. You pay for the escape service, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, what if there isn’t a network of helpers, railwaymen, border guards to be bribed? What if you don’t get more than a mile? What if . . . Good Lord.’

‘What?’

Watson backed to his flimsy chair and sat, his left hand stroking his stubble. ‘The Russian camp up the road. What if the escapees are delivered there? It’s not a POW camp at all,
it’s simply a . . . a
death
camp.’

‘Look, Major, I’ve done a dry run. I’ve seen how it works. Seen freedom. Smelled it. What proof do you have of this monstrous accusation?’

‘The Coburg Hotel.’

Peacock shook his head. ‘Now you really aren’t making sense.’

‘Brevette, the last to escape before the deaths of the three from the séance.’

‘Yes?’

‘There is a postcard from him purportedly written from the Coburg three or four weeks ago.’

‘Your point being?’ asked Peacock.

Watson stood again, excited that at least one of the whirling jigsaw pieces had made it onto the board. ‘Some time ago I received a letter from a friend. I kept it . . .’ Watson
rummaged among the few precious possessions he still had, letters from Holmes and Mrs Gregson being a substantial part of them. ‘Here. It was when I was at Krefeld.’ He read out the
penultimate paragraph. ‘“Let us hope the war is over soon and we can all be together. Dinner at the Connaught (as they call the Coburg now), says Mr Holmes. Doesn’t that sound
grand?”’ You see? They changed the name of the hotel. It comes from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha – it might be the Royal name, but it’s just too German for these times.’

‘Perhaps it was an old postcard.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Watson without conviction. ‘But you can’t take that chance. There is a new commandant on the way. Red Cross inspections. Everything will change. For the
better.’

‘Everything will change if I stay here, Major.’

The tone of sadness made Watson look into Peacock’s face.

His eyes had filled with tears. ‘What is it, man?’

‘I have . . . had a fiancée. Margery. Margery Godman. Of the Esher Godmans.’

‘I’m not familiar with them.’

‘Father is Sherard Haughton Godman. A respected land-owner in those parts. He didn’t like me at first. Thought I was a wastrel. It’s why I joined the army. He’s Scots
Guards, y’see. Anyway, he gave his blessing just before I left for France. The thought of Margery has kept me going but . . . well, my older brother has been paying her court. Of late her
letters have cooled somewhat.’

‘Your brother? Isn’t that a rather underhand thing to do? Not the action of a gentleman.’

Peacock gave a bitter laugh. ‘My brother is no gentleman. He has a nervous condition that has kept him out of the war. The condition being that he is nervous he might get killed or maimed.
But we have a compliant family doctor. So he works for the Treasury on War Bonds issue. And meanwhile makes love to my fiancée.’

Watson had heard similar stories too many times to be shocked. It was startling how many of his patients at the camps had emotional rather than physical ailments. As a doctor concerned with body
rather than mind, it often tested his expertise to the limit. ‘I can offer little comfort there, apart from the fact than I suspect upon your return she will see the error of her ways. In my
experience, women do eventually see through the facile blandishments of hollow men. And your brother does sound hollow.’

‘As a reed,’ Peacock said. He patted his belly. ‘But also as thin as one. Unlike me. So you see I must grasp any chance to leave. You bring me proof that this is but a cruel
trick, and I will, of course, reconsider. But, for the moment, I shall continue with my plans.’

‘When are you meant to go?’

‘Tonight.’

‘But you have no way of imitating your death.’

Peacock wiped his eyes and straightened his clothes. ‘Link says he has bribed the German doctor for a catatonic potion.’

Watson wasn’t sure which of the questions clamouring for his attention to ask first. ‘Which German doctor?’

‘Steiglitz, is it?’

‘Steigler. There is no such thing as a catatonic potion.’

‘Link says it is an Italian draught. The same one Juliet used.’

‘Juliet?’

‘In
Romeo and Juliet
.’

Watson suppressed the urge to laugh in his face at such naïvety. ‘That is a fiction, Hugh. There’s no such potion.’

‘Pent— something, he said.’

‘Pentolinium?’

‘That’s the chappie.’

Watson had come across it while researching blood transfusions. It was some kind of nerve agent that lowered heartbeat and relaxed muscles. But he had never heard of it as a coma-inducing drug.
Although he had to admit he was some years behind in his reading of the
Lancet
. It was possible there was a new application.

‘One, I would be very careful of any drug that interfered with human metabolism. And two, how did Lincoln-Chance get to know Steigler?’

‘St Moritz.’

‘Explain,’ demanded Watson.

‘He and Steigler met before the war. They luged and bobsleighed together.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Watson, a sinking feeling spreading across his insides. ‘Don’t like the sound of it at all. I think we have all been
fooled.’