A Study in Murder (4 page)

Pitt wondered whether to call his bluff. But he thought of the hundreds who would benefit from this arrangement, some of them likely to die before the winter was out if the negotiations fell
through. As if to underline the point, a few flurries of snow spiralled past the window to fall onto the formal gardens below.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You’ll share the names with us?’

The German simply nodded, his face impassive, as if his victory gave him no satisfaction. He sat once more and looked down the sheets before him, shuffling the papers, searching through the
lists. In truth, there was only one name he recognized. But he didn’t want this to appear to be a personal vendetta, the act of petty revenge he knew, in his heart, it was.

‘Captain Arthur Cameron,’ he said, and put a line through the entry. His eyes continued to rove down the columns of prisoners.

‘Lieutenant George McArthur.’

Now he was on the final page and there it was, glowing as if written in blood. ‘And Major John Watson.’

‘Watson?’ spluttered Pitt. ‘What on earth has he done to Germany? And what kind of threat could he possibly be? He’s sixty if he’s a day. Good Lord,
man—’

‘Major!’ De Krom snapped. Pitt muttered a fruity oath under his breath, knowing the fury and disappointment he would face at home. Mrs Gregson would shut tight like a steel trap.

‘But Major Watson. What kind of threat is he?’ Pitt repeated.

Von Bork had met Watson but once, in August 1914, when his famous friend and companion had humiliated the German on the eve of war. Von Bork had waited a long time to exact some kind of
retribution, no matter how trivial. And for a man of Watson’s age, what he was about to do would be more than a slight inconvenience. In the same way that Sherlock Holmes had snatched victory
from Von Bork, he would pluck away the promise of home and comfort from the doctor.

‘The worst kind,’ he replied. ‘The sort you don’t expect. No, my apologies, but this is a matter of principle.’

That was no kind of answer, Pitt appreciated, but he had a feeling his opponent wasn’t going to budge his shiny boots on this one.

‘I think you are playing games,’ said Pitt, standing, half inclined to storm out. But how would that look to his superiors? And surely he could work on getting Watson out later. He
could square this with Mrs Gregson. She would understand the impossible situation he was in, faced with throwing away months of tortuous wrangling over the fate of one man. ‘I would like to
lodge a formal protest.’

‘By not signing?’ asked the German, with a raise of one eyebrow. ‘That is your privilege.’

The chiming clock filled the silence with its sonorous declaration of noon. When it had stopped, Pitt said, ‘No. We sign. For the sake of the others. And then we, at least, can all go
home.’

‘Excellent,’ said the German, pushing the list back across the table. ‘Then we can proceed.’

De Krom passed Pitt a leather-bound document case, which he opened to find the formal agreement in all three languages. Every word had been pored over by the civil servants outside, so Pitt had
no need to read it again. He signed, and carefully blotted a signature that was less elegant than usual. He repeated the process twice more and then passed it across to the German.

‘Well, I hope you are satisfied now,’ said Pitt, his voice shaking with suppressed anger.

‘Oh, I am,’ Von Bork replied, allowing a small smile to illuminate his puffy aristocratic face as he wrote his name with a flourish. ‘I am most satisfied.’

Thursdays were designated as Prisoner Walk days at Krefeld, so after breakfast Watson presented Hanson at the camp entrance and requested permission to leave the compound with
his patient. Watson was handed the oath card by the camp’s duty gate officer, a
Leutnant
with a blast-mangled face who, despite his injury, bore the British and French little obvious
hostility. He even shared a joke with the captives sometimes, although today he didn’t seem to be in the mood for levity.

‘Can you read it out please, Major,’ he said through his twisted lips.

‘Of course,’ agreed Watson. ‘It says: “I herewith give my word of honour that I shall not, in case of my taking part in a walk, make an attempt to escape during such
walk, i.e. from the time of leaving camp until, having returned to it at the agreed time, strictly obeying any orders given to me by any accompanying officer, and not to commit any acts that are
directed towards the safety of the German Empire.” There.’ Watson made to hand the card back.

‘Other side, please.’

Watson turned it over and read the unfamiliar passage more slowly. ‘“I know that any prisoner of war who escapes, despite having given his word of honour, is liable to the severest
possible punishment.” This is new, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said the
Leutnant
with a shrug. ‘It means we can shoot you if you try to escape.’ The poor man’s misshapen smile looked like a terrible leer.
‘And you, Captain Hanson, please. If you will read.’

Hanson was dressed in his standard-issue British Warm greatcoat, a large red cravat tucked in at the neck to hide the self-inflicted wound. He had said nothing since the suicide attempt. His
sullenness seemed to chide all and sundry for saving him.

‘Captain Hanson doesn’t speak,’ said Watson, pulling down the material at the throat to show the still-livid scar.

The
Leutnant
flinched, even though his own injuries made the mark look like a razor nick. ‘He must speak the words and sign the card.’

‘I’ll sign for him.’

The German shook his head. ‘Major Watson—’

‘Look at him, man. He’s not worth a candle. And look at me. We’re hardly the most dangerous men in Germany right now. Let me sign for both. I’ll “p.p.” for
him.’

‘Pee-pee?’

‘
Per procurationem
,’ said Watson. ‘It means on behalf of.’ It didn’t quite, but he didn’t feel up to arguing the subtleties of Latin phrasings with a
German soldier. It was almost eight o’clock, lunch was in three and a half hours, with the second of the day’s
Appells
at one p.m. They’d have to be back for that at the
very least.

‘I’m not sure,’ the
Leutnant
said.

Watson reached into his overcoat pocket and took out a single Huntley & Palmer, carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper. He held out the biscuit to the German. ‘This will be crumbs by
the time we get back. Can you look after it for us—’

It was gone in an instant. Two cards were presented on the counter top, Watson signed both, ‘p.p.-ing’ for Hanson, and the signal was given to open both sets of steel gates. It was
always a heady moment, and Watson hoped Hanson appreciated it, to take that first step beyond the fences, barbed wire and look-out posts, the searchlamps and the dogs, and breathe free –
albeit German – air.

‘Halt!’ one of the guards shouted.

Hanson, who either didn’t register or ignored the command, continued on. Watson heard the familiar sound of a Mauser bolt action, took a series of rapid steps and placed a hand on the
captain’s shoulder. The man froze where he was. Watson, once he was certain Hanson wasn’t going to do anything foolish, turned to confront the guard. ‘Yes? Something
wrong?’

‘
Sie können nicht allein ausgehen
.’

Watson’s German had improved considerably over the months of captivity, but this one, a beefy, round-faced boy barely into the shaving years, had a thick, impenetrable accent, as if he was
speaking through a mouthful of aniseed balls.

‘
Bitte?
’

The German repeated himself, looking over his shoulder at the gate
Leutnant
for confirmation. It was a moment before the duty officer appeared in the side window of the hut.

‘
Nein, es ist in Ordnung
,’ said the
Leutnant
, wiping some crumbs from his lips, then waving them on. ‘
Sie brauchen nicht eine Eskorte.
’

Watson caught the last bit. The guard had thought they should have an escort for the walk, as was common, although unescorted solo perambulations were not unknown. Watson mimed running and then
put his hand to his heart and gave exaggerated breaths, as if about to collapse from cardiac failure. He could hear the
Leutnant
laugh at the pantomime, but the guard just scowled and
lowered his rifle.

‘
Komm nicht zu spät, oder ich werde kommen suchen
,’ he mumbled, and swung the gate closed behind them. Watson didn’t catch a word, but he was fairly sure it was a
threat about what would happen if they didn’t return.

The road from the camp took them between two large ploughed fields and, eventually, to the village and its railway station. But they had been warned not to venture there. The villagers, many of
whom had lost sons on the Western Front, were sometimes violent towards the prisoners. They thought the POWs lived a life of well-fed comfort, while they suffered the privations and indignities
that were the result of the Allied blockade.

So as they approached the woods, Watson steered his charge to the left, towards a plantation of fir trees that formed part of the same estate as the camp. From there they could walk through to a
small river, which would normally be home to some wildlife, although anything edible, Watson knew, had long ago been snared or shot and cooked. But it was a charming spot, where you could sit and
watch the dancing, silvery waters and pretend the war didn’t exist or that a camp hemmed in by barbed wire would be calling you back all too soon.

Watson turned up the collar of Hanson’s coat, pulled down his cap and began to talk.

‘I thought I might tell you a story. Just to pass the time. There was a time when I was driven to tell them. To write things down. Every day an idea popped unbidden into my head, demanding
to be shared. Plus, my old friend and colleague provided more narrative than one scribe could hope to have published in a single lifetime. But there is one tale that has come back to me of late.
Careful here.’ They stepped over some fallen branches. Above them the crows kept up their constant complaints. Behind them, one of the painfully thin horses – apparently the only breed
available – was dragging a dray towards the camp gates, plodding with terminal weariness towards its destination, like, thought Watson, Germany herself.

‘It was April 1890,’ continued Watson, ‘as the debilitating bone-chill of a lengthy winter had finally begun to relax its grip on the metropolis, when my friend Sherlock Holmes
turned his attention to what the daily press was calling The Rugby Mystery, and others, The Girl and the Gold Watches. Holmes had recently completed his investigation into a most gruesome business,
involving jealousy and murder.’

They stepped into the quiet and gloom of the pines, the shrill voices of the birds suddenly muffled, the needles underfoot crackling like pork skin. His voice seemed small and insignificant amid
the sturdy, straight-backed trunks of the evergreens, but Watson carried on, enjoying the rhythm of the story.

‘The solution to the case had put him in a rather sombre mood. “What is the meaning of it, Watson?” he had exclaimed, not for the first time. Peering into the darkest corners
of the human soul often caused him to recoil in revulsion at the depravity of his fellow man. “What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end,
or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever.”’

‘Oh, for all that is merciful, man, do be quiet.’

The sudden exclamation, blurted into the cathedral-like space, did, indeed, shock Watson into silence.

‘Can we double back through here to the village?’ asked Hanson, pointing to the north.

Shocked by this sudden volubility, Watson began to answer, ‘That’s not a good idea. There have been incidents—’

‘Don’t worry about that. Give me a hand with my coat.’

Watson instinctively helped Hanson shuck his greatcoat. He held it while the man took off his boots and lowered his trousers.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Doing? What do you think I am doing?’ echoed Hanson, his voice still carrying a trace of Cornish burr. ‘Getting out of this godforsaken place.’

‘You can’t do that.’

Hanson turned the trousers inside out. Now, the dark stripe that marked him out as a POW had disappeared. He quickly pulled them back on and buttoned up the fly.

‘Can’t?’ He took the British Warm back from Watson and began to turn that, too, inside out. The interior had been dyed a dark navy blue. From the lining came a civilian hat,
which he placed on his head. ‘I have a map, a train timetable, money. Documents. I came to Krefeld fully prepared for this. Good Lord, do you know how close the Dutch border is?’ He
pointed a finger east.

‘It’s that way,’ corrected Watson. ‘You’d need a compass. But even if you had one, that border is impenetrable on this side. Men have tried for nigh on three
years—’

Hanson was in Watson’s face now, so close he could feel his breath on his cheek. ‘Men haven’t tried hard enough. I risked being shot to get myself to this, this
health
resort
. You don’t know what the rest of the camps are like.’

Watson was only too aware how cushy they had it at Krefeld, but didn’t stoop to arguing with the man. ‘Then stay where you are. The war will be over—’

‘Ah, you’ve gone soft, man.’

As Hanson wriggled his arms into the coat, Watson grabbed the sleeve. ‘I gave my word.’

‘I didn’t,’ Hanson reminded him.

‘I gave it on your behalf.’

Hanson laughed at him. ‘Oh, please.
Por procreation
or whatever it was? You’re not still clinging to some outmoded notion of honour, are you? A gentleman’s word is his
bond and such rot? If that isn’t dead already, it’s busy dying out there in the trenches amid the gas and the flamethrowers. Honour? There’s no honour in this war.’

Watson felt a flush of anger. He gripped the man’s arm harder. ‘There has to be. There has to be some shred of honour left. Anyway, if you go running off, you’ll be captured
within three or four hours . . .’