A Study in Murder (5 page)

‘Let go of me.’

‘. . . and you’ll be denying scores of men this small freedom. These walks keep some of them sane. It’s why I brought you out here.’ Although, he now appreciated, Hanson
had duped him on that score. The suicide attempt, like the phoney shell shock he had affected, had clearly been a bluff to make him seem a suitable candidate for these therapeutic walks. ‘You
think after you break the trust they’ll let anyone leave the camp—’

The fist took Watson by surprise. The blow was an awkward one, without the full body weight behind it, but still it felt to Watson as if he were lifted off his feet as he was dashed against a
tree trunk. His head spun and for a second he thought he might vomit.

‘Look, old man, tell them I overpowered you. That’ll be a nice shiner by tomorrow. I came here for this chance and I intend to take it.’

Hanson turned and began to stride towards the village. Watson knew he couldn’t let him go. There was too much at stake for every other man in the camp. He bent one leg and used his foot to
drive himself off the tree. It was a long time since he had performed a rugby tackle, and it was as much a stumble as a charge, but he caught the man in his lower back and he felt Hanson’s
legs buckle at the impact. Watson kept his weight on top of him as he fell towards the floor, making sure all the breath was driven from Hanson’s body when he crashed down into sparse
undergrowth.

Watson, too, was winded and the younger man recovered first, with a vicious elbow to the face. The padding of the man’s greatcoat softened the force of the impact, but even so, Hanson
managed to wriggle free as Watson reared back to prevent a repeat performance. The speed of the man was impressive. He hopped to his feet and began to work with his fists. Watson covered his face
as blow after blow rained down on him, a savagery born of a desperate, irrational urge. Watson lashed out blindly with a foot and made contact with a shin, giving him a moment’s respite so he
could try and struggle upright.

The pause was short-lived. The moment he was on his feet an uppercut clacked his jaws together and the iron tang of blood filled his mouth. Watson had never had Holmes’s facility as a
pugilist, but he knew even he was performing poorly here. He managed one solid punch of his own, before a left to his ear set the world a-ringing and he went down again, into the carpet of sharp
pine needles.

Watson rolled on his back. He knew the fight was almost out of him. His lungs felt as if they were being caressed with a blowtorch and his sinuses hummed with pain. Hanson, who had only been in
captivity a matter of weeks, was still in good shape, still carrying muscle that hadn’t been wasted by near starvation. And he was half Watson’s age.

Excuses, Watson
.
Remember the principles of Bartitsu.

‘That was you, Holmes. Not me,’ he said to the phantom voice, which was as unreliable and infuriating as ever.

Hanson had stepped away from him, walked over to a nearby pine trunk, bent at the waist and then began snuffling like a truffle pig with exertion as he straightened. Watson hoped it was because
he had managed to hurt him, to salvage some pride from the beating he had taken. Perhaps he’d broken a rib or two. But when Hanson stood, Watson could see he had managed to prise free a large
rock from the soil. That was what had required all the grunting effort. There was certainly nothing wrong with his ribs.

Watson kicked his heels, beetling backwards through the needles until his head rested against sharp bark. He had nowhere left to go. His only option was an appeal to reason, and he was certain
that was in short supply in his assailant’s brain.

The would-be fugitive approached slowly, clutching the heavy stone that, in a terrible irony, looked to Watson as if it were shaped like a rugby ball. ‘I can’t have you raising the
alarm. Not now I’ve come this far.’

‘Hanson—’ Watson began, his arms lifted in a feeble attempt to try to protect his head.

‘Sorry, old chap. Needs must, you know.’

Hanson, his expression somewhere between a grin and grimace, lifted his arms above his head and Watson closed his eyes, waiting for the blow that would crush his skull.

‘What do you mean, he’s not on the list?’ said Mrs Gregson, her words snapping like a coachman’s whip.

‘Ssh, please, Georgina,’ pleaded Pitt, as the patrons of the Connaught swivelled their heads to take a closer look at the woman who was disturbing their luncheon.

Mrs Gregson pushed away her bowl of quail consommé, slopping it onto the tablecloth. She clicked her fingers at the waiter and signalled she would like a refill of burgundy. A
crusty-looking diner with walrus-style moustaches tutted at her crassness, but she fixed him with a stare that sent him back to his
Suprêmes de Volailles Jeannette.

Pitt had hoped that a meal in the dining room of a hotel that, despite the shortages apparent beyond its walls, still managed a decent show, would soften Mrs Gregson. But the gilded furniture,
silk-panelled walls and pendulous crystal chandeliers seemed only to inflame her more. It was, perhaps, ill-judged to bring a woman who spent her days packing fish paste for prisoners to somewhere
quite so conspicuous in its celebration of the finer things of life. A Lyons Corner House might have been more appropriate, he thought mournfully. And a damn sight cheaper, too.

With her glass recharged, Mrs Gregson took a generous mouthful, but appeared not to savour it. ‘You’d better start at the beginning, Neville.’

So Pitt explained the tedious machinations of the negotiations to try and alleviate the suffering of the most vulnerable prisoners of war on both sides. How committees had given way to
one-on-one negotiations and how, at the last moment, Watson had been denied a place in the first tranche of the repatriated.

A waiter appeared at her shoulder to clear away the neglected soup course. Like every man of his profession in London, apart from those with obvious disabilities, he was of a certain vintage.
‘Is everything all right, madam?’ he asked in a French accent that might even have been genuine.

‘Yes. I’m not as hungry as I thought I was. Perhaps we could have a pause before the next course?’

‘Of course, madam. I shall inform the kitchen.’

She turned her attention back to Pitt. ‘You said there were three men who were struck off. Was there any common theme? Any link between them?’

‘I didn’t think to look,’ admitted Pitt, lighting a cigarette to stave off his hunger pangs. He hadn’t felt he could plough on with his soup while Mrs Gregson had clearly
lost her appetite. But after a few days of what the Dutch called food, he had been looking forward to a substantial lunch. He hoped she didn’t scupper his highly anticipated dish of lamb
noisettes
.

‘You didn’t think to investigate what the connection might be? Regiment or school or battle? The same London club? Perhaps they are related in some way.’

He admitted, somewhat shamefacedly, that he had not thought to pursue the matter. The noise she made demonstrated her frustration to a good portion of the dining room.

‘And this man who denied Major Watson?’ she continued.

‘Von Bork? What about him?’

‘Yes, Von Bork. Have you looked into his background? What do you know of him?’

Pitt shook his head. ‘Very little, I am afraid. Only that he was the nominated representative of the Imperial German Prisoners’ Welfare Command. The equivalent of me,
really.’

‘And that’s all you can offer?’

He flinched at the dismissive tone she had adopted. ‘I don’t think we were too concerned about who the German representative was at the time. Just that they had one.’

‘And look where that has landed you.’

Despite his years and rank she was making him feel like an errant schoolboy caught scrumping. His false eye was itching in the socket, but he couldn’t risk scratching it lest something
unfortunate happened. Fishing a rogue peeper out of the lunch was not the done thing at this stage in a relationship. If there was to be a relationship. He could sense her ardour cooling by the
minute. His own wasn’t far behind. There were plenty of unattached women in London at the moment and a majority of them were far less challenging than Mrs Gregson. And younger.

‘Look, Mrs Gregson,’ he said, not daring to use her Christian name now, ‘this is just a trial run, as it were. In six months there will be another exchange—’

‘It is January, Major Pitt. If you think London is cold, what about Germany? He is not a young man . . .’

Precisely
.
Why all the fuss?

‘. . . he could be dead by spring.’

Good riddance.

Pitt concluded he must be tipsy. He had been swilling back the burgundy on an empty stomach. He had to be careful not to speak these uncharitable thoughts out loud. He reached across to cup Mrs
Gregson’s hand, but found himself grasping only starched linen.

‘I’m very disappointed, Major,’ she said coolly. ‘Very disappointed indeed.’

‘I can tell, Mrs Gregson. As am I.’ Although not, perhaps, for reasons she fully appreciated. ‘Very much so.’

‘Is madam ready for her sole now?’ asked the waiter, who had glided up to her shoulder as if on castors.

For a second, she thought of declining and leaving, not wanting to go through the rituals of such formal dining. But she had to eat. There was talk of rationing if the German submarines
continued their campaign against merchant shipping. But she was in no mood for picking delicately at her dish. ‘Off the bone, please.’

‘Of course, madam.’

An idea was formulating in her head. Not a sensible idea, perhaps, but one that would give her forward momentum. The thought of another six months or a year packing and labelling parcels
appalled her.

‘When the men are repatriated to Holland, they will need medical attention, won’t they?’

‘Yes, of course. The Dutch Red Cross has undertaken to provide care for the sick and injured.’

‘You are in touch with them?’

Pitt frowned. His alcohol-blunted brain couldn’t quite see where she was going. ‘I am.’

‘Can you get me in?’

‘Where?’ he asked. ‘The Red Cross?’

‘Holland. I want to volunteer my services.’

‘But the Parcels and Clothing Committee? That’s vital work—’

‘Vital work that any empty-headed housewife can do. Just ask Mrs Nichols or Mrs Priestley.’

‘Well, I don’t know. Do you have any medical training, Mrs Gregson?’

If the lamb and the sole hadn’t interrupted, she might have exploded. Instead, she showed him her hands. ‘I didn’t get these from packing parcels.’

He had noticed them, of course. Rough-skinned and scarred, hardly becoming for a woman of any standing above the servant class. In fact, he had wondered if she had been in service and had
bettered herself through the marriage to the late, apparently unlamented, Mr Gregson. If he
was
late, he realized. She had never actually confirmed she was a widow, he had simply picked up
that snippet from the gossip at the Clothing Committee HQ.

‘Carbolic and Eusol does terrible things to a woman’s skin,’ she said. ‘I was in Belgium and France for two years. I don’t think Holland will be a
challenge.’

‘Well, I have to go out and make provision for the first arrivals. I will make enquiries.’

‘I will come with you.’

‘Mrs Gregson, I don’t think that’s . . .’ He struggled for the word.

‘Possible? Likely? Agreeable? Feasible? The done thing?’ she prompted him.

‘Appropriate.’

‘Oh, I can make it appropriate,’ said Mrs Gregson, thinking of favours owed. ‘I can make it very appropriate.’

Pitt let out a sigh. He couldn’t help thinking of Pandora’s box. What had he unleashed with a little innocent flirtation?

‘
Bon appétit,
’ Mrs Gregson said with a grin that, in a man, he might have described as wolfish. Pitt stared down at his noisettes. He found, with some considerable
dismay, that he was no longer hungry.

Hauptmann Halbricht’s office, with its twin stoves and crackling fire, had trumped the infirmary as the warmest room in the camp, and Watson soon found himself perspiring
under his greatcoat. Still, it was too much effort to remove it. He was sitting on an admiral’s chair in front of the commandant’s desk, wedged in between the arms, and his body was
aching from the thumps and bumps he had received. In the heat of the moment, he had felt very little pain. Now, his frame was reliving the tussle with Hanson blow by blow, right down to telling him
his knuckles were not designed for making contact with muscle and bone.

As Halbricht fussed in one of the cupboards, Watson looked around the room. It featured several items he had forgotten he missed: a carpet, for one, soft under the soles of his boots. A pair of
ornate table lamps with shades, suggesting quiet nights of reading. A splendid Winterhalder & Hofmeier mantel clock, from an era when time didn’t drag its heels. And there was art. Above
the fireplace was a portrait in oils of Halbricht in his younger days, posed holding a substantial tome under one arm and wearing what looked like a college gown. Adorning other walls were English
hunting scenes, the usual confection of red jackets, horses, horns and hounds. It made him homesick for a good coaching inn and a pint of ale.

‘Ah, here we are,’ Halbricht exclaimed, pulling free a bottle from the rear of the cupboard. ‘Port!’

Watson, who had been expecting schnapps at best, said: ‘Splendid.’

‘It’s a habit I picked up in England,’ Halbricht said. ‘Along with marmalade. When I was younger and thinner.’ His eyes glanced up to the portrait.

‘You taught there?’ The gown in the portrait indicated a teacher; the marmalade and the port suggested, perhaps, a spell at High Table. Could the marmalade be Frank Cooper’s?
‘Oxford perhaps?’

‘For five years,’ he confirmed. ‘Jesus College. You know it?’

‘I know it helps if you speak Welsh.’ While he was in Cairo researching blood transfusion, Watson had met an alumnus of the college called Lawrence, who explained that because Jesus
was founded by a Welshman, some connection with the country helped facilitate entry. Lawrence, although brought up in Oxford, had been born in Tremadog. One day, Watson thought, he must write down
his Egyptian adventure with the diminutive Orientalist and spy.