The Dead Can Wait (43 page)

‘You know,’ whispered Holmes, ‘that once we are far enough out, she won’t hesitate to shoot us?’

Watson nodded. The younger man trapped inside his ageing body had already urged him to take decisive action: to leap on Miss Deane or – heaven forfend – strike her down. But he detected something steely in this woman, a viciousness that suggested she would not hesitate to put a hole in him if she was under threat. And the way she moved, alert, agile, cat-like, suggested she had physical resources that might outmatch his own, while the chances of his being able to disentangle himself from a wheezing Holmes quickly enough to act were slim. His only hope, he realized, lay with Mrs Gregson.

‘I can’t see the next post,’ said Mrs Gregson, stopping in the midst of a shallow pool.

The party peered ahead into a shifting wall of luminescence, tinged with streaks of yellow. Fumes from the brickworks, no doubt.

‘Take the end of the twine,’ snapped Miss Deane, ‘and keep walking until you find it. Tug when you have. And, please, don’t do anything stupid.’

They watched as Mrs Gregson tramped forward in the direction they hoped was correct. If she couldn’t find a post, she would simply retrace her steps. But Watson wondered for a moment if she would simply carry on, abandoning them out there. It would be the sensible move.

Watson glanced over his shoulder. The mist was closing behind them. The floating lines and whorls projected onto his retina – the ‘floaters’ of ageing eyes – made it hard to focus, and he imagined figures just behind the curtain of fog, ghosts of all those who had been swallowed by this most treacherous of pathways.

They heard a shout and the string twitched.

‘Come on, you two,’ said Miss Deane.

They found Mrs Gregson next to a stumpy black stake, older than the ones they had passed so far.

‘You’re certain that is it?’ Miss Deane asked.

‘You can just make out the next one. There.’

All Watson could discern were more of the slowly moving cellular shapes that inhabited the vitreous humour in his eyes. He blinked, but the focus wouldn’t come.

‘Lead on.’

But Mrs Gregson put her hands on her hips. ‘I am right about you being a German agent, aren’t I? It’s Miss Pillbody, isn’t it? From the village?’

‘It doesn’t matter who I am.’

‘The woman who killed Coyle. And Ross. You are the German spy, aren’t you?’

Holmes muttered something under his breath. All Watson caught was the note of despair.

‘How did you know?’ Miss Deene asked, not bothering to deny it.

‘The paintings. I knew I had seen that style before. But I couldn’t place it. Didn’t think it was important. But I’d seen one in your cottage, hadn’t I?’

So
this
was the woman who had tortured and murdered his poor friend, Coyle. Watson felt something rising in his throat and must have tensed.

‘Careful,’ whispered Holmes, sensing impetuousness.

‘Lead on,’ Miss Deane repeated.

‘What do you hope to achieve by this?’ Mrs Gregson demanded. Watson looked down at his feet. Had the water deepened? Was the tide moving? It was probably no time to be lingering.

‘She knows about the tanks,’ said Holmes. ‘That’s what she has achieved.’ His voice was full of remorse, for he had told her about the landships and allowed her to be in the room while Watson filled in the details. ‘We should continue.’

Mrs Gregson nodded and began the slow trudge to the next pole. As Holmes managed to spread his load more evenly between his stick and his friend, they fell into a ragged rhythm, making better progress into the shifting mist, the smell of the brickworks growing stronger, the occasional gull appearing from the veil to mock, or perhaps warn them, with their screeches.

After some time, Mrs Gregson stopped and pointed to a new kind of pole, one that resembled the sunken mast of a great galleon. Miniature versions of it could just be glimpsed, running left to right.

‘Is this it?’ Mrs Gregson asked.

It took Holmes and Watson a few moments to catch up and another thirty seconds before Holmes could speak. ‘Havengore Creek,’ he gasped.

‘What?’ Miss Deane demanded.

‘It’s a channel. For boats. Not for us. We go on.’ He pointed ahead. ‘That way.’

‘So we are not too far?’

‘Another thirty minutes, perhaps a little longer.’

They waited while Miss Deane performed some mental calculation. ‘Keep moving.’

Apparently Holmes did not have half an hour in him. He began sliding further down Watson’s body, slumping noticeably with each step. A gap opened up between them and the two women. Miss Deane looked back and beckoned them on with the gun. At that point, Holmes fell to his knees, a wretched noise coming from his throat.

Their captor took a step back in their direction. ‘Get up.’

Watson crouched and loosened Holmes’s collar. His friend nodded his thanks.

‘He cannot.’

‘He has to.’

‘Let me lie for a moment,’ croaked Holmes, laying himself across the riffles of sand. His clothes began to wick up moisture.

‘Holmes, you must not—’

‘Langdale Pike,’ he muttered.

‘What?’ Langdale Pike was the pseudonym of one of the most notorious gossip columnists in London.

‘If she is intent on London . . .’ – he gulped for air – ‘Pike can stop her.’

Watson feared his mind had gone.
How can a scurrilous pedlar of half-truths stop this woman?
‘Very well, Holmes. But we aren’t finished yet.’

It was a faint smile that flicked over his lips. ‘I’ve said it before, Watson. You are the one fixed point in a changing age.’

‘Up!’ Miss Deane was standing over them now. ‘Or I’ll shoot you where you lie.’

She raised the pistol. Holmes closed his eyes in acceptance. Watson cursed the tired knees that made a leap at her impossible.

There came a gurgling sound from beneath her feet and, before their eyes, the channels in the Broomway began to fill. The tide was coming in.

Miss Deane took a step backwards, her shoes splashing on the water rushing to cover the temporary road once more. She laughed at their predicament. ‘Good luck, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘I doubt we will meet again.’

‘Major—’ Mrs Gregson began, but Miss Deane poked her in the ribs and the pair trudged on. They were soon lost to the fog.

‘She has calculated you will not leave my side,’ said Holmes.

‘She is right. We still have a chance of out-pacing this.’

‘You might. Just. You can save yourself.’

Watson gripped Holmes’s shoulder. ‘Nonsense. We’ll try together.’

‘It would be sensible for you to go,’ insisted Holmes. ‘Logic dictates it.’

Watson was in no mood to be dictated to by friend or logic. ‘And leave fifty per cent of myself behind?’

More water lapped at his shoes. He remembered the phrase about the speed of the incoming tide.
Faster than even a young man can run.

And certainly quicker than two old crocks could make it to safety.

Watson put his hands under Holmes’s armpits. ‘We’ll go together, Holmes. Or die trying.’

FORTY-FIVE

Mrs Gregson took a step back towards the two men struggling upright on the sand. Miss Deane pointed the gun at her. ‘Stop. We go on.’

‘No.’

The pistol was raised to eye level. ‘I need you, Mrs Gregson, but not so badly I’ll risk all while you help two men who are already dead. Walk on. Or you can stay here with them.’

‘I’m not sure you’d shoot me in cold blood.’

‘No? Think back, Mrs Gregson. Think back to that cottage in Suffolk. I do believe you saw something of my handiwork there. In fact, my grenade almost got you, so Major Watson told Holmes. You think being a woman will somehow protect you? Besides, I don’t have to kill you.’ She inclined her head to the swirling dark waters, now greedily reclaiming the land. ‘All I have to do is shoot you in the knee. Then the tide will have three of you.’

‘You are murdering two of the finest men who ever lived. They don’t deserve this. Holmes and Watson—’

‘Move or die, Mrs Gregson. Move or die.’

Reluctantly, Mrs Gregson backed away from the terrible sight, turning as soon as the mist reduced the figures to floundering wraiths.

‘He won’t leave him, you know. Watson won’t leave Holmes, even if he could make it. They’ll die together out there.’ Miss Deane nodded. ‘I’m counting on it.’

By the time they splashed their way up the causeway at Wakering Steps the water had reached thigh level. Both women had fallen silent, lost in the effort of fighting the force of water trying to topple them over or push them off course. Mrs Gregson’s bag had been an early victim of the surge. Now she only had the clothes she stood up in. As if mere dresses were important. At least Desmond’s letter was safely tucked in her bodice. Mrs Gregson tried not to think about Watson or Holmes, hundreds of yards behind them, unable to go forward or back, the sea rapidly claiming them.

She scrabbled up the rough ramp to the sea wall, aware that she was losing sensation in her feet. Mrs Gregson wasn’t going to show weakness in front of this appalling woman, though, not after what she had done to her friends.

Miss Deane, too, was puffing and panting, but she still had a grim and gritty determination about her. She had, for example, managed to hold on to her own bag, although it was soaked through. ‘No time to rest.’

‘What do you intend to do now?’

‘Find a car. Head to London.’

‘And betray your country?’

‘There is nothing to betray. I’m not British. I only sound that way. I’m as German as the Kaiser.’

‘German?’ Mrs Gregson had assumed she was a turncoat Englishwoman, not an actual enemy national. ‘That explains why you don’t care about them.’ She pointed out to the causeway. Was the mist lifting? She could see three sets of poles now. A moment ago it had been one. ‘Two fine Englishmen—’

‘I don’t care, no,’ Miss Deane replied, puzzled that anyone should expect her to be concerned about a pair of old, useless men. ‘I know this country has some sentimental attachment to them, but the world has moved on.’

Mrs Gregson’s teeth began to chatter. ‘We should get warm. We’ll catch our deaths.’

Miss Deane found that amusing. ‘Come on.’

Mrs Gregson began to walk up the path. The wind had changed direction, she realized, and the strange fog was dissipating. She could see fields, and some buildings appearing ahead.

‘Where’s the town?’ asked Miss Deane, alarmed by all the countryside coming into view.

‘I have no idea,’ said Mrs Gregson.

‘There must be one near. Come along, step it up.’

Miss Deane hustled her along the uneven pathway, which showed signs of the passage of vehicles, but there were no actual cars or lorries to be seen.

‘They’ll have noticed our absence by now,’ said Mrs Gregson.

‘Shut up.’

‘I would imagine they will start putting up roadblocks.’

The thump from the butt of the gun made Mrs Gregson cry out, but Miss Deane had enough presence of mind to jump back after she had delivered it. Not once had Mrs Gregson been in a position to overpower her. She touched her scalp and sucked in air. ‘You’ve drawn blood.’

‘Just keep your opinions to yourself.’

They trudged on, squelching as they went, the low sun growing in confidence as the milky mist faded, leaving just the smoke from the distant brickworks to haze the sky. Soon Mrs Gregson had that strange sensation of being too hot in all her clothing while shivering uncontrollably.

‘There. What’s that?’

It was parked outside a low agricultural building. An army truck, with canvas sides and an open cab, its paintwork new and shiny. For a second Mrs Gregson dared hope it meant that there were people – specifically, armed men – in the vicinity but as they swerved off the road and crossed into the yard nobody appeared. Mrs Gregson touched the cowling of the engine. Stone cold. It had been left overnight.

‘This will have to do,’ said Miss Deane.

‘A woman driving a lorry? How far do you think you’ll get?’

‘Nonsense, plenty of women are driving now. Ambulances and the like.’

‘Not dressed like that,’ said Mrs Gregory.

Miss Deane glanced down at her ruined dress. ‘We’ll worry about that later. Can you start this thing?’

Mrs Gregson didn’t answer. The crack of the gun and the heat of the bullet snapping by her ear made her jump.

‘I’m running out of time and patience. Can you start it?’

She sensed a new note of desperation in the woman’s voice. She must be under pressure to risk taking the shot. Mrs Gregson had the horrible realization that she might be entering the last few minutes of her life. ‘Yes.’

‘Then do so while you still have two knees to walk with.’

‘You’re going to kill me anyway.’

Miss Deane sighed. ‘You know, I haven’t decided one way or the other. But you’re doing a damn fine job of persuading me.’

Mrs Gregson lifted the fluted cowling and peered into the engine. She slammed it shut. ‘Some have self-starting systems. Not this one.’ She climbed into the cab and leaned under the dashboard. She found the crank. Then she pulled out the wires from the ignition and, stripping the ends with her teeth, wound them together.

She emerged with the crank and offered it to Miss Deane. ‘Do you want to do the honours?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

Mrs Gregson gave a thin, superior smile and inserted the business end of the crank into the engine. The kick-back on the lorry could be fearsome, she knew, so she made sure she wrapped her thumbs away, so as not to break one.

‘You might want to give it some throttle and choke when it catches. It is cold.’

Miss Deane moved around to the driver’s side. Standing on the running board, she found the choke and pulled it out a quarter of an inch. Then she put her left foot on the throttle, while hanging onto the open door, her pistol still pointed at Mrs Gregson. ‘Go on.’

Mrs Gregson, who had started many an ambulance, grunted at the resistance. The handle moved a fraction of a turn and stopped.

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a pretty new lorry, by the look of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the rings aren’t bedded in yet.’