The Furies (3 page)

Another man appeared: very tall, ginger mutton-chop sideburns and moustache, dressed in a black suit and bowler hat, collar and tie. There was an imposing authority about him, thought Elspeth, leaning further back inside the doorway and straining her ears to listen.

‘Right, constable, you can let them out, but I want names and addresses.' The inspector lowered his voice and spoke in hushed tones, which Elspeth could just catch. ‘Keep a look out for any suspicious women. This'll be suffragettes again.'

Elspeth felt a spasm of fear in her abdomen, but instantly quelled it: I must not panic, she told herself. Turning around, she saw Sylvia and the elderly couple standing behind her and motioned for them to come forward. Taking the man by the elbow, she guided him through the doorway and out into the early evening daylight.

Both constables were busy taking the names and addresses of the first visitors to have left the nave; the inspector stood to one side, watching the crowd. But as soon as Elspeth came into his field of view she saw his head swivel in her direction: a moment later he was striding towards her.

‘Do you know each other?' he asked, waving a finger at her and the man.

‘Yes. We were together when the bomb went off,' Elspeth said.

‘That's not what I asked.'

She looked him directly in the eye, knowing that to look elsewhere would appear evasive. ‘As I've just stated, inspector, I was with this gentleman and his wife,' she said, turning to indicate Sylvia and the older woman coming through the doorway behind her, ‘when the explosion occurred.'

The inspector's expression did not change as he turned to the man. ‘Do you know this young woman, sir?'

The man hesitated as he looked at Elspeth, then back at the inspector. ‘No, but she was near us when the bomb went off.'

‘So she didn't go into the Abbey with you?'

‘No…' The man's eyes flicked uncertainly between Elspeth and the inspector. ‘But the young lady has been of great assistance to me, sir.'

The other visitors appeared to have noticed Elspeth's interrogation by this authoritarian figure, and she could feel their curious looks just as Sylvia and the frail woman arrived alongside her.

‘Is there a problem?' the woman asked with a look of concern.

The inspector merely glanced at her before his gaze fell upon Sylvia. ‘There's no problem, ma'am. However, it's more than likely this bomb was planted by suffragettes.' The implication was clear, as his eyes were now firmly fixed on Sylvia: she, in turn was staring confidently back at him.

There was a moment's stunned silence. Then: ‘Suffragettes?' The old woman's shock seemed to have completely evaporated. ‘Oh, inspector, these young ladies are not suffragettes!' she continued, her indignant tone clearly indicating how ridiculous the inspector's suggestion was. ‘No, no, they've been of great help to my husband and I.' Still holding Sylvia's arm, she squeezed it with affection and turned to smile at her. Sylvia returned the smile and then, with a slight tilt of her head, turned back to the inspector, giving him her most coquettish of looks.

‘Hm.' He rubbed his chin between his index finger and thumb. ‘So you can confirm that neither of you are members of any suffragette organisations?'

‘I assure you we're just visitors,' Elspeth replied, ‘helping this gentleman and his wife, who were affected by the violence of the explosion. There are no signs of trauma or other physical injury, but they are both shaken by the experience.'

His eyebrows narrowed as he looked at Elspeth without reply. Finding his silence unsettling, she suspected her answer might not be specific enough and so she continued.

‘No, sir, we are not members of any suffragette organisation,' she said, holding his gaze as confidently as she could.

He continued to stare at Elspeth for several long seconds before replying. ‘Very well. Leave your names with one of the constables before you go.' Then he turned away, his eyes already on other visitors filtering through the doorway.

Elspeth escorted the old man to the nearer of the two constables, who jotted his name and address in his notebook before asking for Elspeth's details.

‘It's Agnes Smith, of three Manor Court, Ealing.' She waited for him to finish writing. ‘Now, constable, this has been very distressing for this gentleman and his wife.' She pointed at them, standing beside Sylvia as they gave their addresses to the other constable. ‘Could I trouble you to summon that taxi cabriolet over there?'

She nodded towards a taxi idling in Broad Sanctuary, the driver leaning out of his window as he stared at the crowds on the Abbey forecourt.

The constable looked at the man and his wife for a moment before snapping his notebook shut. ‘Of course, miss.' He walked across and spoke to the cab driver; the taxi slowly motored towards Elspeth as Sylvia and older couple arrived at her side.

‘The constable has kindly arranged a taxi to take us home,' Elspeth said to Sylvia with a meaningful look as the cab stopped beside them.

‘How very thoughtful of him,' Sylvia said, as she opened the rear door to the vehicle.

While Sylvia helped the couple into the cab, Elspeth glanced back at the crowd standing outside the west door. The inspector was still visible – his bowler-hatted profile jutting high above the crowd – but standing in front of him now she could see the blond-haired verger, the ginger-haired verger, and the art student. A knot twisted in her abdomen as she realised they needed to get away from here immediately, and she quickly followed Sylvia into the cab and sat beside her; behind the driver, in backwards facing seats. Elspeth turned and tapped on the glass partition. The driver – a hollow-cheeked man wearing a thick pair of spectacles – slid the partition open.

‘Yes, miss?'

‘Islington Road, driver,' Elspeth instructed. ‘As quick as you can, please.'

‘Righty-ho, miss,' he said, blinking at her through bottle-bottom lenses, before turning forward.

The elderly couple were sitting at the rear of the cab and Elspeth turned to the old man. ‘That is the address you gave, isn't it?'

‘Yes,' he replied, ‘and thank you for your kindness, miss.' He looked across at Sylvia. ‘And you too, miss. There are so many newspaper reports of young women breaking shop windows and damaging property, so it's a real pleasure to come across two such helpful young ladies. Isn't it, dear?' he said, turning to his wife.

‘Yes, Arthur,' she replied. ‘Suffragettes indeed: how preposterous.'

‘Oh it's our pleasure to help,' Sylvia replied as she leant forward to pat the old lady's knee.

Elspeth forced a smile, but through the side window she could see the two vergers and the student artist still in animated discussion with the inspector. Why hadn't their taxi started to move yet? She turned around again: she could see that driver was fiddling with the mirror above his head and she tapped on the partition to attract his attention. ‘Is there a problem, driver?' she asked, as he slid the glass open.

‘It's a new rear-view mirror the company have installed, miss,' he replied, ‘although why they wants me to see what's behind me, when I'm driving forwards—'

‘Yes, alright, just
drive
please,' Elspeth snapped, dread growing in her chest. Then she glanced back and saw the elderly couple's surprise at the sharpness of her reply. An uncomfortable silence hung in the cab as she turned once again and saw the driver looking at her, his sulky brown eyes magnified in the lenses of his glasses.

‘I'm sorry,' she said, using as mollifying a tone as possible. ‘I just want this gentleman and his wife home as quickly as possible. They've been quite shaken up by the explosion.'

The driver mumbled under his breath before sliding the partition shut and turning forward again. Finally the taxi began to move.

But the vehicle was pointing in the wrong direction for Islington and Elspeth's frustration was almost at breaking point as the driver steered the taxi into a slow circle-turn. With an increasing sense of trepidation, Elspeth looked through the side window and saw the inspector suddenly raise his arm and wave the two constables towards him. Agonizingly slowly, it seemed to her, the taxi eventually completed its turn and began to putter sedately away from the Abbey. But now, looking back over the heads of the old man and his wife, Elspeth saw the bowler hatted profile suddenly move, and a moment later the inspector ran out of the crowd and into the road, followed an instant after that by the two constables, all three men waving their arms and – evident from their open mouths and facial expressions – shouting in fury. Elspeth half-turned and saw the driver glance up at his mirror. Immediately she rapped on the glass partition and slid it open as he swivelled his head in her direction.

‘Now, driver,' she said. ‘I'll give you an extra guinea if you can get us back to Islington inside ten minutes…'.

In the middle of Sarajevo, in the largely old Islamic area close to Gazi Bey's mosque, sits a two-storey redbrick and sandstone building. It is the living quarters for the army surgeons who work in Sarajevo's garrison hospital, and shortly before half past nine that Sunday morning, the main entrance door opened and a tall, slim young man dressed in a pale blue uniform stepped out onto the street.

Captain Gabriel Bayer, regimental surgeon for the Austrian 6
^th
Army, stopped for a moment to remove his cap and run his fingers through thick black hair. He replaced the cap and adjusted it to fit, then pulled the door closed behind him and began to stride purposefully along the street, a copy of the
Boston Medical and Surgical Journal
tucked under one arm.

Gabriel glanced up at the sky. Although the day had started out wet, a dazzling sun had burst through the clouds half an hour earlier and already a gentle steam was rising from the pavement below his feet. He hoped this was a good omen for the day ahead, because in a few minutes the Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, the Duchess Sophie, were due to begin a royal visit of Sarajevo. For the past three drizzly days the royal couple had been staying in Illidza, a suburb twelve kilometres south of Sarajevo. But now, as if on cue, the sun had come out at the very moment their train should be arriving at Sarajevo central station, where they were due to be met by General Oskar Potiorek, the Governor of Bosnia.

The streets were unusually busy for a Sunday morning, Gabriel thought, impatient at a crowd of slower-moving people on the pavement ahead who were delaying his progress. It appeared as if much of Sarajevo was going the same way as him, south towards the Appel Quay embankment on the River Miljacka, presumably to find the best vantage points to view the royal procession which was due to pass there shortly. Gabriel's impatience was due to a headache caused by an uncharacteristic excess of wine the previous evening: as a consequence, he felt an urgent need for coffee, and the lure of Schiller's café on the embankment – only a minutes walk away – was strong. But just as he was striding past a dawdling couple in front of him, he heard a call from the street behind.

‘Captain Bayer!'

He turned and saw the squat figure of Lieutenant Peter Flieger, his First Surgeon, hurrying towards him. Gabriel stopped and allowed the stream of pedestrians to flow past while he waited for Flieger to arrive at his side.

‘Morning, Captain,' Flieger said as he drew near, a large grin on his owlish face, bushy eyebrows partly hidden by round, silver-rimmed spectacles.

‘Morning, Peter,' replied Gabriel. ‘I take it that everything went well?'

Flieger's grin broadened. ‘Yes, it was quite a short labour and Maria produced a son for me just before midnight.'

Gabriel reached out to shake the young lieutenant's hand. ‘Congratulations, Peter: a son at last. Mother and baby doing well I hope?'

‘Yes. I've left them with the midwife.'

‘Shouldn't you be at home with them?'

Flieger waved a hand dismissively. ‘No, they're fine, really. I'll just get in the way and Maria's sisters are there to help look after the other children. Anyway, I'm on duty for the royal visit.'

‘Still, it's the birth of a son,' Gabriel said as he began to walk again, Flieger by his side as they turned into Franz Josef Strasse, the embankment now quite close. ‘I could do your shift for you if you want. Chief Fischer wouldn't mind.'

‘That's kind of you to offer, Captain, but I'm quite happy to get away from all the women fussing at home.'

Gabriel smiled: four girls and now a son, he thought. Good Lord, how on earth did Peter manage to find any time to study? Gabriel felt a tinge of sympathy for his friend, as it seemed that Peter's wife was in a perpetual cycle of pregnancy, only interrupted by brief interludes of labour. Without a wife or family to worry about, Gabriel relished the fact that he could devote all his time to his career, and for a moment his mind drifted towards the research paper he hoped to present at the Royal College of Surgeons in London in August: a study of methods for reducing infection after surgery for bullet wounds. He had already presented the work at a meeting in Vienna, and there had been a great deal of interest from surgeons as far afield as America and England. Having already spent some time in London and New York, Gabriel was hoping the research would help him find a good job once his time in the army was over. ‘Well I hope you're not too busy, Peter,' he said.

Flieger shrugged. ‘I don't mind being busy. And as it's St Vitus Day, there's always the possibility of a stabbing,' he said with a grin, briefly side-slipping a lone pedestrian coming the other way, before stepping back into stride beside Gabriel. ‘Anyway, why are you in uniform on your day off?'

‘I'm going to the hospital to finish writing up the results of my latest experiments,' Gabriel explained, ‘and I need to catch up on the latest research from America.' He pulled the journal out and showed Flieger the front cover before tucking it back under his arm. ‘But first, I'm breakfasting at Schiller's.'

‘So you're not going to watch the royal couple as they drive past?'

‘No…well…' Gabriel paused, and then gave an enigmatic smile. ‘Actually, I met them both last night.'

Flieger's eyes blinked rapidly behind the lenses of his spectacles. ‘What? You
met
them?'

Gabriel smiled. ‘Yes. The chief was meant to represent the garrison hospital at a royal banquet at the Hotel Bosna in Illidza last night. But his wife was unwell, so he deputed me to go at the last minute.'

‘You attended the royal banquet?

Gabriel nodded.

‘You mean you actually met the Archduke?'

Gabriel nodded again and then smiled at the look of astonishment on his friend's face. But the real truth of the matter was that his introduction to the Archduke had been curt, almost to the point of rudeness. The chief – Dr Rudolph Fischer, chief surgeon for the 16
^th
Corp of the 6
^th
Army – had forewarned Gabriel that Franz Ferdinand was a stiffly unfriendly individual, unlikely to pay much attention to a mere regimental surgeon, and that had indeed turned out to be the case. But the remainder of Gabriel's evening had been most interesting, largely because he had sat between General Potiorek's adjutant, Colonel Merizzi, and Colonel Harrach, one of the Archduke's personal advisors. They were both entertaining conversationalists, and all three men had drunk a considerable amount of the local Blatina wines as they had talked.

His tongue loosened by alcohol, Colonel Harrach had even spoken of his fears about the following day's tour: that the visit clashed with St Vitus Day – an important Serbian national holiday – which might provoke violent protests from Serb nationalists. Harrach was also concerned that General Potiorek had placed very little security along the route: only one hundred and twenty gendarmes and no military presence of any kind. Colonel Merizzi, however, had vigorously defended Potiorek's handling of the occasion and Gabriel had found it all most revealing, offset only by the throbbing in his head this morning, a reminder of his unusual lapse in temperance.

‘Yes, I was introduced to the Archduke, albeit briefly. He has quite a commanding presence.'

‘The duchess looked beautiful?'

‘She did indeed, Peter – stunning.'

‘It must have been magnificent,' Flieger said, a note of envy in his voice. ‘And I suppose General Potiorek must be a very happy man.'

Ah yes, Gabriel thought sourly: General Oskar Potiorek. With his close-cropped grey hair, thin moustache and intimidating dark eyes, the normally solemn-looking governor of Bosnia had appeared unusually cheerful the previous evening. He had been dressed in a pale blue tunic with three gold stars on his collar and an impressive array of medals on his chest, and Gabriel had watched as Potiorek skilfully worked the room: one minute clapping old friends on the back, the next shaking hands with others, and then cracking a joke and laughing before moving on to the next person. He was clearly very pleased, as well he might be; he had invited the Archduke to Sarajevo for this three-day visit and so far it had all gone swimmingly. On the Friday and Saturday the Archduke had observed the two corps of the 6
^th
Army undertake military exercises in the hills outside Sarajevo: the 15
^th
Corp had defended the northern camp whilst the 16
^th
held the southern one. During competitive war games like these mishaps were fairly common, but Gabriel was only called upon to deal with a few minor injuries: several sprained ankles from the rocky terrain chosen for the exercise; one broken arm and concussion when a gun carriage overturned whilst cornering on a steep track; a nasty perforated gangrenous appendicitis, which he had personally removed; and three cases of acute urinary distress due to venereal infection. Probably gonorrhoea, Gabriel thought, as all three soldiers had visited the same brothel whilst on leave the previous weekend. But apart from these incidents the manoeuvres had gone well.

‘Yes indeed, Peter. General Potiorek seemed very pleased with the visit so far…ah, here we are.'

They had arrived at Moritz Schiller's café on the corner of Franz Josef Strasse where it intersected the Appel Quay embankment. The pavements on both sides of the embankment were already lined with spectators, and the Latin Bridge, which spanned the Miljacka River, was teeming with onlookers jostling for the best positions to view the royal couple. Gabriel could only see two uniforms on the bridge; Flieger scanned the crowd for a moment, and then turned to him with a quizzical look.

‘Not many gendarmes on duty.'

‘At the Archduke's request,' Gabriel replied, with a twinge of concern. ‘It's the duchess's first royal tour and – according to Colonel Harrach – the Archduke thinks that too large a security presence might alarm her.'

Flieger looked surprised ‘I'd have thought that too
little
a presence would be more alarming.' He shrugged. ‘Anyway I'd better go, or I'll be late.'

‘Who else is on duty with you?'

‘Major Arnstein.'

‘Good. Well, enjoy your shift, Peter. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Flieger nodded, then turned away and hurried west along the embankment in the direction of the garrison hospital. Gabriel watched him disappear from sight and then stood on the corner for a moment, squinting slightly into the sunlight as he studied the crowd on the bridge ahead. He had, of course, been given a full itinerary for the visit, but officially he was off duty: there was to be no fuss, General Potiorek had repeatedly emphasised to him and Chief Fischer at their last meeting. However, Gabriel was still uneasy at the low-key security for the visit. As Colonel Harrach had said last night, it hardly seemed adequate. What if there were protests from Serbians in the crowd? Gabriel had felt slightly ill at ease on waking that morning and now, looking at the sparse police presence, he felt even more unsettled. But was there any point in worrying? Probably not: he and the chief had followed their orders to the letter, the garrison hospital was on full alert, and Flieger and Arnstein – both capable surgeons – were on duty. Anyway, his priority now was caffeine. So he turned and walked into the café, hearing the gentle pinging of an entry bell as the door swung open, and being greeted with the delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee.

The café was unusually empty and only one table was occupied, by two older women gossiping over cake and coffee. The walls of the café – which was also a delicatessen – were lined with shelves stacked with jars of preserves and tinned food, and behind the counter at the back of the café, an older, well-built man with thin grey hair and whiskers was talking to the waitress. He was wearing a short white serving apron, arms folded across his broad chest, and at the noise of the bell he looked up and nodded a silent welcome to Gabriel. Gabriel nodded back at Moritz, the owner, then walked towards a table just inside the front window. As he pulled a chair out from under the table, the waitress – an ample-bosomed blonde girl, with high-coloured cheeks – arrived by his side.

‘A large coffee, please,' Gabriel said, as he settled himself into the chair. He often breakfasted at Schiller's before work, and the waitress – he knew her name was Gudrun – had always been particularly attentive towards him.

‘Of course, Herr Doctor,' she answered unhurriedly. Gabriel could feel her presence as she stood close by his table, her hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. ‘Is there anything else I can get you,' she added with a smile.

Gabriel thought he detected a languid, almost wistful tone in her voice. He shook his head, noting that she held his gaze a moment longer than necessary before turning back to the counter. He frowned: he had always found it difficult to read women, their intentions, their meanings. Then inwardly he shrugged; there were more important things in life – like keeping abreast of the latest clinical developments. And so he unfolded the journal and began to read an article on surgical ophthalmology.

But after several minutes of staring at the page and finding it unusually difficult to concentrate, he lay the journal down on the table and tried to analyse why he felt so troubled. His musings were interrupted as Gudrun reappeared and placed the coffee in front of him.

‘Thank you,' he said to her. But she didn't immediately leave and for a moment he felt awkwardly self-conscious, as if he was expected to say something more. ‘You've not many patrons here this morning,' he finally said.

‘Because, Herr Doctor, they're all waiting to see the Archduke go past. After that we will be busy.' She paused. ‘But we're closing after lunch…' She hesitated. ‘…and so I have the rest of the day off.' She looked at him expectantly.