A Study in Murder, page 23
Watson now perceived just how tired he was. Even the thought of his thin, prickly mattress was tempting. Being convinced you are going to die after being buried alive was apparently exhausting. He stood slowly so as not to damage his weakened left knee further.
‘One thing you might lend a hand with, though,’ said Hardie as he ground out his cigarette. ‘While you are still with us.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Can you help us think of a convincing way to kill Cocky?’
FORTY-TWO
It was the queasiest sea crossing Miss Pillbody had ever experienced. The cabins they had chosen for the dash across the North Sea were in the bowels of the ship and the thump of engines and smell of fuel made her nauseous. The sudden changes of direction didn’t help. Even though she was a neutral ferry, painted bright orange, the captain still saw fit to zigzag his way to the Hook of Holland, in case they ran into any colour-blind U-boat commanders.
Miss Pillbody lay on the bottom bunk and allowed herself a groan. One of her hands was manacled to the steel upright of the berths and she’d tried to free either flesh or metal and failed at both. Her only gain was a series of angry welts around her wrist. Besides, even if she could wriggle free, the extravagantly toothed Buller was out in the corridor, a cut-down version of his shotgun hidden under a greatcoat. Nathan had instructed him to blast away should Miss Pillbody appear at the door, preferably before she had a chance to open her mouth. They were taking no chances with her after the murder of Wardress Gray.
From snatches of conversation and sidelong glances she had built up a more or less complete picture of what was being undertaken. In Holloway, Mrs Gregson had told her the truth, but had withheld certain facts. Like this hideous crossing, dressed in the scratchy, over-starched uniform of a VAD. Or that Mrs Gregson was using a man besotted with her to get what she wanted.
Nathan was in love, all right, even if he didn’t acknowledge the full extent of it. Good Lord, Miss Pillbody had done her fair share of manipulating men. There were a few who had tangled with her and even managed to survive relatively intact. But all had compromised themselves one way or another in the hope that she would give herself to them. So she had knowledge of this game and she could tell that Mrs Gregson was not only playing it but winning.
Now and then she could see a flash of something like concern on Nathan’s face. Miss Pillbody suspected he was bending if not breaking the rules to accommodate the woman’s scheme. His other glances contained something else, that flash of lust for Mrs Gregson that effectively wiped away any doubts about his intentions towards her. What she couldn’t quite grasp was to what extent Mrs Gregson was orchestrating this. Oh, she knew to some degree that she was doling out bait, like a fisherman chumming the waters, but Miss Pillbody reckoned some of it was unconscious, or possibly she was denying to herself just how risky the little dance she was involved in was.
Miss Pillbody had also gathered that she would be offered as a sacrificial lamb somewhere on the border between Holland and Germany. In exchange, Watson would be released. That was the endgame. At least, that was the finale Mrs Gregson had planned for her. But for a variety of reasons – not least the fact that she didn’t like being a pawn in anyone’s game – that wasn’t going to be how it played out. She didn’t yet know where or how, but Miss Pillbody knew that the opportunity would arise for her to take matters into her own hands. That favourable occasion might only last a minute or two, possibly even less, but she knew she would grasp it with both hands. And then, once again, someone would pay for her humiliation. Pay with their life.
Three decks above Miss Pillbody, close to a porthole that showed the churning North Sea, Mrs Gregson and Robert Nathan sat, pushing food neither could really face around their plates. Nathan was drinking an indifferent claret, Mrs Gregson was on lemonade. The ship itself was less than half full – the confirmation in the newspapers of German submarines having all restrictions removed meant only those who really needed to make the crossing did so. The dining room didn’t even reflect the fifty per cent capacity – the truculent sea kept most of their fellow passengers confined to cabins or their daychairs and so the pair had it almost to themselves.
‘I think the time has come for me to lay my cards on the table,’ said Nathan after a large gulp of his wine.
‘Robert—’
‘No, Georgina.’ Nathan reached over and cupped her hand with his, all but pinning it to the table. Only a struggle would remove it from beneath the paw. What hairy hands he has, she thought. It really was like a paw.
‘You know how grateful I am to you, Robert. I know the risks you have taken.’
‘I don’t think you do, Georgina,’ he said. ‘If Kell became aware of the extent to which I have abused the authority of the service, if he even suspected I know about breaking Miss Pillbody from prison—’
‘But he doesn’t.’
‘Not yet.’
Mrs Gregson shook her head. ‘He may never.’
‘He’s a spy. He has men who are spies. Perhaps here. Yes, there are Kell’s men at ports and on ferries. Women, too.’ He looked around as if expecting to see MI5 agents at every table. ‘There will be repercussions from this little adventure. Serious repercussions.’
‘I am willing to accept them for the chance of success.’
‘A woman died.’
‘I know that,’ she snapped. ‘And that will doubtless come back to haunt me. For the moment I have to live with that, too.’
‘And the fact that I might go down in disgrace and ignominy.’
‘Oh, Robert—’
‘Yet here I am, risking that for you to free another man. I think I deserve to know what your intentions are.’
He sounded like a father demanding an answer from his daughter’s suitor. She laughed and his face darkened a little. ‘Robert, I am not laughing at you. I am laughing at the notion that I have any intentions. I certainly didn’t intend this. To be crossing the North Sea with a caged animal downstairs, hoping to use her to exchange for a man I . . . I respect and admire.’
‘Is that all?’
‘It is no trivial thing, Robert. As you so kindly reminded me, one woman has died already. I hope she is the last casualty.’
Nathan released her hand and she pulled it away, a small, pale thing, like a mouse scuttling away from a predator. ‘Have you any affection left over for me?’
‘Of course. No matter how this develops, you will always have my . . .’
‘Gratitude?’
Mrs Gregson felt anger spurt through her like a geyser and it took all of her self-control not to dash the wine in Nathan’s face. ‘Robert, I don’t have a crystal ball. You ask about my intentions. I have none beyond these next few days. You ask me about love, but the men I have truly loved have left me, one way or another. Don’t ask me to analyse my feelings, because it would be like asking for a map of no man’s land – churned and blasted and ever-shifting. No, if you excuse me, I think I will go back to my cabin and rest. The next forty-eight hours will be most taxing, I fear.’
She stood, gave a small inclination of the head and swayed off as elegantly as she could, given the seesawing of the floor. Robert Nathan marvelled yet again at his ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory and to place his foot firmly in his mouth. Shaking his head at the absurdity of it all, he reached over for the decanter and refilled his glass. Perhaps, he thought as he took another mouthful, he should just cut his losses and leave her to this old man Watson. Or perhaps he should simply make sure the old man never made it home.
Two decks above the dining room, at the rear of the ship, Ernst Bloch leaned on the rail, relishing the thrum of the engines vibrating through the metal and the wind whipping spray into his face. He had the deck virtually to himself, apart from the two men sheltering under a snapping awning. Captain Carlisle and Sergeant Balsom, his constant companions. All three were dressed in civilian clothes, their journey to Holland ostensibly to source meat supplies for England. They watched him now as he smoked a cigarette, looking out over the prancing white horses of the North Sea.
Of course it occurred to Bloch that he could thwart the British by simply leaping over the rail. He could do it before they took two steps to stop him. The sea would have him in seconds.
On the other hand, it was just possible he might get out of this alive. And the slimmest chance of seeing Hilde again was one he would grasp every time. Plus there was a chance that by killing himself on a mission like this, the truth might never come out. What he was doing – the whole scheme – was likely to be the sort of event that never made it into the history books, no matter what the outcome.
‘I think we should go below,’ said Balsom, grabbing the rail next him. ‘Catch our death up here.’
‘When I have finished this,’ said Bloch, holding up his cigarette.
‘Well, get a move on.’
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Bloch said. ‘The sea.’
‘It can be. I wouldn’t count today as its finest hour, mate.’
‘I could watch it for hours, finest or not.’
‘Don’t get any ideas, Bloch.’ Balsom wiped water from his eyes. ‘You know, we’re going to have to hurt you.’
‘Hurt me?’
‘You’ll have papers saying you were released on compassionate grounds. But for what? Has to be an injury of some description. I could use a spoon and scoop out one of your eyes.’ He showed yellow teeth in a grin as he mimed the action. ‘Hardly stings if you are quick enough, apparently. But I think you might need both your peepers to make a shot like that. Although, you’d look dashing with an eye patch, don’t you think? Probably be treated like a hero back at home. Or, we could smash your knee with a hammer.’
‘That’s very kind,’ Bloch said. ‘But I think I’ll also need both knees for the climb up the tower.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Balsom frowned. ‘Still, we’ll think of something, I am sure.’ He snatched the cigarette from Bloch’s mouth and tossed it in the foaming wake of the ferry. ‘Let’s be havin’ you, then.’
Bloch hesitated, feeling cheated of the last few lungfuls of smoke and then shrugged. If by chance, he decided, they gave him more than one bullet, he really would use the second on the thick-necked sergeant.
Von Bork entered the working men’s café near the bridge and nodded to the customers, some of whom acknowledged him. He had almost become accepted by the regulars. The owner, too, had softened, no longer demanding he change the course of the war single-handedly. Von Bork, cheered by the thick soup of tobacco and wood smoke that made up the atmosphere, asked for a coffee and set about building himself a pipe of Latakia tobacco. He was close to the bottom of the pouch now, and his suppliers in Berlin were claiming fresh supplies were difficult to source thanks to events in the Middle East. Von Bork knew that meant the price was about to go through the roof. He should buy all he could find on his next visit to the city.
When the coffee arrived Von Bork beckoned the proprietor to sit down. He did so and his daughter automatically fetched him his own coffee. ‘This must be the best cup of koffie in the world,’ the Dutchman said, ‘given how much time you spend with us.’
‘It isn’t just that. Or the company. Or your charming daughter,’ said Von Bork, producing an envelope from his pocket and laying it on the table.
The Dutchman looked around to see if anyone had noticed, but his clients were too busy with their newspapers or dominoes. ‘What’s this?’
‘Payment.’
‘For what?’ He flipped it open with a fingernail and glanced inside. ‘That buys you a lot of koffie, man.’
Von Bork smiled and carried on with his pipe. When he had finally stoked it to his satisfaction he said: ‘It is for services to be rendered.’
It was the owner’s turn to be silent as he watched Von Bork put match to bowl. ‘What kind of services would that be?’
‘Two of them.’ A burst of puffing and sucking interrupted him. ‘One, I am looking for information about an Englishman.’
‘We don’t get many of them hereabouts. There’s some kept in Venlo. Most are up in internment camps near Groningen or Scheveningen.’
‘I know that. The man I am interested in is a civilian. Well past military age. Tall, almost two metres perhaps, but stooped now. Black and grey hair, receding, a distinctive thin, hawk-like nose. Grey eyes, which seem to look right through you.’
The Dutchman shook his head. ‘Sounds like I’d remember that one.’
‘Well, he’s around here somewhere,’ said Von Bork. He could be certain of this because he knew his instructions for the exchange had been taken before they reached the hotel at Venlo. Holmes knew the plan for the exchange and that it would centre on this river crossing. ‘You just get word to me at this number . . .’ He scribbled on the envelope. ‘Or send a cable or a runner to this address across the border.’ He was staying in a hostel next to the barracks at Holt, where the second-rate soldiers who guarded the border were stationed.
‘I can do that,’ said the café owner. ‘But not for me. The cash will come in useful as a bribe to get my nephews away from the front. You know that can be done? People are selling safety.’
‘Nobody can guarantee such a thing,’ said Von Bork, well aware that fraudsters were fleecing concerned relatives by promising cushy clerical posts. ‘Be careful who you hand money over to.’
The owner shrugged and rubbed his bald pate as if for luck. ‘I know it’s a gamble. But so is leaving them out there. You don’t know anybody?’
‘I can make enquiries.’
‘I would like that.’
‘Very well.’
‘There was something else you wanted.’
‘The man who operates the Knok bridge down the river there. Who opens and closes it.’
‘It’s not a man. It’s the Meuse Navigation Company who decides when it opens and closes. The man just does their bidding.’
‘I am talking about an opening of perhaps fifteen minutes. I don’t want the bureaucracy.’ Or the prying busybodies that would come with it. ‘There must be someone who knows how to open and close it.’
Von Bork had inspected the bridge. The mechanism was electrically operated, hydraulically assisted, probably quite straightforward but was sufficiently complicated that he would rather an expert did it. Plus the controls were encased in a locked metal box, just to the left of the bridge entrance.
‘You give the man some of this cabbage,’ said the Dutchman, stabbing at the envelope, ‘and I am sure he’ll oblige.’
‘You know him?’
‘Know him? He’s a regular.’
‘Then ask him how much he wants. To open it at about eight in the morning in two days’ time.’
The Dutchman’s eyes flicked over to the bearded figure near the window in a coarse blue jacket and matching hat, puffing on a clay pipe while he read a Louis Couperus novel, his dark brows furrowed in concentration as if doing battle with the text.
‘Is that him?’
‘Old Herman, yes. A grouchy bastard at the best of times.’
‘Leave him to me.’ Von Bork made to rise but the owner put a hand on his wrist.
‘If you’ll allow me to do the negotiations . . . He’ll charge you double.’
Was that greed he could see in the Dutchman’s expression? No doubt he would skim a fee off any agreed price. So be it. Von Bork glanced over at the bridge operator once more. ‘Is he reliable?’
‘Once everything is agreed, very. How do you think black-market goods from Holland get across into Germany? Not all of them by boat and barge.’
‘I’ll call by later, then,’ said Von Bork. ‘Let me know the price.’
The owner drained his coffee and left, palming the envelope with all the skill of a stage magician as he went.
Von Bork checked his watch. He had a meeting with the UFA cinematic people at the bridge in thirty minutes, They were concerned about ‘the light’ during the exchange. Could he make it an hour later? No, he could not. Eight was already an hour later than he had originally hoped for. He had already sent word for Dr Watson to be brought to Holt, ready for the piece of theatre at the bridge. And then, he would have Sherlock Holmes. He recalled their last meeting in August 1914 and the threat he had uttered when he still thought Holmes was an Irish-American double agent.
‘I shall get level with you, Altamont,’ he had said, speaking with slow deliberation. ‘If it takes me all my life I shall get level with you!’
As Holmes would find out, that was no idle boast. Now, as that fool of a doctor used to put it, the game was afoot.
FORTY-THREE
Watson hardly slept that night. When he did it was for a few fitful hours and when he awoke he felt as if his bones were too heavy for his skin, as if they might burst through at any second. He remembered the walk under the camp, the eeriness of it, a tunnel – no, tunnels: there were unlit side passages, with dark uninviting mouths – hewn out by hands long dead. Gold had been mined since Roman times, the priest had told him, up until the turn of the century, when the seams had finally given out. Even so, he held a lamp up to show some lustrous veins in the walls. Such skeins were simply not valuable enough to return the effort of extraction, Hardie had said. Most of the excavations were tall enough for a man to stand – Watson had to admire the complex supports that had been put in place over the centuries – but in some places he had been forced to crouch and scuttle like a troglodyte through dark sections where the air tasted gritty and foul. But they had made it to the rec room, and now the whole incident felt like a bizarre dream.
As Watson shook the subterranean images from his brain, he climbed out of the bed, straightening slowly lest his poor back protested and spasmed. He needed his staff to get to his feet and stumble over to his desk. There, written in a burst of activity by candlelight, was the final chapter of ‘The Girl and the Gold Watches’ story. He was gathering up the papers and adding his previous drafts when Harry entered with tea.
