A Study in Murder, page 3
‘Is something wrong?’ asked the third man in the room, a Dutch colonel by the name of De Krom.
The Kaiser’s man lit a cigarette. His fleshy features relaxed, although what he said brought dismay to the other two men around the table. ‘I am afraid there are men on this list who do not deserve to be released.’
‘Oh, for crying—’ began Pitt before he caught himself. The three officers were in a private meeting room at the Hotel Europa in The Hague. Outside the window, a prosperous country, only sideswiped by war, went about its business. For months now representatives of the warring governments had been trying to finalize a plan whereby elderly prisoners and those in need of medical treatment could be repatriated to neutral Holland, to serve out their time in relative comfort. It was a generous offer from the Dutch. Both sides wanted it. And Holland would be paid handsomely for its hospitality. But now the German was backsliding on the agreement.
Pitt glanced at the pasty-faced De Krom, who seemed equally unhappy. He was repeatedly running a hand through his wispy blond hair, a nervous tic that was probably responsible for his incipient baldness.
‘Look here, we have been through all this,’ said Pitt, trying to moderate his tone. He knew he could be hectoring at times. ‘All of those men are special cases.’ He read from the list of qualifying conditions. ‘They have diseases of the circulatory system, serious nervous problems, tumours and severe skin diseases, blindness (total or partial), serious face injuries, tuberculosis, one or more missing limbs, paralysis, brain disorders like paraplegia or hemiplegia and serious mental illnesses, or are over the age of forty-eight or qualified medical practitioners. As I say, every single person has one or more of those afflictions. Every single one. None of them will be released to contribute to the war effort, no matter how vital they might be. We have approved everyone on the list you gave to us. And, I might add, you are getting an allocation of thirty more men than we are.’
The German stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Calm down, Major. There are just three names I object to. You can put replacements forward, of course.’
‘Object? For what possible reason?’ De Krom asked. It was almost midday and he already had his mind on lunch.
‘I don’t have to give you a reason. I know that these men are a threat to the security of the German Imperial State. That they cannot be trusted to keep their bond. I’m sorry.’ He stood and straightened his tunic. ‘But if they remain on the list . . . I am afraid our work here is over.’
He glanced at the door. Outside were civil servants from each of the three countries, the cogs in the machine that had worked out the fine details of the exchange. With them were members of the Red Cross and both British and German organizations responsible for prisoners’ welfare. And the press, waiting for the announcement they had been promised, some of them armed with cameras the size of sea chests.
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.’
SIX
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 . . .’
‘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.
