A Fête Worse Than Death (11 page)

Haldean pulled out a chair and put Boscombe's manuscript on the desk. ‘I am at Hesperus, Bingo old man, if you see what I mean, so dinner's off, I'm afraid. I'm only up for the day. I've managed to get involved with a bit of nasty business down in Sussex. A bloke called Boscombe got killed at the village fête.'

Romer-Stuart pursed his lips in a whistle. ‘I say, is that this fortune teller's tent murder the papers are full of?'

‘That's the one. There's been another murder as well, in the same village. A chap called Reggie Morton. I've managed to horn in on it, but I could do with some help.' Brigadier Romer-Stuart looked a polite, if puzzled, enquiry. ‘I want to look up some army records,' continued Haldean. ‘I don't know if I'm on the right lines or not, Bingo, but I'd like to see the official account of an incident on the Somme in 1916.'

‘I hope you can be more specific than that. There was quite a bit happening about that time on the Somme.'

Haldean smiled. ‘It's the Augier Ridge tunnel business. August the 23rd, 1916.'

‘Wasn't there a VC awarded for that?'

‘Yes, to a Colonel Richard Whitfield.'

‘Well, you can have a look at the history and welcome, and anything else you need. The Regimental War Diaries will be helpful, I imagine. Augier Ridge . . . Augier Ridge . . . I seem to remember there was something shady about it.'

‘I believe so,' said Haldean. He leaned forward and tapped Boscombe's book. ‘This is an eyewitness account written by a bloke who was caught up in it all.'

‘Who is he?'

Haldean grinned. ‘This is where it gets interesting. He's none other than Jeremy Boscombe.'

‘The chap who was murdered?'

‘Ker-rect.'

Romer-Stuart whistled once more. ‘Bit morbid, don't you think? The voice of the dead and all that. What on earth d'you need to read it for?'

Haldean shrugged. ‘Information. Insight. I dunno. I've got the idea that Boscombe was done in because of something that happened in the war. I might be chasing rainbows but on the other hand I might be right. I won't know until I've actually looked at the thing. I've read Boscombe's account before. It's well done and very lively for a memoir. You know, conversation and thumbnail sketches of his fellow officers, that sort of thing. And, as you said, there's something shady going on. As I recall, though, it's rather impressionistic and I'd like to check it against the authorized version.'

‘Well, impressionistic is one fault the official history doesn't have.' The Brigadier walked to the outer office and looked at the Corporal sitting at the desk. ‘Baxter.'

‘Sir?'

‘Give Major Haldean all the help he needs.' He turned back to Haldean. ‘There's a spare office down the hall. You can work there if you like. Corporal Baxter will see to anything you need.'

Haldean followed Corporal Baxter down the hall and into the sparsely furnished office.

‘You wanted the official history, sir?' asked Baxter as he showed him into the room.

‘Yes, please. I'll probably need some other stuff too, but I'll let you know what later on.'

‘Very good, sir.'

Haldean settled himself at the desk and opened Boscombe's book. ‘Now then,' he muttered to himself as Baxter's footsteps echoed down the hall. ‘Let's see if I've remembered this right, Boscombe, old pal. Because if I have, shady would be a very good description.' He flicked through the manuscript, found the section he wanted and started to read.

Pro Patria Mori or Saving Civilization

A Memoir by Jeremy Boscombe

Chapter Three

The events of 23rd August 1916. The Somme.

It's surprising what passions can still be stirred by the Augier Ridge affair. I'd like to say that I suspected Martin Tyburn from the first; but I didn't. The only consolation is that nobody else did, either. He was simply the Major, a breed apart from a mere New Army subaltern, who was, as had been frequently pointed out, still wet behind the ears. Of the hero of the affair I can tell you even less. He certainly rescued me (and in the process gave me the worst fright of my life) and, when it was all over, deigned to be treated in the same hospital which had burdened itself with my care, but if anyone wants an insight into the hero's private life they'll have to look elsewhere. I can't write a panegyric about Richard Whitfield VC, because all The Hero did that I can personally testify to was scare me witless. But heroes are like that. I've met a few and they're damned uncomfortable people to be around. They suggest Death or Glory as the only two choices and the third option of keeping your head down never seems to occur to them. Mind you, I wish I'd never suggested the Augier Ridge tunnels to the Major . . .

I've already given my account of the scheme to rid Great Britain of its surplus youth that commonly goes under the title of the Battle of the Somme. With a thoughtfulness that can scarcely be credited, the Top Brass realized that even we couldn't be expected to stand it indefinitely. So it was four days in the front line, four days in support and four days at rest. And as, unlike us, the Top Brass had no days actually at the front, there didn't seem to be any reason why the arrangement shouldn't carry on for ever. If the Germans ran out of young men before we did, our side would declare the battle to be a roaring success.

My particular part in the war to end all wars was the taking of the Augier Ridge. Every day we'd set out across the pock-marked strip of land to the charred and blasted trees that marked the gentle slope of the ridge; and every evening we'd count up those who were left after the Germans had raked us with machine-gun fire. It was a simple game that even a general could understand, but I'd had enough of it.

I mention this to explain my enthusiasm for the tunnels. After trying to go up the ridge, the idea of going under it seemed to have a lot in its favour. So when Sergeant Jesson pointed out the entrance, I was distinctly interested.

We were quartered in a shelled farmhouse and in the course of clearing out the stables the hole came to light.

‘It's a hole, sir,' said Jesson, helpfully, standing by the remains of the trap-door.

I looked at him wearily. ‘I can see it's a hole, Sergeant. The point is, what's it doing here?'

The face Sergeant Jesson turned to me was a masterpiece of resigned and dumb indifference. Holes
as
holes weren't covered by King's Regulations. And really, if the French wanted to riddle their landscape with mysterious holes in addition to the millions of craters caused by three armies daily bestowing each other with thousands of tons of high explosive, then that, strictly speaking, was none of his business. He didn't actually say that if I knew a better hole I should go to it, but the advice hung unspoken in the air.

I kicked away the remains of the trap-door. It was rotten with age and foul with manure. A flight of steps carved from the chalk of the Somme stretched down into the darkness. It could be a cellar, although why there should be a cellar in a stable was anyone's guess. Jesson stood by, waiting for a command. ‘Bring me a torch,' I said. ‘And you'd better tell Major Tyburn.'

Half an hour later the Major and I were back on the surface once more. I was excited by what we'd found, and I couldn't understand why the Major seemed so cool. It's obvious now, but at the time I was full of the significance of my discovery. The Major didn't say a word as we re-emerged, but strolled off to the low stone wall which divided the stables from the hummocky fields beyond. He leant his elbows on the wall, looking out over the breeze-quickened downland, quilted with little squares of root and grain. It could have been an English landscape if it wasn't for the shifting line of smoke smudging the air. The Lines. And tomorrow we would be there. Major Tyburn continued to smoke his pipe. Inwardly his mind must have been racing and I wish I could say I guessed then that something was wrong – but I didn't. After all, you can dislike your commanding officer without leaping to the conclusion that he's a Hun spy. And even if I had guessed – well, to accuse the higher ranks of treason isn't the best career move a second lieutenant can make. He, of course, got away with it. He certainly wasn't killed and that put him streets ahead of the poor beggars he led. They do these things, or at least they used to, better in Berlin. Apparently his wife was German. If anyone was serious about finding out what actually happened to the Gallant Major instead of covering up the facts so as not to embarrass their own over-decorated hide, they could do worse than look among her relations. A new cousin, say, who turned up
circa
1916 . . . it would make you think.

I, fool that I was, couldn't stand the silence any longer. ‘Sir,' I said impatiently. ‘The tunnel. The compass showed it was running north-east.' I jabbed my finger towards the line of smoke. ‘That's pointing directly to the ridge.'

Tyburn tried – and it seemed very natural – to appear sceptical. ‘You don't mean to tell me you think it could run all the way to the ridge? Why, it must be over three miles away, man.'

‘Why not, sir?' I persisted. ‘After all, only part of the tunnel was man-made. It seemed to link into some natural caves.'

Tyburn shook his head. He did this part very well, I'll grant him that. ‘Why should anyone want to tunnel to the ridge?'

‘To get to the chateau, sir. I heard about it the other day at the hospital.'

‘Did you, by Jove,' he said softly. His arrogant stare was enough to make him thoroughly disliked by any man with the usual allocation of feelings. ‘Yes, I heard you'd got on very well at the last reception.'

I could feel myself flushing at his raised eyebrow. I had got on well and I knew exactly what he was talking about. One of the brightest spots in this God-forsaken dump was the private hospital run by Mrs . . . Well, I'd better not say the name. Not frightfully pukka to boast. Not that I had boasted, of course. Not really the done thing, and all that, as my frustrated, inarticulate and rabidly jealous comrades in arms pointed out to me afterwards.

It was simply that women, as Major Tyburn might be surprised to learn, actually enjoy talking to men whose conversation doesn't exist entirely of bomb ranges, earthworks and inanely patriotic remarks. I mean, when holding a glass of decent wine and faced with one of the loveliest women in France, I'm damned if I'm going to stutter lame platitudes along the lines of ‘Fritz is giving us a tough time, by jingo, but we'll show him yet.' Rank came into it as well, of course. It always does in the army. I'd charmed above my station in life. The lady in question existed on a plane far above that allocated for the use of junior officers who were meant to take their pleasures among her earthier compatriots. A woman who combined the role of Florence Nightingale with the looks of an Italian madonna, she was strictly off-limits to anyone without the requisite number of pips on their shoulder. But even a second lieutenant will occasionally get invited to parties and it a cultured, glamorous woman prefers to talk to him rather than a dull and slightly drunk brigadier, then surely there's no great mystery as to why.

Major Tyburn was still looking at me in a smugly knowing way. I'd have given a lot to wipe that expression off his face but I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of letting him know he'd irritated me. I decided to play it dead straight.

‘Apparently her family used to own the chateau that stood on the ridge, sir,' I said, ‘together with a lot of the land around here. She was a d'Augier before she was married. If there
were
an underground passage to the chateau, we could use it to come up behind the enemy.' Good, eh? Real eager, dedicated, medal-winning stuff and if it came off I wouldn't have to go up that hellish slope tomorrow.

The Major was in a quandary. He had to make a show of exploring the tunnels otherwise I and the men would be bound to talk and questions asked, but he made a final attempt to get out of it. ‘The thing's impossible.'

‘Surely not impossible, sir.' I waved my hand round the old buildings. ‘After all, this farm was massively built. I know it's all pretty tumbledown now, but you can see how solid it was. What if it wasn't built as a farm but as a fortification? That would give a reason for linking the chateau to here. And if there's the slightest chance it does lead to the ridge, sir, then we're duty-bound to give it a look.'

Tyburn turned away and leaned his elbows on the wall, smoking. He seemed the picture of calm, but he must have been working out what was an obvious point. If he led a party down the tunnels, then he had a chance of determining what happened to them. If he refused outright then another party was almost bound to be despatched, a party over which he'd have no control. ‘All right,' he said eventually. ‘I don't suppose it'd do any harm to explore further. God knows, we can't seem to take the ridge by conventional methods. I'd like to give those Johnnies with machine guns a taste of what we've been going through. Get a party together. Make sure they're properly kitted out. I'll inform Staff what we're up to.' He smiled at me and I smiled back, pleased that I had won my point. Stupid of me, perhaps, but then I had no way of knowing that I had played right into his hands.

The tunnel quickly extended into a cave, narrowed back to a tunnel then opened out again. In the light of the torches I could see dark patches against the white of the chalk indicating other passages, but Major Tyburn kept our course directed to the north-east. I was shivering. It was cold down here out of the August sunshine and I didn't have the faintest idea of how deep we were. Adrian Rutledge dropped back beside me.

‘I say, Jerry,' he said quietly. ‘Where d'you think we are? We must have walked halfway to Berlin by now.'

‘We must be nearing the lines, surely. It's hard to tell.'