Dead Man's Land (17 page)

It was Churchill who had pressed George V into the highly unusual step of suing for libel, arguing that the magazine the
Liberator
had been available to buy along the Strand and the Charing Cross Road. Churchill, remembering the rumours in court circles that Sherlock Holmes had performed services for the Kings of Bohemia and Scandinavia, the Dutch royal family and – as was by then well known – the unfortunate Lord St Simon, who managed to lose both his wife and her fortune on his wedding day, had hit upon the idea of using Holmes to disprove the allegation. Which he had done with ease, briefing the Attorney-General, who in turn had given Sir Richard David Muir, acting for the Crown, the ammunition to procure a year in prison for Mylius. ‘A small matter of no consequence,’ said Watson airily as he repacked his Gladstone.

‘As you wish,’ she said tartly, recognizing the evasion.

He relented a little. ‘A matter of some consequence I have given my word not to discuss.’

She nodded to indicate that this was a more acceptable response.

He paused to watch her scrub, which she did with some force, admiring the precise sweeping movements that made sure no inch was left untouched by the brush, the way she lifted one leg as she bent over to reach the far corner. There was something quite mesmerizing about—

‘Major Watson?’

It was Captain Hatherley, Phipps’s adjutant. Watson was jerked from his reverie. ‘Yes? What is it?’ he asked too sharply.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but a request has been telephoned through, asking for you to return to the East Anglian Clearing Station immediately.’

Watson and Mrs Gregson exchanged puzzled glances. For his part, he was not entirely disappointed to forfeit a tedious dinner, but he wondered about the change of plan. Was someone trying to get rid of him? Churchill perhaps? ‘We seem to have lost our transport, Hatherley.’

‘I explained this to . . .’ he studied the piece of paper in his hand, ‘. . . Major Torrance. He has sent a vehicle over to pick you up. It appears there has been a death, sir.’

‘It’s a Casualty Clearing Station,’ objected Mrs Gregson as she removed her apron. ‘There are always deaths.’

‘That may well be the case, miss.’ Hatherley consulted his document again. ‘But apparently this is a very singular death that demands Major Watson’s immediate attention.’

The pain was so intense that Bloch wanted to cry out, but he knew he couldn’t. Drawing attention to himself would be fatal. He felt as if a wild animal were gnawing at him where he lay, and he had to play dead, while it nipped and ripped and chomped. The world had faded; his eyes could no longer see anything but shades of grey, sounds were muffled and distant, as if he was already in his coffin in the ground. This was, he felt, the last station on the line before oblivion.

No, he told himself. He wasn’t ready to board that particular service yet. He needed to live.

Bloch became aware that the shellfire had ceased when the ground stopped shaking. He strained his damaged ears. The low hum that was left in place of silence was unwavering. It was time to move.

If he could.

He tried to get a sense of where his limbs were in space. His left arm was under his body, filled with pins and needles. His right was ahead of him, held down by some great weight. One leg was free but the other, again, was fixed and immovable. He arched his back, enough so he could release the trapped left. The action disturbed a layer of stones, which skittered away. He tried to raise his head, which caused more disturbances, but daylight bled through his eyelids. Not completely buried then. With the newly freed arm, he groped forward and found the wooden beam trapping its companion. Three heaves and he had both arms free. Now time was of the essence.

Bloch pushed himself up on his hands, releasing the upper body completely. He was in the woods, where the tower had fallen and taken some saplings with it, and for the moment he appeared to be alone. He crawled clear of the mess of stone and timber to a patch of damp ferns and lay on them, panting, his face throbbing and burning. His eyes were full of grit and when he touched his ear, there was blood on his fingertips. A brush of the nose and his eye almost burst from his face. Broken. A roughness on his tongue told him that his front teeth were chipped. He desperately needed a drink of water, for his throat was coated in fine powder, and swallowing felt like he was trying to force an ostrich egg down his gullet.

He stood, shakily, releasing a shower of grit around him and pulled at his clothes with numb fingers. The leatherwork came off easily enough and, after removing the pistol and the bayonet, he threw them into the bushes. He had already lost one boot and the other he kicked off. His tunic was stiff with dust and debris, and undoing the buttons took an age, but eventually he was down to his underwear. A sudden shiver took him. How incriminating were the singlet and longjohns, he wondered. He couldn’t take the chance. He pulled those off too and walked deeper into the forest, hoping he could circle back round towards his own lines.

Luck was with him. He found two Tommies, buried by the collapse of earthworks. One had lost his face; the features had been neatly excised and cauterized by a piece of hot shrapnel, leaving a grisly, shiny oval where his face should be. Nearby was a folded pile of something grey and pink. The other soldier was intact and still alive, albeit barely. His eyelids were flickering as he dropped in and out of this world. He plunged the man’s own bayonet into the body, twice. A simple reflex, he told himself. From the other he took the identity disc and slipped it over his head. The boy was younger than he, or appeared so in death. No matter. Soldiers often aged decades at the front, only to see the years fall away as they were freed from the worry and cares of this life.

The lad was wearing an unofficial ID bracelet, which Bloch also took. Stripping the body proved as arduous as removing his own clothes. The trousers and socks were all he could manage, before exhaustion overwhelmed him once again. He rifled the pockets and found a water bottle and a pouch of iron rations. He gulped down the water and ate the hardtack biscuits, cheese and the beef cubes from the ration, then scooped out handfuls of the bully beef from the tin. He also found the man’s paybook, which he pocketed.

Fatigue hit him again and the mixture of foodstuffs in his stomach made him feel queasy. He knew he couldn’t be found next to the two bodies and further undressing of them was beyond him. He pulled on the trousers and kicked at the soil to bury the lower half of the Tommy he had become. Then he headed towards what he thought was east again, losing the incriminating blade in a shell crater.

It was no more than five minutes before he staggered into a clearing where three genuine Tommies were manning a machine-gun post in a shallow depression, protected by a half-moon of sandbags. Its field of fire was a narrow forest track through the trees. It was an ambush for any German incursion that might follow the bombardment. The NCO in charge stood and levelled a Lee Enfield at Bloch and yelled something. No words appeared to come from the mouth. The sergeant signalled the Vickers crew to remain at their stations and took a step forward.

Bloch went to raise his hands, but his balance deserted him and he fell to his knees. The sergeant, still pointing the rifle at him, crossed the clearing in long exaggerated steps. He bent and lifted the ID disc with his free hand. He shouted something else, back to his comrades. Slinging the Lee Enfield over his shoulder, the NCO put his hands under Bloch’s armpits, lifting him back on his feet. He flopped Bloch’s right arm around his neck and began to half-march and half-drag him towards Somerset House.

Once there, a blanket and some boots were found, tea provided, cigarettes, and, after a lengthy wait at the back of a queue, during which he pointed to his ears whenever anyone addressed him, a kindly British doctor and his firm yet attractive nurse – the same ones, he eventually realized, he had sighted in his cross hairs – cleaned him up as best they could. This involved extracting two teeth, multiple splinters and stones, straightening his nose and placing a fat dressing over the centre of his face. After they had finished, they found him a cot to lie on until he could be transported to the rear. If he could have managed it without agony, Bloch might have smiled at the irony of how things had turned out.

It was dark by the time the ambulance dropped them off and a reception committee had formed in the doorway of the transfusion tent. It wasn’t a happy band; the frown lines on their faces were cast as deep crevices by the glow of two hurricane lamps. There was Major Torrance, Caspar Myles, Sister Spence comforting a red-eyed Miss Pippery and Robinson de Griffon.

The moment Mrs Gregson stepped down from the ambulance, Miss Pippery rushed over and hugged her before bursting into sobs.

A Jack Russell tied to one of the tent posts gave two yaps, before de Griffon gave it a sharp rebuke. He then turned and saluted Watson. ‘Good to see you again so soon, sir,’ he said.

Before Watson could answer, Myles crashed in. His words were heavy with aggression and rancour. ‘What did you put in that damned blood of yours, Watson?’

Watson turned towards Myles, not certain he had heard correctly. ‘I beg your pardon, Doctor?’

‘The blood was bad, Watson. Damned bad.’

Torrance tutted at the impertinence then barked: ‘Gentlemen, if you would give Major Watson time to draw breath—’

‘Which is more than poor Shipobottom will ever do,’ Myles muttered.

‘Shipobottom?’ Watson asked. ‘Shipobottom’s dead?’

‘I am afraid so,’ said de Griffon glumly. ‘I rode over to tell the men the news, that we were being taken back up the line and . . . well, yes he died.’

‘And in the most awful way imaginable,’ added Myles.

Part of him wanted to rush inside at once, but Watson tried to remain calm and professional. ‘May I see the body?’

‘I think you should,’ said Torrance, for once lowering his voice.

The group shuffled aside and allowed Watson to enter. Brindle had been moved. There was but one bed occupied but the figure in there was unrecognizable. It was all Watson could do to stop from crying out at the sight of poor Shipobottom. There were deep scratches on his cheeks, where the poor chap’s nails had raked the skin and torn at the bandages that had covered his eye. The upper chest also showed breaks in the skin. The hands were folded and locked like claws on his chest, and had been tied together with crepe bandages, presumably to try and stop him attacking his face and throat further.

All that was bad enough, but it was his facial expression that was most remarkable and disturbing. The eyes bulged, the skin around the face was tinged with blue and the tongue lolled from a mouth that had been drawn back into a demented grin. Poor Shipobottom looked like some grotesque poster advertising a circus freak show. It made Watson’s stomach turn just to look at him.

‘How long has he been dead?’ Watson asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

‘Several hours,’ honked Torrance.

‘And the facial muscles haven’t relaxed at all?’

‘Does it look like it?’ demanded Myles. ‘He’s a damned gargoyle in flesh. Look at him, man.’

‘I am looking,’ snapped Watson, his weariness making him irritable. ‘In fact, I’d like some time to examine the body in private.’

‘So you can come to some other conclusion other than you fed this man poisoned blood,’ Myles suggested.

‘We don’t know that,’ objected Torrance, albeit without much conviction.

‘Will somebody please tell me the sequence of events? Miss Pippery, can you help?’ asked Watson.

The VAD gave an enormous sniff and nodded. Mrs Gregson squeezed her hand to steady her nerves. ‘I was monitoring the patient, the way we agreed, when Captain de Griffon—’

‘Hold on. Is that de Griffon as in the Norfolk de Griffons?’ Mrs Gregson asked.

Watson felt another flash of irritation at the unnecessary interruption. Mrs Gregson had no sense of decorum or timing.

The young captain gave an ingratiating smile. ‘It is. Do you know—’

‘I know all about the de Griffons,’ Mrs Gregson muttered, ‘enough to not want to share a room with one.’ With a final pat on Miss Pippery’s shoulder, she left the tent. De Griffon looked perplexed.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ Sister Spence, mouth pinched in fury, went after the VAD.

Watson, although puzzled by Mrs Gregson’s behaviour, did not want to be distracted. ‘Please continue, Miss Pippery.’

‘Well, Captain de Griffon arrived to look in on the sergeant.’

‘And what time was this?’

‘Two o’clock,’ said Miss Pippery. ‘Perhaps a little later.’

‘And when did the patient first display symptoms?’ Watson asked.

‘He already had a fever by that point. I was quite concerned about it,’ she said.

‘And then . . . ?’ Watson prompted.

‘He began fitting,’ said de Griffon. ‘Quite badly.’

Miss Pippery nodded. ‘Tonic-clonic seizures, about ten minutes apart. I sent for Dr Myles at once, of course.’

The American jumped in. ‘When I arrived his pulse rate was 145 and wild. He was beginning to show signs of the cyanosis. I gave him oxygen. But nothing worked. It took him four hours to die.’

Watson examined their faces. De Griffon looked numb and Miss

Pippery terrified that everything was somehow her fault.

They could hear raised voices from outside. Sister Spence and Mrs Gregson were going at it hammer and tongs. It was difficult to establish which of them had the upper hand. It sounded positively gladiatorial.

‘Do you think,’ asked Torrance evenly, ‘that it could be contamination of your stored blood? Or perhaps the method of anticoagulation? Sodium citrate is toxic.’

‘Not like this,’ said Watson, pointing at Shipobottom’s twisted visage. ‘And not at the dilutions we use. Nought point two of one per cent in this case.’

‘Could the dilutions have been wrong?’ It was Sister Spence, returned to the tent, her face flushed. ‘It has been known in inexperienced hands for a point two per cent to become two per cent or even twenty per cent solution.’