The Furies (7 page)

‘And where is she now?'

Vera looked awkward. ‘When we arrived at Paddington half an hour ago, she told me she'd stay behind to watch if anybody might be following us. I imagine she's down on the street, watching the door as we speak.'

Elspeth strode to the window and strained to see as far up and down the street as she could and then pulled her head back into the room. ‘Well, I can't see her,' she said irritably. Is there anything else about Anya you haven't told me?'

‘I've not been keeping anything back, Ellie,' Vera protested. ‘I just didn't think it was important to tell you every last detail about her—'

‘Now look here, Vera,' Elspeth interrupted. ‘Sylvie and I planted a bomb. Innocent people could have been injured or worse. This is important. I need to know exactly who the members of our squad really are.'

Vera sighed. ‘Look, I know that Anya entered Britain two years ago on asylum and for a while lived in a flat with a group of WSPU supporters, one of whom was called Grace. Anya and Grace developed a close friendship and become involved with the arson campaign – breaking shop windows, pouring petrol through letter boxes – that sort of thing. Then a year ago they were caught smashing the windows of a jewellers in Mayfair and were being held by the owner and his staff until the police arrived. Grace knew that if Anya was arrested she would be deported. So she threw herself at the owner to create a distraction that allowed Anya to escape before the police arrived. So only Grace was arrested and she was tried and convicted, then sent to prison.'

‘Holloway?'

‘Yes. She went on hunger strike and was force-fed, but there must have been a problem, because some of the feed went into her lungs and she caught pneumonia and died.'

The death of a close friend
, Elspeth thought. That could certainly unhinge a person. Might even bring on delusional thoughts that they were being followed…

‘Apparently for a while Anya was inconsolable,' Vera continued. ‘I think she loved Grace very dearly. Anyway, a while after that I was asked by Christabel to form an arson squad and with Anya's previous experience she was an obvious choice. Then I asked Sylvie to join, and she of course recommended you and—'

Thump, thump, thump: the sound of the front door knocker. Vera stepped past Elspeth; she looked out of the window and waved at somebody below. When she pulled her head back inside, there was a smile of relief on her face.

‘It's Anya.'

‘I'll let her in,' Elspeth said. She opened her bedroom door and hurried down the stairs. Arriving at the bottom, she saw Mrs Evans coming out of the scullery at the back of the house, wiping her hands on a kitchen cloth.

‘Oh, it's alright, Mrs Evans. It's the other friend I mentioned.'

‘You sure you ladies don't want some refreshments?'

‘No, really, we're fine, thank you, Mrs Evans,' Elspeth replied.

Mrs Evans smiled and went back into the scullery while Elspeth went to open the front door.

With high cheekbones and a helmet of short, shiny black hair like the wing of a raven, Anya regarded Elspeth with large brown eyes and a serious look on her angular face. A tall, wiry figure, she was dressed in a black skirt and off-white blouse, and carried a battered black suitcase in one hand. Perched on her head was a flat, red beret. She looked up and down the street for a moment, and then stepped over the threshold.

‘Ellie,' she said in a deeply resonant Slavic accent. She kissed Elspeth on both cheeks and then stood back. ‘How are you?' Before Elspeth could reply, Anya leant forwards and whispered in her ear. ‘You did good job in Abbey.' She pulled away, gave Elspeth a wink, and then without waiting to be invited walked quickly past her and onto the stairs. Elspeth sighed and shook her head, then closed the front door and followed Anya upstairs.

When Elspeth re-entered her bedroom, Anya was already standing at the open window, gazing down at the street below, an awkward-looking Vera by her side. As Elspeth closed the door she glanced across at Sylvia, still sitting on the edge of her bed: she also looked uncomfortable with Anya's behaviour. After a moment Anya drew back from the window and walked across to Elspeth, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving it a friendly squeeze. Her grip – for someone so slender – was surprisingly strong.

‘You did very good job, Ellie. Next time, we make bigger bomb, attack bigger target. Maybe Tower of London. Maybe Royal Albert Hall. What do you think?'

Elspeth brushed Anya's arm – and question – aside.

‘What's this about being followed?'

Anya's eyes narrowed. Then she looked at Vera and back at Elspeth again.

‘Vera told you?'

Elspeth nodded, her eyes not leaving Anya's face.

‘Do not worry, Ellie,' Anya replied with a reassuring smile. She reached across to caress the side of Elspeth's face. ‘I check carefully and I see no watchers. In my country secret police follows people. In your country Special Branch follows people. We must always be on look out.'

‘What have you done that your secret police should want to follow you?'

‘I have done nothing.' The smile faded. ‘But my cousin Bogdan…' She sighed. ‘He was only a boy, but very brave. He died for my country. Then secret police arrest and interrogate all our family and friends. I fled to Paris before they seized me. And then I crossed to Great Britain. This country is a good friend to people in trouble.'

‘And what did your cousin do, to bring you so much trouble?'

‘He tried to free my country.'

‘And which is your country?'

For a moment a distant look appeared on Anya's face, as if she was picturing her homeland in her mind's eye. Then she lifted her chin and smiled, placing her hand on Elspeth's shoulder once more.

‘I have said too much already, Ellie. But I have looked carefully and there is nobody watching us—'

‘You're sure,' Sylvia interrupted from the bed, ‘that nobody is following us?'

‘Yes, I am sure.'

‘Well, thank goodness for that,' Sylvia said as she stood and went across to Elspeth and Anya, putting an arm around a shoulder of each. ‘Now let that be an end to the subject. We've much more important matters to discuss – like what the next target should be.'

But Elspeth was exhausted from the strain of the discussion. There was a throbbing in the side of her head and Sylvia's arm did not comfort her, so she slipped out from underneath it. Sylvia appeared surprised, but then her expression changed to one of concern.

‘Ellie darling, are you all right?'

But Elspeth didn't answer. Her previous misgivings about the bombing campaign had been amplified by the discussion with Anya. This didn't feel right…

‘You're not having doubts, Ellie, are you?' Vera said, and Elspeth saw the look of concern on her face.

‘I just think we should take things slower,' Elspeth replied. ‘That inspector almost caught us—'

‘Oh, Ellie darling,' Sylvia said, an almost patronisingly confident smile on her face. ‘We got clean away with it.'

‘We were lucky, Sylvie,' Elspeth replied, ‘and our luck may run out. Emmeline's in Holloway and Christabel's fled to France otherwise she'd be in Holloway, too. We all need to be careful.'

‘But we can't stop now, Ellie,' Sylvia said. ‘If we plant further bombs, the government will simply
have
to take notice of us.'

‘I'm not sure about this strategy, Sylvie—'

‘Look, there's going to be a WSPU meeting at Holland Park skating rink in two weeks,' Vera interuppted. ‘The rumour is that Emmeline will time her release from Holloway to attend the meeting. She's been on hunger strike for a while now, so they'll have to let her out soon. We all need to be there to show her our support.'

‘I'm on duty that evening —'

‘Oh, Ellie,' Sylvia interjected. ‘You've done more than your share for those lazy house surgeons. Don't you worry. I'll charm one of them into covering for you—'

A floorboard in the corridor outside the room creaked, and Sylvia fell silent as all four women swivelled their heads towards the door. After a moment's silence they heard a hesitant tapping. Sylvia looked at Elspeth with wide, inquiring eyes, but Elspeth shrugged and then walked to the door and opened it to find Mrs Evans standing there.

‘I know you said not to bother, Dr Stewart,' she said, holding a tray of glasses and a jug of lemonade before her, ‘but it really is no trouble and I thought you ladies might be in need of something refreshing on such a hot afternoon.'

Elspeth forced a smile to her face. ‘That's very sweet of you, Mrs Evans, but you really needn't have troubled—'

‘Oh it's no trouble, darling, and I know how hard you doctors and nurses work. Sister Calthorpe was on duty this morning, she was saying, so it's the least I can do.'

Elspeth knew it would appear churlish to rebuff the offer and Sylvia must have thought the same, for she stepped past Elspeth to take the tray from Mrs Evans with a smile of thanks and an invitation to join them. Elspeth took the jug – damp with condensation – and while Sylvia introduced Mrs Evans to Vera and Anya, she poured lemonade into the glasses. As the four women drank and Mrs Evans chatted to the other three, Elspeth thought about the forthcoming WSPU meeting. It wasn't as if they were going to plant another bomb, and at least it meant she had agreed to do something positive for the squad. Maybe it was a good idea to go?

After the royal couple were pronounced dead, a Jesuit priest was called to administer the last rites. Gabriel had intended to stay at the Konak and assist the chief with the Archduke's autopsy. But news of the assassination spread quickly: street fights broke out as Hapsburg-friendly Bosnians began attacking Serbian shops and businesses, and Gabriel was summoned back to the garrison hospital to help Arnstein and Flieger with several stabbings. He was kept busy in the operating theatre for the rest of the day, and it was only much later that evening, having finished his last operation, that Gabriel finally found time to go to the doctor's mess for a late supper.

The room was empty as Gabriel walked up to an oak cabinet set against one wall and opened one of the side compartments. He was famished – he hadn't eaten all day – and he eagerly helped himself to a portion of bread and ham from the food locker inside the compartment. Then, with a large glass of red wine taken from a crystal decanter sitting on top of the cabinet, Gabriel went to sit in one of the wing-backed leather armchairs set in front of the room's bay window.

He quickly finished his meal. And he was quietly sipping his wine, when the mess door swung open and the chief strode into the room.

‘Stay seated, Gabriel,' the chief called across as he walked over to the cabinet. ‘I'll come and join you, but I need a drink first.'

He poured himself some wine, and then came across and flopped into the armchair beside Gabriel. He swallowed a mouthful of wine, then looked across at Gabriel and shook his head. ‘What a damned fiasco,' he said.

It was rare for the chief to use profanity and Gabriel smiled as the older man continued. ‘You don't know the half of it. A catalogue of mistakes
and
bad luck.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Colonel Harrach is furious and holds General Potiorek personally responsible for this catastrophe.'

‘Why?'

‘Apparently, even after the grenade was thrown at the convoy, Potiorek carried on with the day's schedule as if nothing had happened. They went to City Hall, where the Mayor was meant to be giving a speech of welcome. But the Archduke was clearly upset after the attack and stated that the visit was over.'

‘So why didn't they go straight back to Illidza?'

‘Because Potiorek suggested the Archduke might want to visit the garrison hospital to see Colonel Merizzi. Colonel Harrach opposed this detour, but Potiorek was very keen and gave assurances it would be safe.'

‘I see.' Gabriel puckered his brow. ‘Well, after the grenade attack, the possibility of other assassins in the crowd must have been obvious. With so few gendarmes on duty, getting the Archduke to a place of safety should have been the priority.'

‘Exactly what Colonel Harrach said, but he was overruled by Potiorek. And then to make matters worse, their car took a wrong turning; the driver had not been told about the change of plan. As they turned into the wrong street, Potiorek realised the error and brought the car to a stop right outside Schiller's café.'

‘And do we know how the assassin came to be inside Schiller's?'

‘Plain bad luck,' the chief said before taking another sip of wine. ‘Apparently, a few minutes after we ran out to help Merizzi, a depressed-looking man came into the café, ordered a coffee and sat down at the very table we had just left. Moritz remembered he looked very out of place: furtive-looking, scruffy. So this man orders a coffee and sits there for twenty minutes, looking gloomy, and then outside the café a car comes to a stop. Moritz is curious to see what's happening, so he goes across to the window and sees it's the Archduke's car. Then this fellow leaps up from the table, barges past Moritz and runs out into the street. He pulls a pistol out of his coat pocket and…well, the rest of the story you already know.'

‘Unbelievable,' Gabriel said, shaking his head. ‘I almost feel sorry for Potiorek. He'll have to live with this for the rest of his life.'

‘Well that's quite generous, Gabriel, considering what he did to you after the Archduke died.'

Gabriel flinched at the memory of Potiorek hauling on his collar. Then his face softened and he smiled.

‘It's not the first time I've been assaulted by a distraught friend or relative of a patient of mine. That, I don't take personally. But I
am
angry that Potiorek took them to the Konak instead of the garrison hospital. Not that it would have made much difference, I suppose, but what was he thinking?'

‘Colonel Harrach said that Potiorek panicked after the shooting. I suspect he was in shock, just not thinking straight.'

‘Bad decisions all round,' Gabriel said. ‘Not what you would expect from a good leader. Well, I suppose that's his career finished.'

The chief stroked his beard. ‘It certainly doesn't look good for Potiorek: he invited the Archduke on St Vitus Day, the worst possible time; he was responsible for the inadequate security; he gave assurances for the Archduke's safety on the return trip to the hospital. There will be a court of inquiry of course, but I suspect he'll resign or be dismissed as Governor. It'll be an ignominious end to his career.'

‘And what about the assassin? Anything known about him yet?'

‘A Bosnian youth by the name of Gavrilo Princip, apparently. According to Colonel Harrach, Princip's a member of Young Bosnia, an organisation dedicated to the creation of a Greater Serbian state. Harrach is certain that Serbian Nationalists are behind this.'

Gabriel frowned. ‘Wasn't the youth who tried to assassinate Potiorek's predecessor a member of Young Bosnia?'

‘Yes. Some chap by the name of Zerajic, but he didn't do as well as Princip: it's his skull you saw gracing Potiorek's desk.'

Gabriel grimaced. ‘Don't remind me – it was nauseating, like some gory trophy. I'm surprised at General Potiorek: what kind of man would do a thing like that?'

‘You don't get to the top without being ruthless, Gabriel.' He paused. ‘Anyway, you don't need much imagination to know what will happen next.'

‘We're going to war, aren't we?'

‘Yes,' said the older man, and Gabriel felt a flicker of anticipation. This was, after all, something he had been training for all these years: an opportunity to put to good use the skills he had so painstakingly acquired. ‘I'm certain,' continued the chief, ‘that Vienna will use the assassination as justification for sorting the Serbs out, once and for all: ever since we annexed Bosnia, the Serbs have been nothing but trouble. And as our 6
^th
Army is closest to Serbia, you can be sure we will be in the thick of it.'

‘But we should easily defeat the Serbs, shouldn't we chief? After all, we have twice as many soldiers as they do.'

‘Unless Russia gets involved: if they come to Serbia's aid, we'll have to divide our forces.'

‘But if Russia supports Serbia, won't Germany come to our aid—'

‘—which would bring Britain and France into the war,' the chief said. ‘Don't forget; they're also Russia's allies. So you can see how delicate the situation is.'

Gabriel fell quiet: a war between Austria and Serbia had always been on the cards. But the idea of Russia and Germany – perhaps even Britain and France – becoming involved, seemed almost too much to take in. Gabriel's parents hadn't the money to send him to medical school, so the only way he had been able to train as a surgeon was to accept a military scholarship which had stipulated he must serve a term of ten years in the army medical services. Gabriel had always been aware he might have to go to war someday and wasn't daunted by that possibility: indeed, he felt ready to deal with whatever a war might throw at him. But a war that might involve most of Europe…

‘Well,' the chief said, interrupting Gabriel's chain of thought, ‘it looks as though you will soon be given an opportunity to continue your wound research in men, rather than pigs.'

For a moment Gabriel was taken aback, but then he grinned at the older man's black humour. ‘Mind you, chief, the way some of our men behave…'

Chief Fischer laughed. ‘How is the research going, anyway?'

‘Quite well, I think. The studies on pig cadavers are almost finished and I should have the results ready for the London surgical conference this August. Herr Roth has been most generous in allowing me to use the ballistics laboratory at his factory for the tests—'

‘Which brings me back to the question I asked you this morning,' the chief interjected, ‘which you were saved from answering by the terrorists grenade: how are you and Dorothea getting on?'

Gabriel smiled ruefully as he realised the older man has deliberately steered the conversation back to that question. He had first met Dorothea Roth a few months ago, whilst doing research on the wounding effects of different bullet shapes. The chief was a long-standing friend of Georg Roth, and after being introduced to Gabriel, Herr Roth had agreed to provide him with a supply of bullets and cartridges as well as the use of his factory's extensive ballistic testing facility. Over the past year Gabriel had often travelled to the factory to carry out his research and had frequently met Dorothea.

‘Last time I saw her she was very well. Why do you ask?'

The chief placed the empty wine glass on the floor by his chair. ‘Well, Gabriel, Dorothea's a lovely young woman – she'll make a good wife. And Georg tells me he really likes you.' He brushed a fleck of lint from his trousers and then looked up at Gabriel again. ‘I think you ought to seriously consider asking him for permission to marry her.'

Gabriel fidgeted in his chair. Dorothea was a good-looking woman; there was no doubt of that. She had thick dark-hair and an attractive figure, and Gabriel had been surprised to learn that she was not yet married. But although he liked her well enough, there was something missing, a vital spark that seemed lacking whenever they engaged in conversation. He knew the chief would have loved nothing more than for him to propose to her, but…

‘I know Dorothea is a fine young woman,' Gabriel said. ‘I also know she'll make a good wife for somebody. But I'm not sure that person is me. I'm so busy with my research right now—'

‘You need to realise,' the chief interjected, ‘that there's more to life than research, Gabriel. Dorothea is an eligible young woman, who will not wait forever.'

Gabriel sighed and turned away.

‘You are very gifted with the scalpel,' the chief continued, ‘and you make good clinical decisions. But sometimes you can be quite naïve, particularly with women.'

Gabriel smiled to himself. He knew this last comment to be true: that because he was so focussed on the science and art of surgery, he had neglected to pay much attention to the social aspects of his profession.

‘And career advancement is dependent on more than just ability,' the chief continued. ‘The empire is not a meritocracy and you need to be seen to be doing the right things, with the right people, at the right time. I only have your interests at heart, and I'm telling you that people may well ask questions as to why a thirty-five-year-old surgeon has not taken a wife. They may come to a wrong conclusion.'

‘But General Potiorek isn't married…' Gabriel said without thinking, and then immediately regretted his words as the older man gave him a look of warning. He realised that the chief must have also heard the rumours about Potiorek and Merizzi, but his mentor's expression told Gabriel this should not be discussed further.

‘What I mean,' Gabriel said, trying to extricate himself, ‘is that being married doesn't necessarily—'

‘This Colonel Redl business,' the chief interjected, ‘has made people very nervous. That the head of the Austrian Secret Service, no less, could allow himself to be blackmailed over his homosexual inclinations into spying for Russia has shaken Vienna to its core. That the poor man managed to salvage some dignity by shooting himself before it came to trial is a moot point.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘My point,' the chief interrupted again, and Gabriel could hear the fatigue in his mentor's voice, ‘is that there is more to being a successful surgeon than simple surgical ability.'

Gabriel knew better than to argue. ‘I know you have my interests at heart and I'm grateful for your advice. I'll think carefully on what you say.'

‘That's all I ask.' The chief stretched his arms and yawned. ‘And talking of wives, I must return to my own. It's been an eventful day.'

‘Of course.'

The older man stood and wished Gabriel goodnight and then left the room.

And Gabriel was once more alone with thoughts from the morning, a collection of random images and sounds from the Konak: the Archduke calling for his wife, the blood-stained Ottoman couch, the look in Potiorek's eye as he hauled on the back of Gabriel's collar. But the most unsettling thought of all was that, very shortly, Gabriel would be going to war.