The Reckoning (18 page)

‘Now, according to the rules of procedure, every accused had the right to prepare his defence and call witnesses, but in practice this right was often ignored, to the point where a plea of extenuating circumstances was the only recourse left to him and it was seldom accepted. Ballard himself was unable to make a statement during the court martial. He was suffering from shell-shock – his nerves were shattered – but in those days the condition was barely recognized and was often attributed to funk. In the end it was left to me to make a statement in mitigation of sentence, after it became clear that he had been found guilty. I mention this because it must be why your brother remembered me as having been present and, more important, how he knew that I had once worked for Scotland Yard.'

‘How was that, sir?' Billy spoke.

‘When I rose to make the statement, the court president – this major – tried to rule me out of order (we'd already crossed swords) and make out that I was overstepping the bounds of my role as defending officer, due to my ignorance of court procedure. That gave a chance to hit back. I revealed that I'd been a Scotland Yard inspector in civilian life, and that in fact I had wide experience of trials and how they should be conducted.'

Madden paused in his pacing to frown.

‘I may even have implied that I knew more than he did, which was probably a mistake. In any event he took it badly and, when the court rose, he warned me that he would be sending a report to my commanding officer with a recommendation that I be punished for insubordination. Nothing came of that, but it does help to explain why Oswald mentioned my name in that letter.'

He turned to Gibson.

‘I put an idea to Mr Styles earlier. I thought it possible that your brother's visitor that day called on him in order to confirm
his identity. If so, it's likely that he brought up the subject of the court martial, which in turn must have prompted Oswald to start on that letter. He remembered what I'd said at the trial: that before the war I had worked at the Yard. He may well have thought I was someone who could explain why this skeleton from his past, which he'd hoped was dead and buried, was being dug up.'

The solicitor received Madden's words in silence. When he finally spoke, it was only after a long pause.

‘All right, I can see that makes some kind of sense. But to go back to the court martial – it seems to have been a travesty of justice by any standards. Surely the accused man had the right of appeal?'

‘Unfortunately not.' Madden's tone was grim. ‘There was no appeal against these decisions. But the sentence of death wasn't automatic. It had to be confirmed by the proper authority, which in the case of capital offences was the commander-in-chief.'

‘Do you mean Field Marshal Haig?' Gibson was astonished.

‘Yes, Haig would have been the senior officer who confirmed the sentence. The file would have been sent to him. But prior to that there was a procedure that had to be followed. After the accused had been found guilty, all papers concerning his case were sent to his commanding officer and then in turn to his brigade, division and corps commanders, for their opinion as to whether the sentence should be commuted or confirmed. I took some pains to find out what happened with Ballard's case and I discovered that right up to division level the recommendations made were all for mercy. They were based on our own company commander's view, expressed in the clearest terms, that although Ballard had committed a capital offence, he had been a good soldier up to that point and deserved better than a firing squad. It's clear to me now that the file must have gone to Canning next. He was our corps commander at the time and he must have recommended that the sentence be carried out. Why else would he have been on the killer's list?'

As though struck by a bullet himself at that moment, Madden stopped suddenly in his tracks. He stood scowling.

‘But the killer could only know that if he'd seen the court-martial record, Ballard's file. And that's not possible. I told you – all those records are sealed.'

He shook his head in bafflement.

‘I've no explanation for that. Where was I? Yes, at that point I was wounded.' He touched the scar on his brow. ‘It wasn't particularly serious, but it got me sent to a base hospital, and during that time Ballard's case reached Haig's desk and the sentence was confirmed. He was executed a few days later.'

‘Hold on a second.' Gibson broke in. ‘You said all those recommendations were for mercy. Surely Haig would have taken them into account.'

‘Would he?' Madden's shrug seemed to suggest otherwise. ‘Well, it's not a question anyone can answer now: not even Haig, since he's no longer with us. But what I can tell you is that it was far from being the only instance of its kind and, if you want my opinion, I doubt that the question of mercy played any great part in his decision. It became clear in the course of the war that some of the most senior officers in the British Army believed that the only sure way of ensuring discipline in the ranks was to make the threat of executions a real one, particularly for anything that smacked of desertion or cowardice. They were meant to set an example to the other men and to serve as a warning. It was a line of thinking that was fairly general, but in Ballard's case there may have been a further reason for putting him before a firing squad, one that could have swayed Haig's mind more than any considerations of fairness.'

‘And what was that?'

‘The condition of the French Army at the time.'

‘The
French
Army?' Gibson's jaw dropped. ‘What had that got to do with it?'

Madden turned to him.

‘Many people have forgotten, but for some months in 1917 the discipline in the French Army on the Western Front came close to breaking down completely. They'd suffered terrible losses, first at Verdun and later at the Chemin des Dames. The men had lost confidence in their generals and there were cases of entire units refusing to go into battle. Pétain sorted it out in the end, mostly by improving conditions for the men. But he also set about weeding out the ringleaders among the mutineers, and four hundred or so were sentenced to death and more than fifty eventually executed. Of course the British commanders were well aware of what was going on and were probably terrified of the same thing happening among our troops, though they needn't have worried. We had very little contact with the French and there was never any question of the contagion spreading. But the fear was there and it may have contributed to what happened. There was never any doubt in my mind that the officer I spoke of – that major – had orders to find Ballard guilty, and the more I thought about it afterwards, the more convinced I was that at some level it had been decided to make an example of him.'

He paused before going on. His gaze was fixed on the solicitor.

‘It's no consolation, I know, but for what it's worth, I believe your brother was desperately unlucky to have been named to that court. I gather, from what you've told us, that he wasn't a forceful character.'

‘Ozzie?' Gibson smiled sadly. ‘Anything but, I fear . . .'

‘Then he may have been chosen for that reason. It's quite possible the word was put out discreetly for a junior officer from a support unit, one with no experience of action, who would follow whatever lead was given. You see, no accused man could be sentenced to death unless the verdict was unanimous. Your brother and the other officer, Singleton, were both young men, and one can only imagine what kind of pressure they were
subjected to. It's clear from Oswald's diary that he felt tainted by the proceedings and the fact that he never told you about it supports that conclusion. I don't know whether it helps to say so, but he should never have been placed in that position.'

Madden fell silent. He caught Billy's eye. They waited for Gibson to speak.

For some while the solicitor said nothing. His gaze was held by the diary lying open in front of him and, as the seconds ticked by, he continued to stare at it.

Finally he looked up.

‘Thank you, Mr Madden . . . and you, too, Inspector.' He put a hand to his head. ‘Poor Ozzie . . . But that was the story of his life, I'm afraid. He always tried to avoid trouble. Right to the end he thought everything would be all right so long as he did as he was told.'

With a sigh he closed the book.

‘You'll want to know the name of the officer who presided at Ballard's court martial, but I'm afraid I can't help you there.' Madden sat frowning. ‘It's possible I took note of it at the time. But if I did, it's gone from my memory now.'

His words came as a shock to Billy. Accustomed as he was to his old chief's powers of recall, he had felt confident that Madden would supply him with the necessary information. Following their meeting with Gibson they had sought refuge in a nearby pub and were sitting at a table in a corner of the crowded lounge bar.

‘But you'll have to find him as soon as possible,' Madden went on. ‘Assuming he survived the war, he must be at risk. The quickest way will be to get hold of the record of the trial, but that could be a problem. As I said, all those cases were put under seal thirty years ago, and although there have been several attempts to get them released, mainly by the families of the men
who were executed, none has ever succeeded. Every government since the war has taken the same position, and most likely they'll dig in their heels again. If you have any trouble, get hold of the adjutant at the Royal Artillery barracks at Woolwich. He should be able to help.'

Madden broke off, biting his lip. Billy waited. It was plain to him that his old chief was still feeling the effects of the shock he had suffered in Edward Gibson's office: the realization of what lay behind the string of killings, and his own connection to it.

‘As for Ballard himself, I can't claim to have known him well. He wasn't one of the original men in our company. After the Somme there weren't many of those left. He came over with a draft of replacements in the autumn of 1916. But the one thing I can tell you about him is that he was married and had a daughter.'

‘Are you sure, sir?' Billy pulled a face. ‘I was hoping it might have been a son.'

‘I know you were, and I can see why.' Madden's tone was grim. ‘But it's something I'm certain of. When I was assigned to defend him one of the first things I did was find out whether he had a family, because if he was convicted I meant to use that in mitigation. Since I couldn't get a word out of him – he'd gone silent – I turned to his closest friends in the company and they told me he had a baby daughter. He had shown them photographs of her.'

‘What about his own kin then? Did he have a brother by any chance?'

‘I've no idea.'

Madden shook his head hopelessly.

‘If he did, though, it couldn't have been the same person spotted at Lewes. He moved like a young man. But you're right – the killer must surely be someone with a close tie to him, and a blood relation seems the most likely answer. You'd best speak to his widow when you find her, or his daughter. They might be
able to point you in the right direction. You'll be looking for someone who feels so strongly about what happened thirty years ago that he's willing to offer up his life to avenge an injustice. That's extraordinary in itself – unheard of, I would say – but just as puzzling is why.'

‘Why?'

‘Why now . . . after all this time?' Madden stared at him. ‘It's inexplicable.'

As Billy watched he put a hand to his head. Again Billy waited for a few moments before speaking.

‘What about Ballard himself?' he asked. ‘What do you remember about him?'

‘Not much.' Madden shrugged. ‘I was promoted from the ranks shortly before he arrived. I'd become an officer, so I never got to know him well. But I recall he was highly strung. He'd been a painter before the war, an artist. He used to sketch in his spare time. The men would offer to buy his drawings, but he wouldn't accept any money for them. The ones he didn't keep he gave away. The men took his execution badly. They knew it was unjust.'

‘Still, he was highly strung, you say?'

‘He had a vivid imagination – an artist's sensitivity, if you like – but that's the last thing a soldier wants to be burdened with when he goes into battle. I thought his sketching was a way of dealing with his fears – the fears we all had; of reducing them to pencil strokes on paper. I could see his nerves were stretched to the limit, but he never shirked his duty, and I thought him a brave man for that reason.'

‘Until he cracked?'

‘Until he cracked.'

Billy caught the change in his old chief's tone.

‘He'd been wounded shortly before. It wasn't much – just a gash caused by a shell splinter – but it got him a sort stay in base hospital at Boulogne and a few days' leave afterwards. It wasn't
long enough to go home, and he told me when he got back that he'd used the time to go to Paris to look at some paintings. He thought it might be his only chance to see them. Later I wondered if there hadn't been more to his words than I'd realized.'

‘Are you saying he didn't expect to live much longer?' Billy leaned closer.

‘It could have been that. I had seen it happen to others. The fear . . . the expectation of death was very strong in those days. It affected all of us and it could easily harden into a certainty. All I can say for sure is that he was much quieter when he came back, more withdrawn, and I worried that he might be thinking too much. I knew by then it was the worst thing one could do. It was best to take each day as it came and to blank out all thoughts of the future.'

Madden stared at the glass-topped table.

‘The Germans had been shelling our lines off and on for a week or more and Ballard had the bad luck to be in a dugout that was hit several times and caved in. When we pulled out the men inside, we found two of them had suffocated and another had had his head crushed. Ballard was unhurt, but strangely silent, and I told his sergeant to keep an eye on him. However, in the confusion he wandered off and we discovered later that he had made his way to the rear. I'm not sure to this day whether he knew what he was doing. I believe he was shell-shocked. What's certain is that he didn't try to escape: he didn't make a run for it. He found a ruined barn not far away and simply lay down and went to sleep. The MPs came across him two days later, half-starved. When they tried to question him he stayed mute. In fact, I'm not sure he ever said another word. He'd reached his limit, you see. He couldn't go on.'