The First Casualty Page 17

  Lloyd George had been followed into the room by a rather harassed-looking young woman with ink on the cuffs of her blouse and her hair coming out of its fastenings. She was struggling to carry paper and pencils, a portable typewriter and a heavy briefcase.

  ‘One of my secretaries, do you see? Thought we might need some notes taken. Although perhaps this is all too ‘ush—’ush for that, eh, Cumming? I say, Thompson girl, have you an invisible ink ribbon for that typing machine of yours, ha ha!’

  The young woman, who was flushed and perspiring slightly, made a half-hearted attempt at a smile while the great man laughed at his own joke. Cumming finally found a moment to stammer his greeting.

  ‘Good morning, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘I had rather supposed you would require me to bring Inspector Kingsley to you. I do hope you have not been inconvenienced.’

  ‘Not a bit of it, Sir Mansfield.’ The short, grey-haired man with the twinkling eye and bushy moustache was relieving his secretary of some of her burdens and placing them on Cumming’s desk. ‘Winston finished his daily lecture early. Now there’s a first, eh? I think that fellow’s the only chap in the country who’s more long-winded than I am. I often think we should ‘ave a contest, ‘im and me, see who can blow the most hot air! I reckon we could float a Zeppelin between us! Ha ha!’

  The Prime Minister threw himself down into the armchair recently vacated by Kingsley and proceeded to prove his own point.

  ‘God love ‘im, Winston does meddle so! ‘E’d brought Jellicoe round to talk convoys, do you see? I swear ‘e still thinks ‘e’s First Lord. I says to ‘im, I says, ‘Winston, these days you’re Minister of Munitions, do you see? You makes shells, t’aint your job to worry where to fire ‘em.’ But ‘e won’t be told. Aristocrats never can stand that, can they? That’s what made this country great and also what’s buggered it up in the process. Ha ha! Pardon your young ears, Thompson, I keep forgettin’ we’ve a lady present. Anyway I fancied a stroll so I thought I’d come down to see you in your little den of spies. I ‘ave to be at the House later and you’re on the way. So make us a cup o’ tea, Sir Mansfield, and let’s be doin’. We’ve brought our own milk, ain’t we, Thompson?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ the young woman said and duly produced a screw-top jar from her briefcase.

  Despite the fact that Kingsley had gone to prison in protest at policies for which this man was now ultimately responsible, he could not help but enjoy this quite extraordinary encounter. He had always voted Liberal and the incredible energy of the little Welsh Wizard, as he was popularly known, seemed to fill the whole room with electricity. And his voice was as musical as he had heard it said to be, even though he seemed so far to have said nothing of consequence. It was exciting to be in the great man’s presence. Kingsley could quite understand why women found him so appealing.

  Cumming had returned to his little gas ring and was boiling more water.

  ‘Uhm, perhaps Miss Thompson might be more comfortable in the adjoining room, Prime Minister,’ he said.

  ‘What? Do you think so? Oh well. Shame, there never was a room that wasn’t improved by ‘aving a lady in it. Still. Run along, Thompson. I shall call you when I need you.

  The Prime Minister gave her a big friendly wink and the secretary gathered up her equipment and scuttled from the room. Kingsley could not help but wonder what the full extent of this personable but exhausted-looking young woman’s duties might be.

  ‘Now then, Prime Minister, I was just…’ Cumming began, but Lloyd George interrupted him and turned to Kingsley.

  ‘This Abercrombie business, do you see? We want you to clear it up. Either prove the Bolshevik is guilty so we can shoot ‘im fair and square without ‘avin’ George Bernard bloody Shaw writin’ to the papers about it, don’t you know, or else find out who is guilty so that we can shoot ‘im. I don’t care either way. What we need is the truth, do you see? The truth. Can’t have a fudge. Otherwise it’s goin’ to blow up into a real bloody scandal. You know that Abercrombie’s dah’s Tory Chief Whip in the Lords, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I did,’ said Kingsley, speaking for the first time since the Prime Minister had entered the room.

  ‘Imagine that, the Tory Party on one side and the trades union movement on the other, and grim murder the cause of it. If I wasn’t stuck in the bloody middle I’d be laughin’, so I would. We have to nip this in the bud. They say you’re the best detective in Britain. If anybody has a chance of sortin’ it out, it’s you. The Home Secretary agreed. ‘Get that swine Kingsley,’ ‘e said, but of course you weren’t available, were you?’

  ‘Uhm…No, sir. I was…’

  ‘In prison. Yes, I do read the papers, Inspector. That’s why we had to have Cumming here produce you. Couldn’t just haul you out of the Scrubs, you’re too bloody notorious! I’d never have heard the end of it. HM Government using convicted felons and known traitors to sort out its affairs. The King would ‘ave chucked me out and called for Bonar Law before you could say dissolution! ‘E might even ‘ave ‘ad Asquith back, God forbid.’

  ‘Hence my death while escaping.’

  Lloyd George put his fingers in his ears in an exaggerated pantomime of innocent ignorance.

  ‘Don’t want to hear about it! Don’t want to know! Men of Harlech come to Glory!’ he roared, affecting to cover the sound of Kingsley’s voice by singing. ‘I shouldn’t even be ‘ere! In fact, there is no ‘ere to be as it ‘appens because, as I think you know, Cumming and this whole department don’t exist any more than you do! Never ‘ave done, never will, ‘Is Majesty’s Government does not stoop to spying, do you see? I just couldn’t resist ‘ avin’ a look at you. You’ve caused quite a stir yourself after all.’

  ‘I am flattered, sir.’

  ‘So. Are you going to ‘elp us out then, lad?’

  Kingsley had been hooked anyway but had he not been it was unlikely he would have held back now. Lloyd George was not a man it was easy to say no to; he could turn a hostile crowd or a lady’s head with a wink of his eye. The power of his voice and the content of his oratory had changed the social face of Britain. He had risen from poverty in Wales to control the interests of the British Empire. Kingsley,’ like much of the country before him, had been utterly seduced.

  ‘Yes,’ Prime Minister. Of course I shall help.’

  ‘Good. Quite a lark,’ eh? A dead man takes a job that don’t exist from a man who’s never met him, in a room of which we deny all knowledge! I love politics, so I do! Now then, I have ‘ad my look at you and I should be getting to the ‘Ouse. We’ll ‘ave that cup of tea another time, eh, Sir Mansfield?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  Lloyd George jumped up from the chair.

  ‘Thompson!’ he cried as he headed for the door. ‘We’re off!’

  And the great man was gone.

  A moment later he was back.

  ‘Forgot my milk,’ he said, snatching up his jar before once more departing.

  It was as if a whirlwind had passed through the building and for a moment or two both Kingsley and Cumming could do no more than catch their breath.

  ‘Well?’ said Cumming finally.

  ‘Well,’ Kingsley replied, ‘I wonder if you have anything stronger on offer than tea, Sir Mansfield?’

  ‘Good man! What is it, nearly noon?’ Cumming consulted his wristwatch. ‘Twenty past! Good lord, positively late in the day. Almost evening! And damn it, we’ve earned a snort. Not every day the Welsh Wizard casts his spell on you, is it? Scotch all right?

  ‘Better be, that’s all there is.’

  Cumming opened the steel drawer of a filing cabinet and produced a bottle of Black and White, from which he poured two generous measures.

  ‘I think you’re all out of your minds,’ said Kingsley, lighting another cigarette while Cumming filled his pipe.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, think about it. This war is costing us on average a thousand casualties a day and we are
discussing the fate of just two men, one of whom is already dead! You’re mad, Captain. The Prime Minister is mad, the Labour Party, the unions, the Tories and the army are all mad. The whole world is mad and I am a dead man brought to life to discuss a living man who is about to die. Clearly I must be mad also.’

  ‘A man has been murdered and another faces execution. You are a policeman. What’s mad about wanting to uncover the truth?’

  ‘Because the only ‘truth’ that matters is that this war has so far accounted for upwards of three quarters of a million casualties in Britain alone. Civilization is now entirely villainous, murdering its own, murdering all it sees. If I save this Private Hopkins, he’ll be executed anyway, in battle. If Abercrombie had not been murdered he would almost certainly have died in battle too. It does seem like something of a farce that the British army should hold a murder investigation, don’t you think? That any army or government involved in this lunacy should even consider such matters as innocence and guilt.’

  ‘It’s politics. Now then, let’s get you kitted out.’

  Taking up his drink, Cumming led the way into the map room. There on the big central table lay the uniform and kit of a captain in the Military Police.

  ‘We measured you up while you were unconscious in Folkestone. Can’t send you to France in ill-fitting boots, eh?’

  ‘Very thorough,’ Kingsley commented. ‘You must have been pretty certain that I’d play ball.’

  ‘And we were right, weren’t we, Captain Marlowe?’ Kingsley put on the uniform. It felt good, he could not deny it; it felt very good to be in uniform once more. Yes, it was a soldier’s uniform, but it was the uniform of a military policeman and that was what mattered. All he had ever wanted in life, professionally, was to be a policeman. Three days earlier he had worn the uniform of a convict, now he was a policeman once more.

  ‘Very smart,’ said Cumming, nodding his approval. ‘Now, how about a spot of lunch?’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Lunch at Simpsons

  Cumming proposed that they venture across the river into south London and find an out-of-the-way chop house or perhaps a small Chinese establishment. Not unreasonably, he saw no sense in running any more risk of Kingsley’s being recognized than was necessary.

  ‘Once you get to the front,’ he said, ‘I do not anticipate any problems. People there have better things to do than worry about recently dead detectives but here in London many people know you, particularly in the West End and the City. There’s always the chance of you bumping into an old acquaintance. Kingsley would have none of it.’

  ‘We shall not skulk about, Sir Mansfield. I should have thought that you above all people would understand that no bluff is effective unless delivered with absolute conviction. The skulker will always be detected and fortune will always favour the brave. If I do not have the confidence to stroll along the Strand then I am not safe anywhere. But I do have the confidence, you see, Captain. Because Inspector Kingsley is dead, Captain Christopher Marlowe, bearded, bespectacled and splendidly uniformed officer of the RMP, no more resembles him than does General Haig. But even if I were clean-shaven and put amongst my former peers I can assure you that they would not know me, for I do not wish to be known and therefore I shall not be known. A successful deception is about inner conviction,’ Captain, not facial hair and hats.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, quite frankly that sounds like absolute balls to me but I have to admire your side, Inspector…’

  ‘Captain.’

  ‘Yes, Captain. Besides,’ I do agree that got up like that I cannot imagine why anybody would recognize your old self, even strolling along the Strand.’

  ‘They will not and I suggest we put it to the test by lunching at my favourite restaurant, where I have dined many times. Simpsons-in-the-Strand.’

  Together the two men strolled out into Whitehall and back through Trafalgar Square towards the Strand. The revolutionary peace demonstration was over and in its place a military band was playing.

  ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile smile smile,’ Cumming sang along good-humouredly. ‘They appear to be playing your song, eh,’ Marlowe?’

  They walked past Charing Cross Station, outside which as usual ambulances stood amongst the ranks of wounded awaiting dispersal. Those able to walk sat about miserably in groups, smoking their fags and drinking tea which was dispensed free from a small stall run by the Salvation Army. All the men were utterly filthy, still caked in the mud of northern France and Belgium, their eyes staring out from blackened faces as they scratched at the fleas and bugs that tormented them. The less fortunate were laid out in rows on stretchers; some groaned,’ others lay very still. Kingsley had never got used to sights such as these in the heart of London. Some of the men appeared to be dead, but he knew that the army did not go to the trouble of shipping back soldiers who were certain to die, for the spaces were needed for those who stood a chance. Male medical officers and female nurses were attending them. Some of the nurses had clearly come direct from France and were nearly as dirty and desperate as the wounded. Other young women had come over from Charing Cross Hospital and were clean and smartly turned out. Not much more than girls, most of them, newly trained and very nervous-looking. One or two, Kingsley noticed, were smiling shyly towards him and Sir Mansfield as they passed. He thought this most uncommonly forward of them until he realized that Shannon had sneaked up behind them as if from nowhere and was winking and waving at the girls.

  ‘Morning once again, Kingsley,’ Shannon said with irritating bonhomie. ‘Morning, sir. Splendid sight, eh? British nurses, all starch and powder. Jolliest in the world, say I. Think I’ll pop back after lunch, they’ll have seen a lot of hellish sights by then and will no doubt be most upset. They’ll need some comforting.’

  ‘Be quiet, you odious man!’ Cumming snapped angrily. ‘We are not interested in your wretched obsessions.’

  ‘As you wish, sir,’ Shannon said, but his manner was insolent.

  They arrived at Simpsons and it was, as Kingsley had expected, very crowded. Nonetheless he strode straight up to the maitre d’ and, addressing him by his name, loudly demanded a table.

  ‘I am shortly to depart again for France, Ridley, and wish to dine once more at my favourite watering hole. Come now, I’m sure you can find room for us.’

  The maitre d’ did not recognize Kingsley though he clearly felt he should have done, and he ushered them immediately to a booth.

  ‘We always try to accommodate our brave officers, sir,’ the maitre d’ assured them, ‘especially such distinguished ones.’

  Both Shannon and Cumming wore impressive medal ribbons and whoever had organized Kingsley’s uniform had seen fit to invest him with a DSO.

  ‘Capital choice,’ Shannon said as the three of them settled into a booth. ‘Do you know, I think the reason we chaps like Simpsons so much is because it serves very posh school dinners. Two four six eight. Bog in. Don’t wait!’

  He grabbed a bread roll and pushed almost all of the butter into it.

  Both soldiers ordered beef cut rare from the big joint that was brought to them on a trolley but Kingsley had a piece of fish. He was by no means a vegetarian but after the sights he had just seen at Charing Cross Station he had temporarily lost his appetite for red meat. The wine, however, he was grateful for, as clearly was Shannon, who drained his first glass in a single gulp.

  ‘Of course the war’s playing absolute merry hell with the French wine industry,’ Shannon observed. ‘God knows what rubbish we’ll all be drinking in ten years’ time. Not that most of us will be around to try it, of course. Not anyone worth serving a decent vintage to, anyway. Rather a pleasing thought that, when all the sound, brave chaps are dead and only the cowards, smug old men and shitty conchies remain, at least they’ll only have war vintages to drink.’

  Kingsley drank his wine and ate his fish in silence. He was thinking about the mission they wanted him to perform. He had been thinking about it all the way alo
ng the Strand.

  ‘Sir Mansfield tells me that you have been to France and spoken with the relevant witnesses in the Abercrombie case, Captain Shannon,’ he said finally.

  ‘Briefly, yes.’

  ‘Sir Mansfield mentioned a nurse.’

  ‘Yes, Nurse Murray. The last person apart from the killer to see Abercrombie alive,’ Shannon replied. ‘Very sweet girl, very, very sweet.’

  The man’s voice made Kingsley’s skin crawl. He thought once more of sixteen-year-old Violet on Folkestone beach.

  ‘Did you manage to apply your rule?’ Kingsley asked coldly.

  ‘Rule? What rule?’ Cumming enquired through his roast beef,’ Yorkshire pudding and tobacco smoke.

  Shannon smiled the most charming of smiles.

  ‘Oh, just something Kingsley and I have been discussing, sir. A matter of no consequence. But yes, as it happens, Inspector, I did probe the witness most thoroughly. I felt it my duty to do so. ‘Shannon let this hang in the air for a moment before adding, ‘And she told me that she saw an officer hurrying from Abercrombie’s room but she did not see his face or his rank.’

  ‘How did she know he was an officer?’

  ‘Cap and boots. We don’t issue riding clobber to privates, they get canvas leggings.’

  ‘What about the other witness to this mysterious officer?’

  ‘McCroon?’

  ‘Yes. Did he get any more detail?’

  ‘Sadly not. Again he caught only a fleeting glimpse. The château is a large one, a sort of stately home, lot of corridors, lot of shadows.’

  Once more Kingsley took out his notebook.

  ‘Were McCroon and the nurse together when they made their sighting?’

  Shannon drew heavily on his gasper and lit a second one from its glowing end.

  ‘No. In different parts of the same corridor, which turns a number of corners and contains numerous wards. Nurse Murray saw the figure leave Abercrombie’s room as she emerged from Hopkins’s ward, which is next door to it. She saw him hurry off in the opposite direction to her. McCroon was further along the same corridor, in a different ward, and says he had left it to relieve himself. He claims that the mysterious officer pushed past him and hurried on in front.’