A Study in Murder (32 page)

The curtain switched back and Harry’s face appeared. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Major Watson, the commandant sends his compliments. Your transport is here. Whenever you are ready . .
.’

‘I shall be a while longer. I need time . . .’

Harry shrugged. ‘You don’t want it leaving without you, Major.’

‘Thank you, Harry.’ Watson turned to Peacock once the face at the curtain had disappeared. ‘Will you consider what I have said?’

Peacock nodded but it wasn’t convincing. ‘But thank you for your concern.’

‘One thing before you go. You said earlier that you had signed the papers. What papers? An IOU?’

‘No,’ said Peacock breezily. ‘Just a new will, in case anything should go wrong. To make sure all the monies due are paid no matter what happens to me.’

When Peacock had departed Watson put his head into his hands. His cranium felt like it might burst, such was the pandemonium of conflicting voices and images within it. Then, one clear, incisive
articulation elbowed its way to the fore.

A new will, Watson? A new will? I don’t have to tell you what an instrument for infamy a new will can be. Mark my words, some of these men have found a way to make others’ lust
for freedom pay. And pay handsomely. All you need now is to know who is perpetrating this monstrosity. And how.

He thought on those two ponderables for a few minutes before he roused himself and searched the drawers and the cupboard in the room. Tucked away at the rear of the latter he found what he was
looking for, a number 22 scalpel from Dräger.

One of Mycroft’s contacts from The Hague was waiting for them in Venlo. His name was Victor Farleigh and he had an avuncular chumminess that Mrs Gregson suspected, as was
so often the case with the intelligence community, hid a core of steel. Farleigh watched with some bemusement as they shackled Miss Pillbody to the bed in one of the rooms of the house he had
rented for them to the north of the city.

‘Is that entirely necessary?’ he asked.

Miss Pillbody gave him a wry smile in return.

‘It is,’ said Mrs Gregson once she was certain the locks and links were secure. It was arranged that she had some power of movement, the chain to her right hand being a decent
length, but unless she took the bed with her, she was going nowhere. ‘England is littered with the corpses of those who took Miss Pillbody, Ilse Brandt, at face value.’

‘Do you think we could have a moment, Mrs Gregson?’ Miss Pillbody asked. ‘I need to talk about . . . women’s matters.’

‘What sort of women’s matters?’

‘The sort that men don’t want to hear about.’

She looked at the other three. ‘Buller, can you wait outside? With your gun at the ready? Robert, perhaps you’ll put some coffee on downstairs for Mr Farleigh. I’m sure I
won’t be long.’

When the three had left, Mrs Gregson turned to Miss Pillbody. ‘Yes?’

‘Does it not offend you to see me like this?’ She rattled her chains. ‘Pinned like an animal?’

‘You forget, I saw your handiwork in Suffolk. I saw what you did to poor Mr Coyle.’ Coyle had been an MI5 man who had unearthed Miss Pillbody’s secret – that she was not
an innocent schoolma’am but a German spy – and had paid for his life with it.

‘I don’t forget any such thing. It’s a war, Mrs Gregson. I fought it in my own way. Do you not think there is a British equivalent of me deep in Germany at this very moment?
Plotting to kill my countrymen and women? It’s the way wars will be fought in future. It is no different to the trenches that you know so well. I wish to be treated with respect, particularly
as I am . . . due.’

‘Due?’

‘Due. Do I have to paint you a picture? In red?’

‘Ah. I see.’

‘I wondered if you could get me some Hartmann’s or something similar. I am sure Dutch women have the same, um, issues.’

‘I will see what I can do,’ Mrs Gregson said.

‘Thank you.’ Miss Pillbody hesitated for a moment. ‘It was nothing personal, you know, those men. In Suffolk.’

‘Are you saying you didn’t enjoy it?’

‘I am. I felt nothing.’

‘That could be even worse.’

‘In the same way I won’t feel anything if I have to kill you.’ This came with a smile bordering on the angelic.

Mrs Gregson returned her gaze. There was no connection she could feel, no sympathy for another human being. Just an emptiness inside that disturbed her. ‘And I don’t think I would
feel anything if I had to do the same to you,’ she said.

Miss Pillbody gave a firm nod. ‘Then we know where we both stand.’

‘I’ll see about the pads,’ Mrs Gregson said. ‘Wouldn’t want you ruining a perfectly decent VAD uniform.’

She left, half-expecting to feel the steel of sharp daggers in her back, and sent Buller into the room with instructions to keep his distance and his weapon at the ready.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled of coffee and Farleigh’s pungent Dutch cigarillos.

‘All all right?’ Nathan asked.

‘Yes. I might have to find a chemist is all.’

‘We were just saying, Mycroft is obviously concerned for his brother,’ Farleigh began.

‘Is he here?’ she asked. ‘In Holland.’

‘No.’

‘Not that concerned then.’

Farleigh sounded offended. ‘Fieldwork is hardly Mycroft’s forte. He has mustered considerable resources to track down Sherlock.’

‘I assume all hotels, guesthouses and so on have been checked?’ asked Nathan.

‘Twice over. Especially in the vicinity of the bridge. I fear we can do nothing but keep an eye on that and try to intercept Holmes before he crosses. Without alarming the Dutch who, of
course, want no part of this.’

‘We think we might have been followed. From the port. A Ford. Any ideas?’ asked Nathan.

Farleigh shook his head. ‘I’ll have a scout around.’

Mrs Gregson poured and handed out the treacly coffee. ‘Has there been much activity around the bridge?’

‘On the German side, yes. There appears to be some sort of moving picture outfit involved.’

Nathan and Mrs Gregson exchanged glances.

‘What is it?’ Farleigh asked.

‘Just that Mrs Gregson here used moving pictures to facilitate Miss Pillbody’s escape from Holloway.’

‘Escape? Really? You mean she wasn’t released through the usual channels?’

‘There are no usual channels for what we are doing, Mr Farleigh,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘And besides, time was of the essence. Official channels are not renowned for their speed of
action. So we used a little sleight of hand.’

‘Well, I am not sure the German cameras are up to any tricks. They moved the equipment around quite openly when I was observing. Perhaps you should take a look for yourself.’

‘Perhaps we should,’ said Nathan. ‘You’ll come with us?’

Farleigh shook his head. ‘Best if you take the car and drive past slowly, a married couple out for some air. I’ll stay here and finish my coffee. When you get back we can discuss the
fine details.’

‘Did you see any lights?’ asked Mrs Gregson.

‘Lights?’

‘For cameras. There’d be rather a lot of them.’ Farleigh shook his head. ‘Why?’

She drained her coffee. ‘Let’s go and take a look, Robert.’

‘Of course. I’ll just go and check Miss Pillbody is on a very short leash.’

‘Good idea.’

After days of imagining the crossing, Mrs Gregson was disappointed by the sight of the bridge and the river beneath it. In her mind it had been something equivalent to the
Forth Railway crossing, a span of fearsome grandeur. In truth it was more a pedestrian bridge, wide enough for a large motor or a small lorry to cross, but only one at a time: a single lane into
and out of Germany. The river, too, was wide and brown and sluggish and had been dredged and widened, so it looked more like a giant man-made canal than one of Europe’s major waterways. There
were strings of barges being towed by tugboats but also quite large coastal steamers that, thanks to the vagaries of the border, were crossing from Dutch waters into German and back into Dutch
sovereignty again. It was clearly too complex to try to institute border controls in mid-stream.

‘Can you stop the car?’ she asked Nathan as they approached the still-folded bridge. ‘I can’t really see what is happening over there.’

Nathan pulled over and she got out. She stretched a little, like a cat confined in a cramped space too long, and strolled towards the crossing. The horizon was huge, like East Anglia, she
thought, or the view out from the Essex marshes. The sky was mostly lumpy and grey, with dark bruises here and there that threatened rain.

She gazed over the sludge-coloured river, which looked toxic to her. On the far side there were small clumps of people – soldiers guarding a striped pole, a truck with the words UVF
painted on the panelled sides, and a cluster of civilians near it. She stepped out onto the wooden boards, careful to keep her skirt down with one hand as the wind tugged at her clothing, the other
planted firmly on her hat.

Where are you, John Watson? she wondered. Are you here yet, perhaps a few miles away, waiting for the crossing? Do you know what they have in store for you? If not, how much of a shock will it
be to see Holmes striding towards you? And how heartbreaking for that reunion to be so fleeting, as each man continues on his way.

No, she couldn’t let that happen. They had to find Holmes before that moment and stop him. She and Nathan had discussed how and they had agreed that, if need be, they would incapacitate
Holmes with a shot to the leg. Risky, but she had tended many bullet wounds in her time. It was only to be used
in extremis
, but there was no alternative she could think of.

She looked down at a small rowing boat making its way upstream with two young men putting their backs into it. Of course, Holmes might get across some way other than the bridge and circumvent
the whole business. But something told her he would stick to the procedure. That he might even enjoy a touch of showmanship. The Holmes in Watson’s stories certainly did, although, as she had
discovered very slowly, the man on the page and the man in the flesh didn’t always entirely match up.

‘
Wat doe je daar?
’ asked a harsh, guttural voice from behind. She turned to see an elderly worker in blue serge jacket and cap. He waved at her with his pipe stem.
‘
Het is privé-eigendom.
’

Her Dutch wasn’t up to much, but she assumed he was telling her it was private property. The man pointed to a sign high on one of the girders.
Privé
. Close enough to English
to be pretty clear, she thought. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t see that.’

The man grunted and stepped aside, indicating she should get off. She was aware of eyes on her from the far bank and when she turned a German – or so she assumed – in a long woollen
coat was inspecting her. He raised field glasses to his eyes and she turned her back to him, the hairs on her neck prickling under this distant examination.

She hurried back to the car and told Nathan to drive off. ‘Who was that?’ he asked as he turned the vehicle around.

‘The bridge man, I think. But I could see no sign of German lights, at least not big ones.’

‘Meaning?’

Mrs Gregson took off her hat and ran fingers through her tangled hair. ‘Why would they want to film this event?’

Nathan considered. ‘To gloat.’

‘Propaganda, yes. Which means they’ll want good, clear shots. Those cameras need very, very bright lights or daylight. So if they haven’t got artificial ones, they’ll
wait for sunrise.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The handover will be after eight o’clock, which is when it gets light at this time of year.’

‘I see.’

‘I could be wrong, but I wouldn’t expect them to appear with John much before eight fifteen.’

‘All right,’ said Nathan. ‘But we’ll ask Farleigh to post a night-watchman just in case.’

‘Good idea. And we should be in place with Miss Pillbody by seven tomorrow. And every day until it happens.’

‘Agreed.’

Feeling more settled now there was some sort of timetable in place, Mrs Gregson kept silent until they had retraced their steps to the house.

‘Robert . . .’ she said as they got out of the car.

‘Yes?’

‘I know I have said it before. But I do think you are a sweetheart for . . . well, not every man would do this for me.’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ said Nathan wryly. ‘But you are very welcome. And I hope you will reconsider that dinner when we are all safely back home.’

Where would be the harm? she thought as she pushed open the door that led to the kitchen. She could let him down gently then. ‘Of course. Oh, damn.’

‘What is it?’

‘I forgot to go to the chemist. Oh well, I’ll just boil up some rags for her. Shall I put some more coffee on? It might be a long night. Mr Farleigh? Mr Farleigh?’

Nathan put a hand on her shoulder to quieten her. He had his Webley self-loader in the other. The kitchen was empty, although Farleigh’s chair had been knocked over onto the tiled floor.
Some of the coffee had been carelessly slopped on the table.

Perhaps it was Holmes, she thought. He must be lurking around here somewhere. It was entirely possible he would try to thwart them so he could continue with his own agenda. He might have
outwitted them once more. She uttered a small curse under her breath, or so she thought.

‘Shush. Wait here,’ hissed Nathan.

As he moved softly over to the hallway and stairs, Mrs Gregson crossed to the dresser, opened the knife drawer and selected a long boning blade. And then it hit her; the memory of another
cottage in Suffolk, when Miss Pillbody had been unmasked as a Sie Wölfe, and the little surprise she had left for them, secreted under the body of poor Coyle. A booby trap. She could easily
have done something similar here.

‘Nathan!’ she shouted. ‘Be careful. There might be—’

But he was standing in the doorway, the colour gone from his face.

‘Nathan?’

‘Don’t go up there,’ he said, an uncharacteristic tremor in his voice.

As if a mental transference had taken place she could see the scene – the empty shackles, the slumped bodies. The smears of menstrual blood on sheets that Miss Pillbody would have used to
alarm her captors and lure them in. ‘They’re dead, aren’t they?’