The Dead Can Wait (16 page)

‘We don’t normally dine here,’ said Swinton, changing the subject, ‘but we like to show off the place from time to time.’

That
, thought Watson,
or he doesn’t want me mixing with the junior officers
.

‘I am afraid his lordship took his cooks and most of his staff with him when he decamped to London,’ Swinton continued, ‘so we fend for ourselves somewhat. Drink?’

‘A Scotch?’ Watson suggested.

A white-jacketed orderly detached himself from the shadow of a pillar and fetched him a drink. Fending for yourself was all relative, Watson supposed.

‘There you are,’ the orderly said. ‘With just a splash of water, as you like it, sir.’

Watson looked at the man: fifties, greying hair forced back from a widow’s peak and sparkling eyes that suggested life was a huge joke. ‘Wright? Billy Wright?’

‘Sir. Late of the Army and Navy Club, now mixing drinks at the Elveden Explosive Area until further notice.’

Watson took the drink. ‘It’s good to see a familiar face.’

Wright gave a cheeky wink in reply.

‘That’s the official name, by the way,’ said Swinton, from over his shoulder. ‘The Explosives Area. Anyone asks, it’s a munitions testing site. You know the story of this place? Elveden?’

Watson turned. ‘I’ve heard of it. I know it was owned by a mahara-jah.’ He looked around. ‘I had no idea he had brought India with him.’

‘Punjab, actually,’ corrected Booth.

‘My Uncle Walter fought in that war,’ offered Thwaites. ‘Second Anglo-Sikh. Seventy-odd years ago now. He’s still alive. Almost a hundred.’

Swinton said: ‘The maharajah was a boy king, just eleven years of age, when we won the Punjab.’

‘Or, as we say in my country,
stole
the Punjab,’ said Levass, his voice full of singsong mischief.

Thwaites glared at him. ‘I think the nation that gave us Napoleon should be careful about accusing others of land-grabbing.’ He turned to Watson for support. ‘Don’t you, Major? Eh?’

‘Gentlemen,’ chided Swinton, as if addressing squabbling children. ‘As part of the reparations, we requested the Koh-I-Noor diamond.’

Levass gave a hoot. ‘Requested? Demanded, I think. Your Lord Dalhousie smuggled it back under his shirt, as I recall. And brought the boy to England to present it as a gift to Queen Victoria,’ he said with an admiring laugh. ‘So clever. If anyone ever wants it back, you can just say, “But it was a gift.”’

Watson knew some details of the story. The maharajah went on to become a great society figure, friend of the Prince of Wales, and a legendary shot.

‘Didn’t the maharajah fall from grace by trying to take back his lands?’ Watson asked.

‘Yes. Fell in with the Fenian Brotherhood and the Russians. Died a broken man in Paris,’ said Thwaites.

‘I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him,’ added Swinton. ‘There’s a fair number of swarthy boys and girls in this part of the world, some with the middle name Singh. He had a soft spot for a chambermaid, did the maharajah. Married one in the end. After his first wife died.’

‘I painted his son. Frederick. Prince Freddy.’ It was Solomon, speaking in a low monotone. ‘Not in this house. He was forced to sell this when his father died. It was at Blo Norton Hall, his house not far from here. He’s in France now, with the Norfolk Yeomanry. I saw him when I was gathering colour palettes.’

Palettes?
Now Watson had him and the reason for those dabs of faded colour on his hands. ‘Sorry, sir, but you’re Solomon J. Solomon? The artist?’

The man nodded and gave a pleased half-smile.

‘Holmes sat for you, didn’t he?’

‘Some time ago now.’ The painter nodded. ‘I think he was displeased with the results.’

‘Holmes? Oh, no. Don’t be fooled by any bluster. He wouldn’t have wanted to seem vain. But he certainly wasn’t unhappy with it.’ It was a portrait of the detective leaning against the mantelpiece in 221B, his chin thrust out, his brow furrowed, a pipe frozen on the way to his lips. It was so dramatic, you could almost hear that great mind turning over a two- or three-pipe problem. ‘It used to have pride of place in Baker Street.’

‘And now?’ Solomon asked.

Watson wasn’t sure what had become of the portrait. ‘Storage,’ he said diplomatically, ‘until a suitable place is found to rehang it.’

‘And what of Mr Holmes?’ Solomon asked.

Watson looked around, wondering if anyone in the room knew of his fate. Was this apparently convivial company of men part of the conspiracy that had stolen his friend away? But all simply waited for his answer. ‘Retired,’ said Watson curtly. ‘And you, sir?’

‘Ah. I am a mere housepainter now.’ Solomon turned to Swinton. ‘As one of your officers reminded me today.’

‘Just for the duration,’ said Levass, emptying a sachet of powder into a glass of tonic. ‘For my gout,’ the Frenchman explained when he saw Watson’s professional curiosity was aroused. ‘Bicarbonate of soda.’

‘To neutralize the acid in the blood,’ Watson said. He had never suffered himself, but had seen many patients in agony down the years from swollen joints and skin so sensitive a feather across it could generate intense agony. ‘The Greeks, by the way, swear by cherry juice.’

‘Do they?’ asked Levass as he downed the solution and shuddered. ‘It has to taste better than this.’

‘And I have had good results with cider vinegar.’

Levass nodded. ‘Really? I am much obliged, Major.’

‘Although the taste is sometimes worse than the gout.’

A gong sounded, rippling through the house, reflecting sonorously off the marble and the domed ceilings.

‘Ah,’ said Swinton. ‘Dinner. And time to talk business.’

Dinner was served in a rather splendid oak-panelled room in the ‘new wing’, lined with portraits of Anglo-Irish aristocrats and with none of the more elaborate Indian motifs of the hallways and drawing room, although subtle reminders of the sub-continent remained here and there, like the Sanskrit letters on the ceiling mouldings. There were silver platters, gleaming cutlery, crested plates, crystal goblets and decent wine, but the food was standard mess fare.

Swinton explained: ‘There is an officers’ mess we usually dine in, above Lord Iveagh’s stables, closer to the, um, main training area. But I thought we’d break you in gently.’

Or sound me out first,
thought Watson.

‘But this is the inner corps of Operation Puddleduck, give or take a couple of engineer chaps.’

‘Puddleduck?’ Watson couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice. The most secret project in Great Britain was called Puddleduck?

‘Well, strictly speaking, that’s just this part of the enterprise. Elveden.’ Swinton looked slightly flustered, as if someone had been reading his diary. ‘Only a silly name.’

Watson wondered just what Beatrix Potter might think about helping to name the most secret project in the British Isles.

‘So, what do you make of him?’ asked Swinton. ‘Hitchcock?’

‘Sorry I’m late.’ A new arrival came in, breathless, a jug-eared young man with a gaunt, worried expression, dressed in crumpled civilian clothes. He had in his hands what looked to be a rag. From the scuffed toes of his boots, the grease-spiked hair and his reddened knuckles, Watson concluded the man was a mechanic of some description.

‘And I can’t stop. I just wanted to say hello to Major Watson. The name’s Cardew. I’m one of the engineers on the project.’

Something more than a mere mechanic then,
Watson chided himself as he stood to shake the young chap’s hand. Cardew demurred.

‘Sorry, grease all over it. Came straight from the workshop. The other sponsons have arrived, you see,’ he said by way of explanation, the excitement in his voice palpable. ‘So we can start fitting them to the main bodies. I am afraid it is going to be a late night. I just wanted to say welcome and hope we can get to the bottom of this terrible business.’

‘As do I. But what’s a sponson?’ Watson asked, although he knew vaguely what the term referred to on a ship. But they were a long way from the sea.

Cardew looked enquiringly at Swinton, who said, ‘All in good time, Major.’

‘Yes. Well, back to work. I shall see you tomorrow?’

‘I hope so. Perhaps you can tell me what a sponson is then.’

‘Better than that. I’ll show you one.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ snapped Booth.

After Cardew had gone, Thwaites said: ‘He’s a keen chap. It takes hours to fit those damn things.’

Swinton was eager to get back to business. ‘You were giving your opinion about Hitchcock.’

Watson leaned back as his soup plate was cleared. ‘I don’t quite understand my role in this. As I asked Churchill before – physician or detective?’

‘Well, originally we wanted—’ began Thwaites, before Swinton glared him into silence.

‘I understand. You wanted Holmes, who then would have brought me on board. He for his powers of observation; me for my medical background in shell shock.’

‘Something like that,’ admitted Swinton. ‘I’m sorry, that’s not to demean your experience in deduction—’

Watson raised a hand to stop him. ‘No need to apologize. It is an interesting case but it is difficult to assess Hitchcock properly on that one meeting when he has uttered not a word. True, the malaise has elements of what we used to call shell shock, but has some peculiar traits of its own. I have a few ideas. Is there a piano in the house?’

‘Piano?’ asked Thwaites, thinking Watson was suggesting after-dinner entertainment. ‘Do you play?’

‘It’s not for me. According to his file, in his previous life it was a pastime of Hitchcock’s. It might help him. A non-verbal therapy.’

‘There’s one in the music room,’ said Solomon. ‘I have played it a little. Quite serviceable. Needs a tune, perhaps.’

‘And, if we can get him some spectacles tinted against the light, I want to take him for walks.’ So-called ‘browned’ lenses were commonly prescribed for syphilis sufferers, as light sensitivity was a symptom, so they weren’t difficult to source.

‘In the gardens only,’ suggested Booth. ‘Not the greater estate. Bit of a flap on beyond the walls. You are liable to get challenged rather robustly. Or worse.’

Watson nodded his agreement. ‘And he needs a woman’s company.’

Solomon burst out laughing. ‘God Almighty, he’ll have to join the queue.’

Levass flashed a quick grin. ‘I suspect that is not what the major means.’

Watson nodded his thanks. ‘Shell shock or whatever term you prefer to use is often perceived as a failure of masculinity. Women, after all, get the vapours and hysteria. Men just carry on. Until they don’t. I have had great success introducing women to the environment of the patient. Mothers, sisters, sweethearts . . .’

‘Out of the question,’ said Booth, with a querying look at Swinton, who nodded his agreement. ‘I can’t allow it on security grounds.’

‘But there are women here?’ Watson asked.

‘Housekeeper, a couple of maids,’ said Swinton.

‘And a nurse, I believe.’

Swinton nodded. ‘Indeed. You are well informed, Major.’ There was a hint of suspicion in his voice.

‘I thought I detected the whiff of ether in the hallway.’

Solomon, at least, smiled at the poor joke.

‘I also need to see the scene of, um, the crime, as soon as possible.’

‘We aren’t certain there has
been
a crime,’ said Booth. ‘Our rule is, despite what Cardew has promised, that as few outsiders as possible see what we are working on.’

Watson turned to Swinton, exasperated. ‘Then I am wasting my time.’

‘Why is that?’ asked Thwaites.

‘If this were a murder scene . . .’

He let that hang there for a moment. They would know that he was aware that Hitchcock had seven dead comrades.

‘It is no such thing,’ said Swinton eventually.

Watson took his time gathering his thoughts. ‘Seven men dead. One survives.’

‘As a loony,’ said Thwaites.

Watson let his distaste at the word show. ‘If you take things at face value.’

It took a moment for that to sink in. ‘Are you saying that Hitchcock engineered this whole catastrophe? And could be playacting?’ asked Swinton. ‘You told us he was shell-shocked.’

‘And I believe he is. But was that perhaps not a side effect of his undertaking? He was one of eight men in the same environment. Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ said Swinton cautiously. ‘The same confined space.’

‘Seven die, one doesn’t. You don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know where that is pointing.’

Really, Watson, you know I would never leap to such conclusions.

Watson smiled to himself at that familiar, if unreliable, voice in his head. His aim was not to jump to conclusions but to unsettle, to gain the upper hand. Yet he wasn’t being entirely disingenuous. It was possible that Hitchcock could be a murderer. It was equally possible that he inadvertently started a chain of events that killed seven men.

‘You think Hitchcock—’ began Thwaites.

‘I suppose nothing,’ Watson interrupted. ‘But if it were a murder scene, then I would ask to see the murder weapon. To examine it in detail. Something drove this man into catatonia. I believe it is a genuine condition. Not’ – he wagged a finger – ‘a form of malingering. But how did it come about? I need to know what and where this event took place. I need to see with my very own eyes. Churchill understood that.’ He detected a little shiver of displeasure around the table at the mention of the name.

The next course, a shrimp mousse garnished with oysters, was placed before him.

‘The others didn’t object to not seeing the actual site of the incident,’ said Booth.

‘What others?’

‘The unit’s MO, Captain Trenton, was one of the victims. So we rather reluctantly brought two outside medical men in to examine the bodies, and Hitchcock,’ said Swinton. ‘One civilian doctor from Norwich, one army. We didn’t let them beyond the house, of course.’

‘Their conclusions?’ Watson asked.

‘Bafflement,’ admitted Thwaites. ‘And so we turned to you.’

‘Well, Churchill did. Quite how he knew of our predicament I’ll never know,’ said Swinton, ‘but he said he had just the men for the job.’