Blackstone and the Great War (15 page)

‘Bugger it!' he said – and wondered if he could reach his cigarettes.

Five minutes had passed since the attacker had fled. For the first two minutes, Blackstone had lain where he had fallen, massaging his ankle. For the next two, he walked cautiously up and down the room, ignoring the pain and ordering the ankle to behave itself.

On the fifth minute he lit the oil lamp, and got his first look at the weapon which the attacker had been carrying. It was a tent mallet, heavy enough to drive metal stakes into frozen ground, and therefore more than adequate for the task of rendering him dead.

If the intruder had stayed – instead of running – there was every chance he would have prevailed in their struggle, Blackstone told himself.

An East End bully-boy, used to this kind of fighting, would have known that instinctively, but this man was not a professional thug, and so had lost his head at the first signs that things were not going exactly to plan.

Blackstone continued to walk up and down the room. He would have a slight limp in the morning, he guessed, but – with any luck – he should hardly be noticing his ankle by the afternoon.

‘They wanted you out of action, Sam, which means you must be getting somewhere in this case, even if you don't realize it yourself,' he said, as he hobbled. ‘That's good. That's
very
good.'

He paused for a second.

‘But I wish they'd found some other way to send you that message, because, really, Sam, you're getting too old for this kind of thing,' he continued.

He was talking to himself again, he noted – but after what had just happened, a padded cell was starting to sound like an appealing prospect.

TWELVE

T
he train was slow – very, very slow – and the driver – for some perverse reason of his own – had insisted on stopping at every little country station en route, so that by the time it finally pulled into Hadley Compton, Archie Patterson had almost given up hope of ever reaching his destination.

Yet as annoying as the train had been, he watched it pull out of the station with some regret. It was, after all, his only real link to civilization, and seeing it go was suddenly like saying goodbye to an old and trusted friend.

There was only one other person on the platform – a porter with sleepy eyes and a ragged moustache.

‘Where can I get a taxi?' Patterson asked him, speaking slowly, since he believed that was what you had to do, if you wished these country people to understand you.

‘A taxi?' the porter repeated, as incredulously as if Patterson had just requested a blue and pink spotted elephant which was fluent in French. ‘Whatever would youm want a taxi for?'

‘I want to go somewhere,' Patterson said patiently.

‘Where?'

‘Hartley Manor.'

‘That be no more than a mile from here,' the porter told him. ‘Youm can walk it easy.'

‘I'd prefer to take a cab,' Patterson said firmly.

‘Ned Tottington's got a taxi,' the porter said. ‘Him don't use it much, on account of him can't see too good – but him got one.'

‘And where can I find Mr Tottington?'

‘Siddington Derby.'

Patterson sighed. ‘I'm afraid I don't know what you mean by that.'

‘Him live in Siddington Derby,' the porter said, pointing vaguely out of the station. ‘It be five miles that way.'

‘And how do I get there?' Patterson asked. ‘No, don't tell me, let me guess – I have to walk.'

‘That's right,' the porter agreed.

Patterson left the station, and found himself plunged into a perfect bucolic scene. Birds were singing in the trees which lined the lane, with what seemed to him to be excessive cheerfulness. Cows stood munching away with slow contentment, in fields of unbelievably green grass. Insects chirped, butterflies fluttered, and bees buzzed – and it all made Patterson feel slightly uneasy.

The pace of the countryside was altogether too leisurely for his liking – he found the purity of the air unnatural, and the softness of the sounds grating. He had only been away from London for a couple of hours, but already he was yearning for the hustle and bustle and the soot-clogged atmosphere. And though he considered himself a fair-minded man – one who could see all sides of the question – he was finding it hard to imagine why
anybody
would choose of their own free will to live anywhere but in the big city.

He walked on, glancing over his shoulder occasionally for any signs of homicidal yokels wielding pitchforks or wild snorting bulls bent on his destruction. The railway porter's idea of a mile seemed to be greatly at variance with his own, he realized, and it was three-quarters of an hour before he reached the ornamental gates of Hartley Manor.

‘Bloody countryside!' he said to himself, in disgust.

This wasn't the easiest job Sam had ever given him, he thought, as he approached the manor. For a start, General Fortesque probably wouldn't like the fact that he was there under what – strictly speaking – could be called false pretences. Nor would he care for some of the questions that needed to be put to him.

So whatever way he looked at it, the whole business could turn out to be distinctly sticky.

‘You'll cope all right, Archie,' he told himself cheerfully. ‘You're a jolly fat man – and everybody
always
trusts a jolly fat man, don't they?'

Once the butler had gone into the study to announce his arrival, Patterson took the opportunity to examine himself in the full-length mirror in the corridor, as he supposed everyone waiting there must do.

If the face grinning back at him was anything to go by, he was not displeased by what he saw. So perhaps he
was
a little too heavy, he thought, but his clothes fitted his rotund shape perfectly, and if he were inconsiderate enough to lose any weight, it would mean his poor wife staying up, night after night, altering them. Besides, losing weight would probably involve exercise, and while it was all very well for people to say – as they often did – that exercise never harmed anyone, his aching feet were witness to the fact that that was patently untrue.

The butler reappeared in the doorway.

‘The General will see you now,' he said, before turning again and announcing – in a most unconvinced voice – ‘Chief Superintendent Archibald Patterson.'

Patterson stepped into the study, and caught his first sight of the General.

The old man was sitting in a bath chair, and a heavy blanket covered his knees. He was frail – very frail – and though he was still clinging on to life, it seemed as if he was only doing it by his fingertips.

‘Yes, it is almost a miracle that I'm still breathing,' the General said, reading Patterson's expression. ‘Please be seated.'

‘It's very kind of you to spare me the time,' Patterson said, taking the proffered seat.

The General's eyes scanned his visitor with a critical eye.

‘I was expecting to be receiving a chief superintendent,' he said, ‘and to be perfectly honest with you, you don't look like one.'

‘That's because I'm not,' Patterson admitted. ‘I'm
Sergeant
Patterson, Sam Blackstone's assistant.'

‘Then why did you lie about your rank over the phone?'

‘I did it to cut through the red tape. From what Sam's told me about you, I didn't think you'd mind.'

‘And if I
do
mind? What if I inform your superiors of the deception?'

‘Then you'd be landing me – and also a sweet young police telephonist called Victoria – in a great deal of trouble.'

‘I should be sorry about the girl – but whatever happened to her would really be
your
fault,' the General said.

‘Of course, we both know you're
not
going to inform my superiors, don't we?' Patterson asked.

‘Do we? And why is that?'

‘Because if I'm in trouble, I can't help Sam any more. And without my help, it's more than likely that his investigation into your grandson's death will grind to a halt.'

‘You have a great deal of self-confidence – and not a little nerve,' Fortesque said.

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Don't assume I was handing you a compliment,' the General told him. ‘You said on the telephone – in your role as
Chief Superintendent
Patterson – that you wished to ask me some questions.'

‘I do,' Patterson agreed, ‘but before we get on to them, I'd like to ask you if you'll give your permission for your grandson's body to be examined by the police surgeon.'

The General's eyes watered.

‘That's not possible,' he said mournfully.

Well, it was never going to be easy to get him to agree to something like that, Patterson thought.

‘I can assure you that the body would be treated with the utmost respect,' he ploughed on, ‘and that the examination might well provide us with a valuable clue to your grandson's murderer.'

‘I've no doubt his body would be treated with respect,' the General replied. ‘Sam Blackstone would make certain of that – but it's still not possible, because I don't
have
my grandson's remains.'

‘But I was led to believe that he had been shipped back to England for interment in the family vault.'

‘Yes, that was certainly the intention. But the coffin never got here. The last time its presence was officially on record, it was in Calais – and no one knows where it is now.'

‘But that's awful!' Patterson said.

‘It's devastating,' Fortesque corrected him. ‘Devastating – but not entirely surprising. I have fought in more wars than I care to remember, and in all of them I have seen calm military order on the surface – and chaos beneath it. And where there is chaos, things go wrong.'

‘Is there any chance the coffin will eventually turn up?'

‘I have asked the army commander in Calais to do all he can to find the poor boy, but I do not have high expectations of success.' The General took a wheezing breath. ‘You said you had some questions you wanted to put to me.'

‘Yes, sir. I'd like to ask you about three of your grandson's friends – Lieutenants Soames, Hatfield and Maude.'

For a few moments the old man was silent, then he said, ‘I am correct in assuming that you're not merely Sam Blackstone's assistant, but his right-hand man – someone he relies on completely?'

Patterson shrugged his beefy shoulders. ‘That's what he tells me.'

‘In that case, he must see a great deal in you which is not apparent to the naked eye,' the General said.

Patterson grinned. ‘I'm being tested, aren't I?'

‘Are you?' Fortesque asked, non-committally.

‘I think so. I've just asked a question about a charmed circle to which you belong – and I so obviously don't – and that rang alarm bells.'

‘Go on,' Fortesque encouraged.

‘It's not the done thing for someone like you to talk about your own class to anyone who is not a member of it. In fact, it's tantamount to being an act of treason, and you'd never normally even consider it. However, these are
not
normal circumstances, so you're prepared to make an exception – but first you need to make sure I'm worthy of your trust. Hence the test.'

‘Let us say you're right, and it is a test,' the General conceded. ‘What do you think would be the correct way for you to respond to my comment?'

‘To your
insult
, you mean,' Patterson corrected him. ‘It was more of an insult than a comment, wasn't it?'

‘To my insult, then,' the General agreed.

‘There isn't
one
correct way to respond,' Patterson said, ‘but there are several incorrect ways. If, for example, I stormed out, I would clearly not be the kind of person you wished to confide in. Equally, if I pretended not to notice – or even worse, accepted the insult in good part – you would have no confidence in me at all.'

The General smiled weakly. ‘Good,' he said. ‘Now tell me more about Sam Blackstone.'

‘Is this still part of the test?'

‘You know it is.'

‘I admire him more than any other man I've ever met,' Patterson said seriously. ‘He's got more brains than the whole of the Yard's top brass combined. He's loyal, fair-minded and fearless.'

‘And if he'd been born into a more privileged position in society – as I was, and the three lieutenants were – he would have been prime minister by now?' the General suggested.

‘No,' Patterson said. ‘There'd have been no chance of that.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because Sam does what he thinks is right, and if other people choose to follow his lead, that's fine with him. But if they don't choose to follow, he doesn't give a hang. And that's not the kind of attitude which will help you towards becoming a prime minister – or a general, for that matter.'

Fortesque nodded. ‘You've almost convinced me of your suitability. Just tell me one more thing about him which shows that you're as good a judge of character as I am, and I think I'll be able to trust you.'

‘I'm more than content with my life,' Patterson said. ‘I've got my skinny little wife and my three chubby little kids, and that's all I want.'

‘Whereas Blackstone  . . . ?'

‘Whereas Sam simply won't settle for contentment. He wants total and complete happiness or nothing.'

‘And has he found that happiness?' the General asked quizzically.

‘Of course not!' Patterson said. ‘No man ever has, and no man ever will. And Sam's not a fool – he knows that better than anyone. But if he can't be happy, then at least he wants to be
useful
– he wants to ease a few burdens and see a little more fairness in the world. I think that's why he's a policeman.'