Blackstone and the Great War (22 page)

‘Slim,' Baker said.

‘
Very
slim,' Blackstone replied.

The front half of the warehouse was crammed with packing cases containing bully beef, tins of baked beans, powdered milk and jugs of rum. Blankets, uniforms, picks and shovels and all the other necessities of trench life, were stored in the rear.

The clerk-corporal in charge of this little empire was called Hoskins. He was a small man, and wore glasses which had lenses as thick as jam jar bottoms.

‘The coffin was delivered by lorry,' he told Blackstone. ‘It wasn't anything fancy to look at. In fact, you might have mistaken it for an ordinary packing case, if it hadn't been for the shape, and the Union Flag draped over it. I expect they'd have taken him out of it, and put him in a much fancier one, once he was safely back in Blighty.'

‘Yes,' Blackstone agreed. ‘I expect they would have.'

And then the boy would have been carried to the family vault with due ceremony and full military honours, and laid to rest with his ancestors, he thought.

It would have been some consolation to poor old General Fortesque to see such a fitting interment – but now the consolation had been denied him.

‘To tell you the truth, I didn't really fancy having a rotting corpse in my warehouse at all,' the clerk continued, ‘but what else were they going to do with it? And anyway, I figured out that it wouldn't really start to stink until all the ice had melted  . . .'

‘What ice?'

‘Didn't I say? The body was packed with ice.'

‘How did you know that?' Blackstone asked sharply.

‘I'm not sure, now you ask. I think the blokes who delivered it must have told me.'

‘You didn't look yourself?'

‘Course not! That would have been really morbid,' the clerk said dismissively. ‘And anyway,' he added, ‘the lid was screwed down and sealed.'

A wise precaution, if what the casket actually contained was something other than Lieutenant Fortesque's remains, Blackstone thought.

‘What did you do with the coffin?' he asked.

‘I had them put it over in that corner, where it's nice and cool.'

‘And then?'

‘And then I closed up shop for the night, and went back to my billet.' The clerk turned to look at Baker for confirmation. ‘You saw me leaving, didn't you, Corp?'

‘That's right, I did,' Baker confirmed.

‘Did you go
straight
back to your billet?' Blackstone asked.

‘I most certainly did. I was really knackered, you see, so all I wanted to do was get my head down.'

‘So if I question the men who share the billet with you, they'll confirm that, will they?'

‘Why would you want to go and do that?' Hoskins asked uneasily.

‘They'll confirm it, will they?' Blackstone repeated stonily.

‘Now I think about it, I did actually go for a walk before I turned in,' the clerk said unconvincingly.

‘Even though you were really knackered?'

‘Yes, I  . . . er  . . . wanted to make sure that once I was in bed, I really did fall asleep.'

‘There's something that's bothering me about this whole business,' Blackstone said. ‘Would you like me to tell you what it is?'

‘Yes, I suppose so  . . . if you want to,' Hoskins replied, without much enthusiasm.

‘It bothers me that the thieves found it so easy to break in,' Blackstone told him. ‘In fact, strictly speaking, they didn't
break in
at all – they simply came through the door. And how did they manage to open that door?'

‘They must have picked the lock.'

‘They didn't. If they had, I'd be able to tell.'

‘Then I don't know
how
they did it,' Hoskins said sullenly.

‘Of course you do! They opened it with the key that
you
gave them!'

‘Now look here—' Hoskins protested.

‘If you tell me how it really happened that night, Corporal Baker will be willing to overlook the fact that everyone involved in the robbery is equally responsible for him being knocked unconscious,' Blackstone said. ‘Isn't that right, Corporal Baker?'

‘Since you ask – and since I'm in your debt – I suppose I'll have to,' Baker agreed.

‘I'll also overlook the fact that looting is an offence which is punishable by death,' Blackstone continued. ‘On the other hand, if you make me go to all the trouble of digging up the proof myself, I'll personally organize your firing squad.'

‘I  . . . I  . . .' Hoskins stuttered.

‘They come for you at dawn,' Blackstone said. ‘They tie your hands behind your back, take you into a courtyard, and stand you against a wall.'

‘There's no need  . . .' Hoskins said weakly.

‘A chill runs through you, though you're not sure if that's due to the temperature or your own fear. They offer you one last cigarette. You accept it, not because you want to smoke – your mouth feels too dry for that – but because it will put off the moment when the order to fire is given.'

‘Enough!' Hoskins sobbed.

‘Sometimes you're killed immediately, but sometimes you're not, and you lie there on the ground – in agony – waiting for the officer to come across and finish you off with a bullet to the head  . . .'

‘I didn't know they were going to hit you, Corporal Baker,' Hoskins babbled. ‘I'd never have agreed to it if I'd known they were going to do that.'

‘Perhaps you'd better tell us exactly what it was you
did
agree to,' Blackstone suggested.

The men have been following Hoskins since he left the warehouse, but it is not until he is sitting down in the seedy bar – a glass of absinthe in front of him – that he notices them.

There are three of them. One is sharp-faced, the second chunky, and the third slim and nervous-looking.

Hoskins' first panic-stricken thought is that the sharp-faced one has bought up his gambling debts, and the chunky one is there to break his bones if he does not pay up immediately.

Then he relaxes, because though the men are in civilian clothes, they are not the kind of civilian clothes that a third-rate French gangster would wear. No, these men are English – and probably gentlemen.

The men sit down at the table – surrounding him.

‘And that's when they offered you the bribe?' Blackstone asked.

‘Not a bribe, exactly,' Hoskins said, uncomfortably.

‘Then what
did
they offer you?'

‘They said they had a bit of a problem, and that if I'd be kind enough to help them sort it out, it might be worth a couple of drinks.'

‘We have a business proposition to make to you,' the thin-faced one says.

‘What kind of business proposition?' Hoskins asks suspiciously.

‘A very simple one. If you lend us the keys to the warehouse for half an hour, we will give you one hundred pounds.'

Hoskins' fear has been receding slightly, but now, once he has heard the size of the bribe, it comes back stronger than ever.

‘They shoot you for stealing government property,' he says.

‘It's not government property we're after,' the sharp-featured one tells him. ‘The only thing we're interested in is the coffin – and that belongs to the family of the dead man.'

It's wrong – Hoskins knows it's wrong – but when the sharp-faced one starts counting out the big white banknotes on the table, he feels himself weakening.

With a hundred pounds, he could pay off all his gambling debts and make a fresh start in life, he tells himself.

‘There's a sentry outside the warehouse,' he says, in a desperate attempt to save himself from making a big mistake.

The sharp-faced one smiles. ‘You've got your uniform in the vehicle, haven't you?' he asks the tall nervous one.

‘Yes, but  . . .' the tall nervous one replies.

‘The sentry shouldn't be much of a problem,' the sharp-featured one tells Hoskins.

‘And when he said that, I thought he meant they could get in without hurting you,' Hoskins told Baker.

‘And how did you think they'd manage that?' Baker asked angrily. ‘By offering
me
a bribe, too?'

‘Well, yes. They seemed to have plenty of money on them, and—'

‘Not everybody's like you, you dirty little scumbag,' Baker growled. ‘Some of us have a sense of honour and decency that can't be bought.'

A minute later, the keys and the money have been exchanged, and the deal is done.

They'll return the keys in half an hour – maybe even less than that – the sharp-faced one promises, and nobody will be any the wiser.

Hoskins watches them leave the bar, knowing that – even now – he could probably call it off if he wanted to. But he needs to pay his gambling debts, and maybe, once he
has
paid them and his credit is good again, he'll have one last flutter for old-times' sake.

‘They never said they were going to
steal
the coffin, you see, only that they were
interested
in it,' Hoskins whined.

What the hell
was
in the coffin, Blackstone wondered.

It couldn't have been anything small, or they'd simply have removed it, and left the coffin where it was.

‘You say they came in a vehicle?' he demanded.

‘That's right. The tall thin one said that was where he'd left his uniform.'

‘You're sure that he said a
vehicle
– not a motor
car
?'

‘Yes.'

It would be a lorry, then, Blackstone thought.

‘How heavy was the coffin?' he asked.

‘I don't know. I didn't weigh it,' the clerk replied. And then, seeing Baker glowering at him, he quickly added, ‘But it must have been quite heavy, 'cos it took four blokes to carry it in.'

‘And you didn't think it was just a little odd that a body should have weighed so much?'

‘Maybe he was a big bloke. And anyway, the ice would have weighed quite a lot, wouldn't it?'

Yes, it would, Blackstone thought. If there had
been
ice in the box. If there had been a
body
in the box.

What else would be heavy enough to need four men to carry it? It had to be something that would make three young men from privileged backgrounds risk everything they had to steal it.

Gold! Blackstone thought suddenly.

Gold was heavy.

Gold had such a magic attached to it that, throughout history, fabulously wealthy despots had gambled their whole empires on the chance of acquiring more of it.

Gold was portable wealth which, in times of war, was often moved around – and often went missing.

Yes, it was perfectly possible that the young officers – even Lieutenant Fortesque – had been seduced by the thought of gold.

But it was still
only
a possibility, Blackstone thought, reining in his rampant speculation – one possibility of many.

‘How much did the three men you met in the bar
really
pay you?' he asked Hoskins.

‘I told you,' the clerk replied shiftily.

‘Then tell me again.'

‘They bought me a couple of drinks.'

Blackstone mimed raising a rifle, pointed the imaginary rifle at Hoskins, and said ‘Bang!'

‘They paid me a hundred quid,' Corporal Hoskins muttered, looking down at the floor.

That was a lot of money, even for wealthy young men like the three musketeers, Blackstone thought.
Whatever
was in the coffin, they must have wanted it very badly indeed.

‘And where's the money now?' he asked.

‘Gone,' Hoskins told him. ‘I  . . . I got into a game of cards, and I was very unlucky.'

Corporal Baker threw the punch with a speed which impressed even a veteran street fighter like Blackstone. And it was not only fast, it was well-aimed, catching Hoskins squarely in the middle of his face.

The force of the punch lifted the clerk off the ground for a second, then he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Blackstone, looking on, said nothing.

Hoskins gently felt his injured face, and winced.

‘You've broken my nose,' he sobbed.

‘Good,' Baker replied. ‘So maybe the next time you're entrusted with the care of the dead, you'll show them a little more respect.'

A fair point, Blackstone thought, and maybe next time Hoskins would do just that – but it was by no means certain that he had been entrusted with the care of the dead
this time
.

EIGHTEEN

R
eturning to the front line was, if anything, even slower and more frustrating than the journey to Calais had been, and it was late afternoon – more than twenty-four hours after he had met Baker in front of the statue of the Six Burghers – when Blackstone finally found himself back in St Denis.

He was as exhausted as he could ever remember being, and the prospect of going straight to his billet and getting his head down was almost irresistible. But resist it he must, he told himself, squaring his shoulders. There were too many questions still unanswered – too many opportunities still available to the three musketeers that would allow them to wriggle off his hook – for him to even think about sleeping. And so, with a heavy sigh, he turned his back on the village and began to walk towards the chateau which it shared its name with.

If the size of the stable block in the grounds of the Chateau St Denis was anything to go by, then the count who had ordered its construction must have been a real enthusiast of equine pastimes, Blackstone mused.

And it was not just
large
, it was also highly elaborate, with gargoyles and crenellations aplenty. It was almost, in fact, a small chateau in its own right, and it must have cast a long shadow over the hovels of those peasants whose back-breaking work had financed it.