Blackstone and the Great War (6 page)

‘You said he might have used his rifle butt,' Blackstone mused.

‘And so he might.'

Because it was an enlisted man who killed Fortesque, wasn't it, Blackstone thought. It just
had
to be an enlisted man.

‘Who has access to this dugout?' he asked.

‘The officer who is on duty, his servant, a visiting officer, a sergeant making a report  . . .' Carstairs paused. ‘That's about it.'

‘Do enlisted men ever enter the dugout?'

‘Of course not! The dugout is the officer's sanctum.'

‘Is it possible that Lieutenant Fortesque might have summoned one of the enlisted men?'

Carstairs shook his head, almost pityingly. ‘I don't know how things worked in your day, Sergeant, but in
my
army, an officer does not address the men directly, but instead communicates with them through an NCO.'

Thus avoiding the unpleasant necessity of breathing the same air as a member of the working class, Blackstone thought.

He'd been right in the assumption he'd made in the command dugout – the army hadn't changed at all.

‘An officer doesn't address the men directly, yet, according to your theory, one of the enlisted men
did
enter this bunker,' he said to the captain.

Carstairs laughed at the detective's obvious stupidity.

‘It would be a serious breach of regulations for a common soldier to enter the dugout without permission,' he agreed, ‘but given that he had his mind set on a cowardly murder, he was probably more than willing to wave such minor considerations aside.'

‘So the killer checks there's no one watching, bursts into the dugout, and kills the lieutenant,' Blackstone said.

‘Exactly!' Carstairs agreed.

‘Then why was the blow which killed Fortesque delivered to the side of his head?' Blackstone asked.

A frown filled Carstairs' face. ‘I'm not following you.'

‘Didn't you say that Fortesque was sitting in his chair, facing the door?'

‘Yes, I did,' Carstairs agreed, puzzled. ‘What of it?'

‘I have a theory,' Blackstone explained. ‘Would you mind sitting where Fortesque was sitting, so that we can test it out?'

‘All right,' Carstairs agreed, walking around the table and sitting down facing the entrance.

‘I won't be a moment,' Blackstone told him, opening the door and stepping out into the trench.

The bombardment had stopped, and the soldiers were squatting on the duckboards, eating the breakfasts which had been sent up from the field kitchen. Blackstone nodded to them, but only one or two nodded back. And even then, it was a cautious nod – a nod which said, ‘Judging by the way you're dressed, you might just be on our side – but we're not putting any money on it.'

Blackstone turned, opened the door again, and re-entered the dugout.

‘Well?' Carstairs demanded. ‘Are you going to tell me about this theory of yours, or must we continue playing silly bloody games?'

‘If you were facing the other way – towards the back of the dugout – you might not even have noticed I'd come in,' Blackstone said, ‘but you're not facing the back of it – and neither was Fortesque.'

‘So what's your point?'

‘You're Fortesque, and you see an enlisted man enter your dugout without your permission. What do you do?'

‘I ask him what the devil he thinks he's doing.'

‘Exactly! And what does the killer say?'

‘How the hell would I know?'

‘Remember, this is a major breach of protocol, so Fortesque is both outraged and on his guard. If the killer wishes to blindside him in order to deliver the fatal blow, he must first calm him down. I'm right, aren't I?'

‘Possibly.'

‘So how does he go about doing that?'

Carstairs considered the matter.

‘He makes up some excuse for being here,' he said finally.

‘Like what?'

The captain shrugged. ‘I don't know. Perhaps he says that there's an emergency further down the trench.'

‘Wouldn't he report that to the sergeant?'

‘Normally he would, but perhaps he tells Lieutenant Fortesque he can't
find
the sergeant.'

‘Let's try that theory out,' Blackstone suggested. ‘When I next speak, I don't want you to think about what I've said – I want you to react instinctively.'

‘All right,' Carstairs agreed.

Blackstone turned away in a leisurely way, then suddenly swung round again and shouted, ‘The Huns have overrun the trench, sir!'

Carstairs sprang to his feet immediately, then checked himself, and slowly sat down again.

‘Do you see the point now?' Blackstone asked.

‘Anything that the killer said to Fortesque would have been much more likely to get Fortesque out of the dugout than the killer in,' Captain Carstairs conceded reluctantly.

‘Just so,' Blackstone agreed. ‘But that didn't happen, did it? What actually happened was the killer was
allowed
to advance.'

‘You don't know that for a fact,' Carstairs said stubbornly. ‘The killer could well have lured Fortesque to the door, killed him there, and then put him back in the chair.'

‘So Fortesque walks over to the door and turns sideways on, in order to allow the killer to hit him on the side of the head?'

‘He could have been distracted. The killer says, “What's that on the wall?” Fortesque turns his head, and the killer strikes.' Carstairs smiled triumphantly. ‘Your problem, Blackstone, is that you just don't think things through.'

‘You said there were several blows to the head, didn't you?'

‘Yes, of course, but  . . .'

‘I think if I'd received a sharp blow to the head, I'd probably keel over, fight back, or try to escape.'

‘As would any man.'

‘But Lieutenant Fortesque doesn't do any of those things. He just sits there, and allows the killer to finish off his work. Is that what you're saying?'

‘Of course not! He
did
do one of those three things you mentioned.'

‘Which one?'

‘He keeled over.'

‘And landed conveniently on his side, thus giving the killer the opportunity to continue raining blows on exactly the same spot?'

‘It's possible,' Carstairs said – but it was plain from his tone that he didn't really believe that.

‘I want to try something else,' Blackstone said, walking across the dugout and positioning himself at Carstairs' side. ‘In a second, I'm going to grab you.'

‘You're going to
what
?'

‘To grab you. I realize it will be distasteful to you to be touched by a member of the lower orders, but for the purposes of this experiment you're just going to have to grit your teeth and put up with it.'

‘For Christ's sake, man, just get on with it!' Carstairs growled.

Blackstone gripped Carstairs' left shoulder firmly with his left hand, and swung his right fist until it made brief contact with the right side of the captain's head. Carstairs tried to struggle free, but the fact that he was sitting down put him at a distinct disadvantage, and he had still not managed to break away when Blackstone's fist made contact for a second time.

‘And remember, the more times I manage to hit you, the weaker you become,' Blackstone said.

‘That's enough!' Carstairs bellowed.

Blackstone released his grip, and the captain brushed off the left-hand shoulder of his jacket, and smoothed down the right-hand side of his hair.

Carstairs was undoubtedly angry, Blackstone thought, but even in his rage, he could not dismiss the idea that what he had just endured was probably an accurate reconstruction of what had actually happened to Fortesque.

When the captain turned to look at Blackstone, his face was an emotional blank.

‘Fortesque not only allowed his killer to enter the dugout, but also let himself be blindsided,' he said.

‘It looks that way,' Blackstone agreed.

Carstairs shook his head in what might just possibly have been admiration.

‘I appear to have underestimated you, Inspector,' he said.

‘You wouldn't be the first.'

‘Thanks to your efforts, I see the whole thing clearly now,' Carstairs said. ‘Thanks to your efforts, we now know who the killer is.'

‘We do?'

‘Of course! The only person who could have killed Fortesque – because he was the only person who'd have been permitted to get into the position in which an attack was possible – was Fortesque's servant. I'll inform Captain Huxton of that immediately, and the guilty man will be under arrest within the hour – and in front of a firing squad within the week. And as for you, Inspector Blackstone, you can return to England immediately, with a letter of commendation – which I will personally sign – in your pocket.'

‘Why
should
his servant have killed him?' Blackstone asked.

‘I really have no idea – but, as you said, it's the only possibility.'

‘I
never
said that.'

‘All right, then, if it's a motive you're looking for, then how about this – the servant felt that Fortesque had insulted him, though how you insult a servant, God only knows – and wanted to get his revenge. Or perhaps this constant bombardment we've been under had turned his mind. At any rate, it doesn't matter to me
why
he killed Fortesque – it's enough to know that he did.'

‘You're ignoring the other possibility,' Blackstone said firmly.

‘But there
is
no other possibility,' Carstairs said, looking mystified. Then, as he realized what Blackstone was implying, his face darkened. ‘I have already made it quite clear to you that I will not entertain the idea that an officer might be the killer,' he continued, angrily.

‘An officer wouldn't need an excuse to enter the dugout,' Blackstone pointed out. ‘He would have a right to be there, as you said yourself.'

‘Once he's arrested, the servant will break down and confess – and you will look very foolish,' Carstairs said confidently.

‘I've no doubt that Huxton's lads will make him confess – given the right circumstances, most men can be made to confess to almost anything,' Blackstone said, ‘but that won't necessarily mean he's guilty.'

‘What do you want, Blackstone?' Carstairs asked, suddenly sounding very tired. ‘What do I have to do in order to make you see the truth?'

‘You have to do nothing,' Blackstone told him. ‘I'll get to the truth – the
real
truth – in my way and in my own time. And I'll start by questioning Fortesque's servant.'

‘You will do no such thing!' Carstairs said. ‘What
you
will do is catch the first available train back to Calais, and—'

‘And as soon as I get back to England, I'll go and see General Fortesque and tell him that you stopped me from doing the job he personally sent me out here to do,' Blackstone interrupted him. ‘And how will he take it? Do you think he will consider you've acted
honourably
?'

Rage burned in Carstairs' eyes, but slowly it became damped down by the blanket of inevitable defeat.

‘General Fortesque is a great hero of mine,' he said. ‘If he questioned my honour, I do not think I could live with myself.'

‘I know,' Blackstone said.

Carstairs shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Very well, since you have so little sense of your own honour that you are prepared to ride on the coat-tails of a great man to get what you want, I will permit you to question the servant,' he said. ‘Are you satisfied now?'

‘No,' Blackstone said. ‘There's something else I want.'

‘Are there no limits to your demands?' Carstairs asked, exasperatedly.

‘Not when I'm conducting a murder investigation, no,' Blackstone said simply.

‘Then what more
do
you want?'

‘I'd like to see Lieutenant Fortesque's body.'

‘That's not possible,' Carstairs said.

And then he laughed, as if he'd realized he'd just scored a small triumph, which did, at least, do
something
to mitigate his larger defeat.

‘Why isn't it possible?' Blackstone asked. ‘Give me a couple of men with spades, and I'll—'

‘Do you think that he was buried here in France, like a common soldier?' Carstairs said scornfully.

‘Wasn't he?'

‘He most certainly was not. The lieutenant's body has been shipped back to England, where, with all due and appropriate ceremony, he will be laid to rest with his ancestors, in the family vault.'

Of course he would, Blackstone thought, because even in death there was one law for the rich and another for the poor.

FIVE

T
he village of St Denis was perched at the apex of a small hill, some four miles behind the British lines. An old stone church stood at its centre – its spire straining upwards, as if it wished to pierce the sky – and the houses and shops were clustered around it. Seen from a distance, across the sunny summer meadows, it was as pretty a village as any which had ever graced a picture postcard.

It must have been a quiet, peaceful place a few years earlier, Blackstone thought – a sleepy hamlet which fully accepted that there was a whole wide world beyond its own narrow boundaries, but had no real interest in knowing any more about that world than was strictly necessary. But those days were gone forever. The simple innocence, in which the village had once been snugly packed, had been roughly ripped from it by the great iron fist of war – and the place would never be the same again.

He was less than half a mile from the village when he first noticed the rows of low grey tents pitched in a field at the foot of the hill. As he drew closer, he could see the soldiers, too. Some were being endlessly paraded up and down, in full battledress. Others, under the screamed encouragement of their NCOs, were charging sacks of sand, and stabbing them with their bayonets.