Zulu Hart (48 page)

‘We still await his response, but you have provided credible answers to many of these queries. It would appear, from what you
say,
that Chelmsford never did put Colonel Durnford in command of the camp. Doubtless finding himself senior officer on the spot when the action had already commenced, Durnford, according to the custom of the service, took command, but this was too late in the day to remedy the errors that had already been made. Do you agree?’

‘I do, Your Royal Highness.’

‘Your candour is much appreciated, Lieutenant Hart, and I will do all I can to effect the removal of both Chelmsford and Crealock. I should warn you, however, that I may face considerable obstacles in the form of Her Majesty the Queen, who is a warm supporter of Lord Chelmsford, and even our esteemed prime minister, who agrees with Abraham Lincoln that it is unwise to swap horses while crossing a stream.’

‘I quite understand.’

‘Good. Now, there is one other matter I would like to discuss with you. A total of eight men — two officers and six other ranks —
have
been recommended for Victoria Crosses for their valour at Rorke’s Drift. Six were cited by Lieutenant Bromhead. They are,’ said the duke, reading from a typed note on his desk, ‘Corporal Allen and Privates Hook, Hitch, Withams, Jones, W., and Jones, R., Lieutenants Bromhead and Chard were added to the list by Chelmsford himself. My question to you is this: are these awards deserved?’

‘All the men deserve the cross,’ said George, ‘particularly Hook, Withams and the two Joneses, who helped to get the patients out of the burning hospital. Another man was also involved in this feat of gallantry, Private Owen Thomas, but he was killed later in the action.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. But as you know, the Victoria Cross cannot be awarded posthumously. There is a device known as the Memorandum Procedure, whereby a soldier is mentioned in the
London Gazette
as deserving of the VC had he lived, but it could only be activated in Thomas’s case with the relevant recommendation from his commanding officer. That, sadly, was not forthcoming. What about Bromhead and Chard? Do they deserve the cross?’

George paused before answering. He was tempted to mention their initial instinct to abandon the post, and the fact that he had had to bolster Chard’s confidence at every opportunity. Chard, moreover, had infuriated George after the battle with his petty
insinuations,
inspired no doubt by the knowledge that George and not he had shown the greater fortitude and leadership. Yet George could not deny that both officers had performed well enough during the battle, particularly Bromhead, and felt it would be churlish to lessen their chances of a VC when he, George, had not been present for much of the fighting.

‘On balance I think they probably do. But a commissary officer called James Dalton did as much, if not more, to organize and inspire the defence. If they get the cross, then so should he.’

The duke nodded. ‘What about you? You fought at both battles, did you not? And I gather you were part of the hospital rescue, though Chard barely mentions you in his dispatch.’

George could feel his heart hammering with excitement. For almost the first time he took seriously the prospect of winning the Victoria Cross
and
gaining £10,000 of his father’s money. ‘That’s all true,’ he said hurriedly, ‘and I suspect the reason is that Chard doesn’t want me, or Dalton for that matter, to steal his thunder.’

‘Mmm,’ said the duke as he digested George’s words. ‘I’ll look into the other cases and see what I can do. But I must tell you that without the recommendation of at least one officer witness I can’t advise Her Majesty to award the cross.’

Hearing these words, George’s spirits sank as quickly as they had risen because he knew, in his heart of hearts, that Chard would never recommend him.

‘Nevertheless,’ continued the duke, ‘you have performed a vital service for your country, both during the campaign and since, and deserve some form of recompense.’

The duke paused while he weighed up the options. ‘I propose,’ he said at last, ‘to offer you a commission in a regiment of your choice, and an immediate promotion to the rank of captain. What do you say?’

‘I—I—’
George stammered, so taken aback was he by this new turn on the wheel of fortune.

‘You
do
intend to pursue a military career?’

‘Certainly, sir.
I’m just overwhelmed by your offer. I had no expectations. I just wanted to set the record straight.’

‘And you have. So you’ll accept my offer?’

‘Gladly, sir,’ said George, a broad grin on his face.

‘Good. It only remains for you to choose a regiment, but there’s time enough for that while you recover from your wound.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you enough, Your Royal Highness.’

The duke waved away his thanks. ‘Just don’t waste this second opportunity to make something of yourself. Well, goodbye, Captain Hart,’ said the duke, rising from his chair.

‘Goodbye, sir,’ said George, saluting.

It was only as he left the building that the full enormity of what had just taken place was brought home to him. The commander-in-chief, a prince of the royal blood no less, had believed his account of the Zulu War and, as a result, had promised to replace Lord Chelmsford and his staff, exonerate Colonel Durnford and investigate those overlooked for their heroism at Rorke’s Drift. He, George, would not be among their number, but he had been given a second chance in the army and a double jump in promotion. This meant at least a chance of reaching the rank of lieutenant colonel before the age of twenty-eight, an achievement that would net him £5,000 of his father’s money after all.

He sat on the steps, shaking his head, trying to take it all in. On returning to his hotel, he would write to his mother and give her the good news; then he would do the same for Fanny and Lucy. But first there was one more person he had to meet.

He looked at his pocket-watch. It was 11.46, which gave him fourteen minutes to make his assignation at London’s newest landmark, the Albert Memorial. He hailed the first cab he saw, and as he climbed inside, he noticed a man watching him from across the street. The man was tall and lean, and wearing a long double-breasted overcoat and a small top hat known as the ‘Muller cut-down’. It was this unusual hat - named after the murderer whose headgear led to his identification — that brought him to George’s attention.

But he did not recognize the face and quickly dispelled him from his thoughts.

The traffic was even heavier on Piccadilly for the journey west, but George still had a couple of minutes to spare as the cab came to a stop in Kensington Gardens. He looked across the road and there, shimmering in the midday sun, was Queen Victoria’s extraordinary memorial to her beloved husband who had died, aged just forty-two, in 1861. The centrepiece was a beautiful golden statue of Albert, seated in the robes of the Garter and surmounted by an elaborate marble canopy and tower designed by the great Sir Gilbert Scott in the Gothic-revival style. At the outer corners of this central area stood four sculpture groups representing the continents of Europe, Asia, the Americas and Africa. George had chosen the Africa group as his meeting place.

Finished just four years earlier, the memorial was still enough of a novelty to draw large crowds, and today was no exception. Several people were peering at the African sculptures, a seated camel and several Arabic figures, and George scanned the faces of the sightseers without finding the person he was looking for. He sat on some nearby steps to wait and did not notice the tall man approaching from the direction of Hyde Park Road.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the man, ‘are you Second Lieutenant George Hart?’

George looked up and saw the man in the ‘Muller cut-down’ who had been watching him in St James’s Street. He had small intense eyes and seemed edgy, as if unsure of George’s next move. ‘I was a second lieutenant,’ replied George. ‘I’ve just been promoted to captain. Have you been following me?’

‘Yes. I’m Inspector Willis of the Plymouth CID. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the suspicious death of a private detective called Henry Thompson on the thirty-first of January last year.’

George’s instinct was to run, and the inspector must have read his mind because his right hand moved towards his overcoat pocket, where, George surmised, he had doubtless concealed his gun. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

‘I don’t know anyone called Thompson,’ said George, rising from the step.

‘So you say, but we have reason to believe that you do, and that you shot and killed him during a fight.’

‘What reason?’

‘We received a tip-off from Thompson’s employer, a Colonel Sir Jocelyn Harris. Apparently you were with a young woman called Lucy Hawkins, one of the colonel’s
maids
, and Thompson was sent to recover her. When Thompson tried to do his job, you shot him. Do you deny it?’

‘Of course I deny it. I had nothing to do with his death.’

‘Yet you
were
in Plymouth that morning, and embarked on the SS
American
shortly after the shooting. We know that much from the shipping records. We also know you spent the previous night in the Angel Inn with a young
lady
, and that a young couple was seen running from the scene of the crime. More than a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?’

George’s mind raced. They could prove he was in Plymouth that morning, but he doubted a jury would convict without the murder weapon or a witness to the actual shooting. Admit nothing, he told himself, and stay calm. ‘No, I would not, Inspector,’ he replied with as much sang-froid as he could muster. ‘I
was
in Plymouth that morning, but I know nothing about the death of a private detective.’

‘I think you do,’ said Willis, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his coat pocket, ‘which is why I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. Now, if you’ll just put your hands out.’

George could not believe this was happening: that, after all he’d been through in Africa, he was about to lose his liberty on a safe London street bathed in sunshine. He knew he was innocent of murder, but would a jury believe his version of events? As he imagined the noose closing round his neck, he could hear blood pounding in his ears. He was close to losing control when a female voice interrupted. ‘What on earth is going on here?’

It was Mrs Bradbury, wearing a Norfolk jacket with matching hat and parasol, and looking every bit as ravishing as she had when George first met her at Westbury Park.

‘Madam,’ replied Willis, ‘I’m an inspector of police on official business. This is not your concern.’

‘But I know this man, Inspector,’ she said, holding her ground. ‘He arranged to meet me here and I want to know why you’re arresting him.’

Willis sighed. ‘I’m arresting him on suspicion of the murder of a private detective in Plymouth last year. Now, will you please let me get on with my job?’

‘I heard about that murder, but George involved? I’ve never heard anything so ludicrous.’

‘I can assure you, madam, this is a serious matter, and Captain Hart is the prime suspect.’

She glanced at George, who was shaking his head. ‘When exactly did this murder take place, Inspector?’

Willis looked puzzled. ‘The thirty-first of January. Why do you ask?’

‘And the time?’

‘Around seven thirty in the morning.’

‘In Plymouth, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was the day I left for Africa,’ said George. ‘They’re saying I spent the previous night in an inn with a young lady called Lucy Hawkins, and that I shot the private detective as we made our way to the docks.’

She gave George a reassuring smile. ‘Well, if that’s the case, then he
can’t
be guilty.’

‘How could you possibly know that?’ asked Willis.

‘Because, Inspector, I was with him at that time.’

George’s mouth fell open, then quickly closed as he tried not to let Willis see his surprise.

‘Go on,’ urged the inspector.

‘George and I have been - how can I put it? -
intimate
friends for some time now. On the thirtieth of January last year I travelled down to Plymouth to say goodbye to him before he sailed for South Africa. We spent the night together in an inn and next morning, after breakfast, I accompanied him to the docks and saw him on to the ship. He could not have killed that man because at the time of the murder he was …’

‘Yes?’

‘…
still
with me.’

She cast her eyes downwards, as if embarrassed. George could not believe what he was hearing. Willis was nonplussed. ‘You say you spent the night with Captain Hart and never left his side? Are you certain, madam? And, more importantly, are you prepared to say as much in an open court of law?’

‘I am,’ said Mrs Bradbury. ‘Though I hope it won’t come to that. You must appreciate the delicacy of my position, Inspector. If the circumstances of my relationship with Captain Hart ever became known, it would destroy my standing in society.’

‘Mmm,’ said the inspector, as if unsure Mrs Bradbury had any standing left to destroy. ‘Thankfully that’s not my concern. But 1 can’t deny this evidence casts a new light on the case. It would certainly help Captain Hart’s defence if you were willing to repeat your claims in a written statement. Are you?’