A Fête Worse Than Death (34 page)

Her hand clenched. ‘This is nonsense.' Her voice shook. ‘An outrage.' She jerked her head up and glared at him. ‘
Et vous, vous le croyez?
'

‘No,' said Haldean quietly. ‘I don't believe it. I am merely pointing out what will happen if Tyburn is allowed to make his statement. Colonel Whitfield cannot defend himself, but if I am allowed to find out the truth –
and prove it
– then his good name might be preserved. I'll be honest with you, Mrs Verrity. I hardly knew Colonel Whitfield but he meant an awful lot to Marguerite Vayle and I know, if you'll excuse me mentioning it, he meant a lot to you.'

Mrs Verrity raised her hands high. ‘But how will going into the tunnels prove anything, Major Haldean? Still, I do not understand.'

Haldean hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Let me try and explain. The Allied end of the tunnels was blocked off by German grenades but beyond the landfall things should be as they were left that day in 1916, unless the Germans interfered, of course. But really, once the link to the British lines was closed they would have no reason to enter the tunnels again. The soil, as you know, is chalk. With only a little bit of good luck everything should be bone-dry and therefore perfectly preserved. Mr Tyburn has said enough to make me curious as to what really is down there. I might as well tell you that I wonder if there's another element in the case we haven't looked at.'

‘Such as?'

‘Well, such as someone else, another man altogether, being the real traitor. Boscombe, as you know, wrote a book about his experiences in the tunnels. But that wasn't the only record of what happened that day. Robert Petrie, who also went into the tunnels, left a diary. Now we haven't been able to find the diary, more's the pity, but we know enough to have a pretty shrewd idea of what was in it. And it's those ideas, Mrs Verrity, that I want to have a shot at either proving or disproving. I
think
I know who Petrie implicated, but I can't know I'm right and certainly can't prove I'm right until I can get into the tunnels.' He half-smiled. ‘I might be completely up the creek of course, but I don't think I am. After all, look how much it would explain. Tyburn's story might be true, as far as it concerns the Augier Ridge.'

‘Nonsense! He is lying. How can there be another man? Even if there was, you will not find him in the tunnels. I will hear none of it. This Tyburn is the traitor and is blaming Richard to save his own skin.'

‘And that also is possible. But –' he smiled apologetically – ‘I really want to know. Obviously I'm not expecting to find the bloke in there waiting for me, but he'll have left evidence of his activities that should put me on his track. But with no proof, I'm helpless. I can theorize until I'm blue in the face but once I'm in the tunnels
I'll know
.'

She lifted her eyebrow. ‘You have great confidence, Major Haldean. What if I refuse my permission?'

‘Well, there's more than one way of skinning a cat.' She looked at him curiously. ‘I've learnt enough to have a good chance, a very good chance, of obtaining the information elsewhere. But that would take time. I'd probably get there in the end, but this is the simplest way. And, of course, there's nothing to stop me taking a short holiday in northern France . . .'

‘No!' She shook her head vigorously. ‘Please, do not even think of it. You will be on my property without my consent but, believe me, that is not the reason I say no. Have you any idea how dangerous that land is? Why, I have tenants – farmers – on the ridge who thought that after the war all their troubles were over. But the land is full of unexploded bombs and rotting mines. One of my tenants, Raoul Rimet, has a barn full of old rifles, ammunition and shells that he has dug up from his fields. I would be surprised if the Boche did not use the old cellars to store their fearful weapons. There might be many tons of explosive under the soil. I tell you, Major, I do not care to live near the Chateau d'Augier any longer. To go into the tunnels? You would be in great danger.'

Haldean gave her a brilliant smile. ‘I survived the war. I think I'll be able to survive the tunnels.'

She bit her lip, then, shaking her head, came to a rapid decision. ‘I will come with you.'

‘
What?
'

‘It is better so. I know the old entrance from the cellars of the chateau. The building is destroyed but the cellars are still there.'

‘No.' Haldean shook his head. ‘You can't do that, Mrs Verrity. Why, you've just told me how dangerous the place is. I can't possibly let you risk it.'

Her eyebrows rose. ‘It is not for you to say what I can and cannot risk.'

‘No, but . . .'

‘But rather than have you climb over the ruins I would prefer to take you a way that I know is safe,' She smiled briefly. ‘You are young and courageous, Monsieur Haldean.' She crossed the room to him and held out her hand for him to take. Her smile increased. ‘You are also inquisitive and – I am old enough to say this – very handsome.' She looked down at him thoughtfully. ‘I would not like you to come to any harm.'

‘Well, if you're sure,' said Ashley unenthusiastically.

‘Of course I'm not sure!' exploded Haldean. ‘If I was
able
to be sure I wouldn't have to go down the damn tunnels at all. But you must admit that what I've said makes sense. Lots of sense. It adds up, which is something that no other theory does. No loose ends. You said yourself I was on to something.'

Ashley grudgingly nodded. ‘And I wouldn't be surprised if you were right. In fact the more I think about it, the more convinced I am. But it's hellishly risky, Haldean.'

‘Knowing I've got your support takes as much risk out of it as it's possible to do. And Greg's in on it as well. I can't tell you how much his backing means to me. I really think we should do this, Ashley. After all, what have we got to lose?'

‘Your neck, you young idiot,' said Ashley wearily.

‘Only if I'm right.'

‘Which will be a great consolation to anyone who's allowed themselves to care tuppence about you.' Ashley drummed his fingers on his desk and sighed. ‘Leave it with me. Yes, of course we'll do it. God knows what you'd get up to if I said no. You'd probably go ahead without me, as there's absolutely nothing I could do to stop you. I'll have to get permission, of course, but with any luck that shouldn't be a problem. I can't say I'm happy, though. I wish . . .' His mouth tightened, then he shook his head. ‘Oh, forget it.'

‘Cheer up,' said Haldean. ‘I might be wrong, you know.'

‘Fat chance,' grunted Ashley. ‘You know damn well you're not.'

‘Now there you're mistaken, old son,' said Haldean seriously. ‘I think I'm right; you think I'm right. But until we can prove it we can't
know
we're right. And as I said to Mrs Verrity, I really want to know.'

It was the British Fifth Army that had eventually taken the Augier Ridge in a grim struggle which included Beaumont-Hamel. Picking over the charred timbers that rose like dead men's fingers from the smoke-blackened stones of the chateau, Haldean had a sudden recollection of flying over this insignificant hump of ground. One eye on the sky around him – his stomach churned at the memory – and the briefest of glances at the ant-like figures crawling up the hill. Take out the machine guns; those had been the orders. God, he'd loathed strafing ground troops. Every man armed with a spark of light that turned into bullets. Three flights a day, four when the light was good. Height; dive; fire; zoom; height. No use twisting in aerobatics here. Skill was redundant when death was a many-headed monster. And the only response to the men who plunged to the earth below was another scrawled letter to some English town. They'd taken a beating here. The Germans had fought savagely. Or gallantly. It all depended on your point of view. The ruins of the chateau faded from sight and superimposed themselves on a creased map and a board of aerial photographs. And the ants? There must be a name carved on some memorial for every square foot of ground. He shuddered, then turned as he felt a hand touch his arm.

‘Major Haldean? You are all right, yes?'

He shook himself and forced a smile. The aerial photographs faded and he was standing in a ruined house on top of a blustery ridge overlooking lush valleys filled with pale living gold and green. If it wasn't for the chateau you'd never know there'd ever been a war . . . ‘I'm sorry, Mrs Verrity. Just thinking back. It must be hard for you, seeing your old home like this.'

She shrugged. ‘The first time, yes. But I have made my home in England and I am happy with my choice. It is not the first time I have been back, you understand, and, of course, I was here during the war. Every so often I like to visit my tenants. It keeps them “up to the mark”, as you put it. And, I think, they are pleased to see me.'

‘They certainly made us very welcome,' said Haldean, diplomatically. They had gone by hired car from the hotel to the farmhouse of Raoul Rimet and his wife. Here Madame Rimet had insisted on Haldean trying her home-made cheese washed down with wine of startling roughness, while Monsieur Rimet took Mrs Verrity on a tour of the farm. From what he could follow of the torrent of rapid and idiomatic French, Haldean guessed he was attempting to negotiate a decrease in rent. His slightly surly farewells indicated how well he'd got on. ‘Have we got very far to go?'

‘By no means, Major.' She pointed to where part of a wall still stood. ‘If we go through what remains of that doorway it will bring us to what were the servants' quarters and the entrance to the cellars.'

It was a depressing walk through the ruins. What struck Haldean as odd were the remnants of occupation that remained. A wall which still showed fragments of eighteenth-century wallpaper, rich with flower-entwined urns. Scraps of what had been inlaid woodwork. Countless crystal beads from a chandelier scattered over the stones and, still hanging drunkenly on part of a wall, most of a heavily gilded picture frame, its gilt faded by the rain and sun that now came freely through the few remaining rafters. They came into an area which had obviously been the kitchens. A doorway yawned open, leading into blackness.

‘These are the cellars,' said Mrs Verrity. ‘The entrance to the tunnels is down there.'

Haldean snapped on his torch and prepared to lead the way when Mrs Verrity stopped, frowning at the ground. ‘What is it?'

‘Someone has been here.' She pointed. ‘Look, in the dust the other side of the door. That is a footprint, yes?'

‘It could be someone helping themselves to stone,' suggested Haldean. ‘With all this free building material lying around, it's only to be expected.'

‘This is my property, Major Haldean. Anyone who wants to come here should seek my permission first. Even ruined, it is still mine. No matter. I shall see to that later. Shall we go down?'

‘Right-oh.' Haldean picked his way round a fallen timber then turned to give Mrs Verrity his hand. ‘Carefully does it – that's right. Shall I hold your bag for you? It looks a bit heavy. You might find it easier if I take it.'

‘I am fine, thank you. You have the torch to manage.'

Following the beam of white light they descended the steps and Mrs Verrity confidently led the way through cobwebby cellars which still contained rack upon rack of empty wine-shelves. There was smashed glass but no wine; the Germans would have seen to that and the British cleared up any which remained. Room led on to room. In the fifth cellar she paused before an ancient trap-door set with an iron ring.

‘This is the entrance. I will hold the light for you.'

Haldean grasped the iron ring and heaved. The door rose up and Mrs Verrity peered down the flight of rough-cut steps that sloped away into the earth. Suddenly she swung round, sending the light flickering round the cellar walls.

‘What is it?'

‘I felt . . .' She shuddered. ‘I felt as if I were being watched. Excuse me, it can be nothing but nerves. The dark – I do not like it. There is an English expression . . . Ah yes . . .
Someone is walking over my grave
.'

‘Look,' said Haldean, laying the trap-door back flat against the cellar floor. ‘There's no need to come with me, you know. I'm no end grateful to you for showing me the way here. I can find out everything I need to know by myself.'

For a moment she hesitated, then shook her head. ‘No, Major. I think I would rather come with you. After all –' she tried a smile – ‘my brother and I sometimes used to explore the tunnels. It is not a new thing that I do.'

‘Well, just as you like. You take the torch and go first, though. Those steps look a bit dodgy to me. You'll be able to see your way better if you're in front.'

‘If you prefer.'

There was the slightest of sounds in the absolute blackness of the cellar as Haldean followed Mrs Verrity down the steps. It was, perhaps, the scuttle of a rat.

The steps ended in a small room cut out of the raw chalk. Haldean took back the torch and shone the beam round the walls. This had obviously been the German HQ. A backless chair, a desk, some filing cabinets and a bank of telephones, their wires long gone, remained. Paper scattered the room. Everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. The black mouths of two tunnels opened out in front of them, bringing a faint, stale breeze.

Haldean took out his pocket compass and checked the direction in the light of the torch. One tunnel ran west, the other south-west. He cocked an eyebrow at Mrs Verrity. ‘Which way should we go?'

‘The western tunnel leads to store rooms, as I remember.' She handed him back the torch. ‘I never explored the other properly.'

‘Now's your chance,' said Haldean with a smile. He flashed the light down the south-western tunnel. The roof was about eight feet high and five men could have walked down it abreast. ‘I'll lead the way, shall I? Have you noticed it's always “Ladies first”, unless it's something exciting?'