For Kingdom and Country (24 page)

Thud thud thud.

Lock sprang up. The footsteps were closer this time. He moved swiftly to the doorway and paused at the threshold. He glanced back at the dead body. Then he remembered, remembered where he had seen this before. It was almost the exact same scene as when he and Ross had discovered Lord Shears, stabbed, dead amongst the debris of a frantic search, on board the
Espiegle
when they were travelling from Mohammerah to Basra
2
. That was Wassmuss’s handiwork then, surely this was his handiwork now?

Thud thud thud.

That was just outside. As Lock turned, something flashed by the opening of the door. Lock fired at the same instant, the roar of his shot echoing around the office. From outside, there was a cry and a stumble, followed by a heavy fall.

Lock darted out of the office and turned, gun levelled, to see a dark smear of blood against the bathroom bulkhead opposite. He ran forward. There was a blur of movement in the corner of his eye, and a sudden jarring pain as a boot smashed into his wrist. The Beholla span out of his grip and skidded away across the greasy deck. Lock dropped the knife and grabbed the attacking foot, and yanked it hard. A man was jolted out from around the corner, and Lock punched him in the face. He felt a sting as his assailant’s front teeth cracked and cut into his knuckles. The man gave a muffled cry, swung his own fist, and caught Lock with a glancing, but painful blow just above his left ear, catching the fresh wound.

Lock staggered back, and his assailant scrambled forward across the deck making a grab for the knife. But Lock was quicker. He kicked out and his foot met the assailant’s stooping head, sending him crashing back against the stairs. Lock rushed forward. The assailant was still, slumped up against the stairs, his back to Lock, a hand gripping the rail above him. His left shoulder was a mass of blood where Lock’s bullet had struck home when he had darted past the open office doorway.

Lock grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, left fist clenched and ready to strike again, and twisted him round to face him.

Harrington-Brown, mouth swollen and bleeding, was gasping and wheezing as he stared back up at Lock, a flame of hatred burning deep within his narrowed eyes. Then his face changed and took on a look of hurtful innocence.

‘Lock,’ he spluttered. ‘What the deuce? Thought you … thought you were a bloody Johnny out to get me.’

Lock kept his fist high and ready.

Harrington-Brown winced and lifted his hand to his injured shoulder. ‘You bloody shot me, old man,’ he said weakly. His head began to sway and his eyes flickered as if he were about to pass out.

‘Hey,’ Lock said, slapping Harrington-Brown hard across the cheek. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Harrington-Brown put his hand to his cheek, a stunned expression in his eyes. ‘Steady … steady on. I feel damned faint … I …’ His head lolled forward again.

Lock grabbed him with both hands and gave him a shake. ‘Hey?’

Harrington-Brown sprang up and gave Lock a mighty shove, sending him staggering back off balance. Lock scrambled to one side, scooping up his knife, and turned just as Harrington-Brown pulled a Webley from his holster and fired. The bullet impacted on the gunwale just above Lock’s right shoulder. Lock threw his blade. It fizzed through the air and slammed into Harrington-Brown’s chest with a hollow thock. The lieutenant staggered back a pace startled, dropped the Webley from his grip, and crashed down on his backside as his legs gave way. He sat, eyes wide, opened his mouth to say something, then his chin fell forward just inches above the hilt of the knife, and he was still.

Lock sat blinking back at Harrington-Brown’s body. ‘Holy … bloody … shit,’ he gasped, catching his breath.

He pulled himself to his feet, picked up the Beholla and pushed it in his waistband. He scooped up his slouch hat and walked over to Harrington-Brown. He prodded the lieutenant’s wounded shoulder checking that he was actually dead. He didn’t move. Lock crouched down beside him. There was a trickle of blood running out of the dead lieutenant’s mouth, dripping down onto his tunic.

‘Who the bloody buggering hell are you, Hazza? A man after the bounty on my head? I can’t believe that.’

Lock began to rifle through the dead officer’s pockets. The first thing he found was a packet of Pall Mall’s and a Ronson ‘wonderlite’ strike lighter. Lock sat back, crossed his legs, and lit himself a cigarette.

‘Jesus, I need this,’ he sighed.

He had another couple of pleasurable draws on the cigarette, then scowled back at the dead British officer.

‘All right, Hazza, let’s see what else you’ve got.’

Lock, cigarette dangling from his lips, one eye squinting against the stream of smoke, began to empty the rest of Harrington-Brown’s pockets out onto the deck.

A ball of string, a few dates, a folded red-spotted handkerchief. There was something inside it. Lock carefully unfolded it to reveal six translucent pearls.

‘Now what are you doing with these, Lieutenant?’ Lock muttered, searching Harrington-Brown’s face for some clue.

The final thing he pulled from the dead lieutenant’s pockets was a picture postcard. It was the kind of thing that would be thrust under your nose in the bazaar back at Basra, usually by some shifty-looking Arab with a twinkle in his eye and a phlegmatic chuckle of, ‘Bint, bint. Two rupees, two rupees.’

This picture card, although in very soft focus, was better than the usual standard, but wasn’t the most erotic thing Lock had seen. The naked girl had a nice figure, he thought appreciatively, though the display of fruit on the table next to her added nothing to the scene. They weren’t even apples. They looked more like oranges. On the flip side was a list of eight names written in pencil, laid out in two columns of four.

It was an old list because the second name under the
Bräutigam
column was Bingham-Smith’s, but he still had the title ‘Ast. Provt. Mar.’. Lock recognised two other names there, Col. Godwinson and Cpt. Carver (again under his previous rank). The fourth name was an Indian cavalry officer called Shah. The
Braut
column had Gen. Townshend, Maj. Ross, Cpt. Brooke and Jem. Pahal. Could that be the late Captain Brooke who had died only hours earlier? Lock pondered. And was that the Pahal who had helped Lock storm the Turk trenches at Barjisiyah Woods?

Lock reread the names for a third time and shook his head.
Braut
and
Bräutigam
? Something to do with Amy and Bingham-Smith’s impending wedding? Seating arrangements? Teams of some sort? For Bridge? But why no women? Lock couldn’t make head nor tail out of it. He turned the card back and studied the picture once more. The girl looked strangely familiar.

Lock gave a wry smile and said, ‘You’re coming with me,
chérie
.’

He pocketed the picture card along with the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, and the handkerchief containing the pearls.

Lock cocked his head. For the first time since he’d boarded the
Marmaris
, above the noise of the clanking and creaking of the ship’s bulkheads expanding in the heat, he could hear the distant shout of men. He got to his feet and walked over to the gunwale. Out on the river, he could see that more and more of the British flotilla had caught up with the
Shaitan
. He could make out the dark silhouette of the familiar
Espiegle
, further south along the river, where it had run aground as Lieutenant Singleton had said. It would appear that the command sloop had been abandoned and that Townshend and whomever senior officers he deemed worthy were continuing on upriver in a smaller vessel, the
Comet
. Lock could see Captain Nunn’s pennant, bright in the moonlight, flapping from the gunboat’s mast.

A sudden shout and the scraping and banging of wood against metal came from the direction of the bow. Soldiers were coming aboard the stricken Turk steamer. Lock was running out of time. He moved back to Harrington-Brown. Clearly the lieutenant had been searching for something. But what? Was he the one who had killed the German officer? And the running footsteps? And the explosions? Was that the fire reaching the magazines or a deliberate act? Was Harrington-Brown, in fact, trying to destroy evidence? Was there something else still on board? Someone else? But why? Lock cursed. His head hurt. So many questions left unanswered.

He stared down at the slumped dead body of the young British officer and wished his throw hadn’t been so true.

‘Bugger,’ he said, and stopped forward to pull his knife from Harrington-Brown’s chest.

‘Just hold it right there!’

Lock instinctively ducked down as a bullet smacked into the bulkhead above his head. He dived away. Glancing back, he could see four silhouettes, three distinctive with their topi helmets, moving quickly up the foredeck towards him. The voice that had shouted out the warning he recognised as Bingham-Smith. Lock’s eyes darted to Harrington-Brown’s body and the knife that was still sticking out of his chest, his knife, engraved with a personal message and with his name. Lock swore but it was too late to go and retrieve it. He turned and ran to the port side, vaulted up over the gunwale, and slipped down into the dark, reed-choked water. Silt and mud swirled about him as he sank down. He quickly drew the Beholla out of his belt and held it up, but luckily the river only came up to his waist. He pulled himself closer in to the hull, melting into the dark shadow cast from the moonlight up above, and clung on to the side of the ship, pausing, ears peeled and alert. From up above he could hear snatches of whispered conversation, a barked order, and then a loud exclamation.

‘That’s Hazza. The bastard has killed Hazza!’

Lock slowly waded forward, feeling the mud suck and pull at his boots with every heavy step, until he eventually passed round the front of the stricken steamer. The water became deeper and tied to the bow was another dinghy. Lock presumed it was Bingham-Smith’s. He held back in the shadows. Sitting at the rudder, silhouetted by the moon, was an Indian Sikh, the shape of his turban distinctive against the pale sky. Only this wasn’t any ordinary sepoy, this was a figure whom Lock instantly recognised.

‘Sid!’ Lock hissed, giving a quick wave.

The silhouette turned sharply, glanced back up at the towering hulk of the
Marmaris
, then beckoned to Lock.

‘Quickly, quickly, sahib,’ Singh called back softly.

‘Here, Sid. Catch!’

Lock tossed his Beholla to Singh who caught it like a cricket ball just level to his left shoulder. Lock pushed himself away from the hull and swam the few feet towards the dinghy.

Singh held out a huge paw and Lock grasped it firmly. The Indian practically yanked Lock up out of the water and dropped him into the dinghy. Singh released the tie-rope and with an oar pushed away from the
Marmaris
and out into the river. Soon the current grabbed ahold of them and with Singh pulling at the oars with graceful power, they were whisked rapidly away.

Lock kept low, chest heaving, as he caught his breath, and watched the
Marmaris
. But no one appeared at the bow. He turned, grabbed hold of the rudder and grinned up at Singh.

‘Thanks, Sid,’ Lock said.

Singh bobbed his head. ‘I was thinking … that you may be needing … a quick exit, sahib … when Bing Ham Smith … appeared at the
Shaitan
… with a purple face … that would make … the sergeant major … most jealous.’

‘Appeared?’ Lock said.

‘Yes, sahib … The
Espiegle
was soon … running aground … so General Townshend … Major Ross … and that horse’s arse … Colonel Godwinson … and that other … horse’s arse … if you will forgive … my rudeness, sahib … Bing Ham Smith … transferred along … with Captain Dunn … to the gunboat …
Comet
.’

Lock laughed. ‘Yes, I saw Dunn’s pennant on the
Comet
and guessed as much. But you tell it how it is, Sid. Horses’ arses, one and all.’

‘Yes, sahib … But there was much … arguing when … the officer sahibs … pulled up … alongside the
Shaitan
… and came aboard.’

‘Arguing?’

‘About you, sahib … Trouble … bad, bad trouble … sahib … Not good … Talk of … disobeying orders … of assaulting … a superior officer … of desertion … of this bloody rubbish … assassination and … court martial … business, sahib.’

Lock nodded his head sagely. Suddenly he didn’t feel so elated.

‘So nothing new, then,’ he sighed.

‘There was no … blue eyes on … the barges either … at all, sahib … Only brown … and green … and frightened … ones.’

‘I didn’t think there would be, Sid, but thanks anyway.’

‘And nobody seemed … to know the name …
Binbaşi
Feyzi … either, sahib … Or of … Wassmuss.’

Lock turned his head and looked blankly at the passing bank. ‘Bugger.’

‘Yes. Bloody … bugger, sahib,’ Singh said.

‘More than you think, Sid. I’ve just added murder to that list.’

‘Sahib?’

‘Lieutenant Harrington-Brown,’ Lock said, nodding over his shoulder at the receding bulk of the
Marmaris
. ‘I just stuck my knife in his chest. Trouble is, I didn’t have time to retrieve it before Bingham-Smith arrived on the scene.’

‘I do not … understand … sahib.’

‘It’s engraved. The knife. With my name, Sid. A gift from Amy. Pretty damning evidence.’

Singh shook his head and stopped rowing for a moment. ‘No, sahib, I do not understand. You say you killed the lieutenant sahib?’

‘In self-defence, Sid, I assure you. Bastard tried to kill me first.’

‘Oh,’ Singh said, looking dubious.

‘I was expecting, hoping, that Wassmuss as himself … or in the guise of
Binbaşi
Feyzi … or something … would be on that ship, Sid. Some evidence to help clear me of this ridiculous accusation. Only I didn’t find him,’ he sighed. ‘I found a dead German, all right. He had my knife in him, too, would you believe.’