Shoulder the Sky (30 page)

Scruby pulled a face. "Oi should've done that better. Barshey Gee says as you've bin asking about that wroiter fellow what got drownded out there." He jerked his hand towards the sporadic sound of machine-gun fire.

"What I really need to know is what he was doing out there anyway," Joseph replied. "He shouldn't have been."

Scruby shrugged. "Shouldn't 'ave bin a lot o' things. Didn't listen, didn't care, an' got is self killed. Serve 'im roight." He sat on the fire-step and started to unlace his boots.

"I dare say in a way he deserved it," Joseph agreed with reluctance. "But which of us can afford what we deserve? I need better, don't you?"

Scruby looked up and grinned. "You're roight, Captain, but it don't work loike that. There's some rules we gotter keep. If we don't, there in't no point. We got nothin' left. It's rules what should 'ave kept Jerry out o' Belgium. It don't belong to 'im, it belongs to the Belgians, poor sods." He took his left boot off and rubbed his foot tenderly. "Oi seen an old man wi' a broken bicycle the other day, tryin' to push it up the road wi' a bag o' potatoes on it, an' a little girl trottin' along besoide 'im, carryin' a doll wi' one arm."

His face crumpled up, and he put his foot back in the offending boot, re lacing it now loosely. "Oi didn't loike that bloke, Captain. Bastard, 'e were, but I s'pose rules is for them yer don't loike. Yer won't 'urt them as yer do. Isn't that what God's about been fair to them as rubs your coat all the wrong way?"

"Yes, that's pretty well how I'd put it," Joseph agreed. "He rubbed my coat the wrong way too, just about every time I saw him."

"Oi don't know for me self what's true," Scruby went on thoughtfully, 'but Oi 'eard 'e were dead set on goin' over the top more so 'e could say 'e 'ad, if yer get me? But 'e swung the general's name around sum mink rotten, loike the general were 'is pa, an' no one 'ad better stand in 'is way. Said 'e 'ad permission, written, an' all! Load o' rubbish, if you ask me."

"Actually the general was his uncle," Joseph replied. "But I can't imagine him giving a war correspondent permission to go over the top. I'd like to find out who he went with, exactly, and what this permission amounted to."

"Oi dunno, Captain. Reckon as you'll 'ave to ask the general is self Oi don't see nobody else goin' to tell you, 'cos they don't care."

Joseph was forced to admit the truth of that. The captain who had led the raid had been killed, and everyone else had claimed that in the dark they couldn't tell Prentice apart from anyone else. Joseph had been very discreet about it, but he already knew most of the sappers could account for each other. It was with a cold, unhappy doubt gnawing inside him that he finally begged a lift on a half-empty ambulance and went to Cullingford's headquarters in Poperinge to ask him outright. At this point he would like to have taken Sam's advice and let it go, but Scruby Andrews was right: if morality were to mean anything at all, it must be applied the most honestly when it was the most difficult, and to protect those everything in you despised.

But when he reached the house just outside Poperinge and asked if he might speak with General Cullingford briefly, Major Hadrian told him that Cullingford was not there.

"You can wait for him, if you've time to, Captain, but I have no idea when he'll be back," Hadrian said with brief apology. "Can I help you?"

Joseph was undecided. He did not want his enquiries to become the subject of speculation any more than they already were, but how could he decide the question one way or the other if he had not the courage to ask? It might be days before he had the opportunity to speak to Cullingford privately. And whatever he learned, he might have to ask Hadrian for verification anyway.

"Yes, perhaps you can," he said, choosing his words with care. They were alone in Hadrian's office; this was as discreet as it was ever going to be. "You may be aware that before his death, Mr. Prentice was keen to gather as much first-hand information as possible about the war."

Hadrian's face was pinched with distaste. He stood behind his desk, small and extremely neat, his haircut immaculate, his uniform fitting him perfectly. "Yes, I know that, Captain." He did not say that it was of no interest to him, but that was in his expression. He was intensely loyal to Cullingford, and if Prentice had been an embarrassment to the general, he would get no protection from Hadrian.

"He managed to get to several places much further forward than any other correspondent," Joseph went on. "He claimed to have General Cullingford's permission. Do you know if that is true?"

Hadrian looked carefully blank, his eyes wide. "Does it matter now, Captain Reavley? Mr. Prentice is dead. Whatever he did, it is not going to be a problem any longer."

There was no avoiding the truth, except by simply surrendering and going away. He could not do that. "The problem will not completely go away, Major Hadrian," he replied. "Mr. Prentice did not die by accident. He was killed, and at least some of the men are aware of it. For morale, if not for justice, there needs to be some accounting for it."

Hadrian frowned. "Justice, Captain?"

"If we do not believe in that, then what are we fighting for?" Joseph asked. "Why do we not simply leave Belgium to her fate, and France too? We could all go home and get on with our lives. If promises to defend the weak are of no value, why is Britain here at all? Why sacrifice our men, our lives, our wealth on something which was in the beginning essentially not our business?"

Hadrian was stunned. "Are you likening Mr. Prentice to Belgium, Captain Reavley?" His abstemious face was filled with distaste.

"I did not like him, Major Hadrian," Joseph said. "And I gather you did not either, but that is hardly the point, is it? Most of the men who have died here in this mud had never been to Belgium before, and I dare say some of them couldn't have found it on the map."

Hadrian swallowed with a convulsion of his throat. "I take your point, but surely Prentice was killed by a German? If he was out in no man's land, then he was a perfectly legitimate target. Even if he were not, there wouldn't be anything we could do about it. He shouldn't have been there."

"No, he shouldn't," Joseph agreed. "Who gave him permission?"

Hadrian coloured a deep red. "Is that your concern, Captain? If you feel you owe some kind of explanation to his family, General Cullingford is his uncle, as no doubt you are aware."

"Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. Mr. Prentice was not killed by a German soldier, he was killed by one of our own."

The colour in Hadrian's face ebbed, leaving him pasty white. "Are you trying to say he was murdered?"

"Yes. Very few men know so far, but I would like to find out the truth and deal with it before they do. I would be obliged for your help, Major. I am sure you can see why. He was not a very pleasant young man, and he caused a certain dislike. People will speculate. I confess, in many ways I am more concerned with protecting the innocent than I am with finding the guilty."

Hadrian was silent, in acute discomfort.

The cold fear began to tighten inside Joseph until was a hard knot of pain. If Cullingford had indeed given Prentice permission to go wherever he pleased, then why? It was an unprofessional thing to do. He would not have given such latitude to any other correspondent. Was it family favour, or had Prentice exerted some pressure? He thought of the bawdy laughter and the jokes he had already heard about Cullingford's replacement driver, the hapless Stallabrass, and his drunken confession to an unrequited passion for his local post mistress The tale had spread like wildfire through the trenches. They needed to laugh to survive, and teasing was merciless. Every time the mail was brought to anyone within earshot of him, the jokes began.

Joseph also knew that Judith and Wil Sloan had deliberately got Stallabrass drunk so Judith could get her old job back driving Cullingford, and Cullingford had allowed it. All kinds of conclusions could be drawn, accurate or not.

"Did General Cullingford give Prentice written permission to go wherever he pleased?" he asked. "That is what he claimed."

Hadrian stared at him in undisguisable misery. He was obviously trying to decide whether he could get away with a lie, and if he could, what it would be, to protect Cullingford.

Joseph put Hadrian out of his misery, partly because once he came up with a lie he would feel cornered into sticking to it, however openly he had been exposed. "I do not need to know the general's reasons for doing so," he said, meeting Hadrian's eyes. "Prentice was a manipulative man and not above emotional pressure where he perceived a vulnerability."

Hadrian's eyes widened.

"Before anyone makes any suggestions, I'd like to know where the general was on the night Prentice died," Joseph said firmly.

"You can't think he'd have anything to do with his death!" Hadrian's voice rose close to falsetto. There was outrage in it, but it was fear that put it there, not indignation.

Joseph was now quite certain that whatever pressure Prentice had used, it had been powerful and effective. The miserable belief grew in him that it concerned Judith.

"I don't," he said, trying to put more certainty into his voice than he felt. "But we need to be able to prove he had not, Major Hadrian."

"Yes." Hadrian swallowed hard. "I was at school with Prentice, Captain Reavley. He was not pleasant, even then. He had a knack of.. . using people. I am not being overly unkind. If you doubt me, ask Major Wetherall. He was at Wellington College also, in my year. Prentice used to keep notes on people then, in his own kind of shorthand. Cryptic sort of stuff. I never learned how to decipher it, but Wetherall was pretty clever, and he worked it out. He told me the sort of thing it was." Hadrian was stiff, his eyes fixed on Joseph's. He was apprehensive, and yet he felt he needed Joseph's co-operation. His anxiety was palpable in the air.

Joseph did not want to know what pressure Prentice had used on his uncle, unless it was absolutely necessary because the knowledge concerned Judith. It was a situation that was making him increasingly unhappy. "I didn't know that," he said. "Where was the general that night?"

"The telephone lines were particularly bad," Hadrian replied. "They seemed to be broken in all directions. You'd get someone, and then lose them again before you heard more than a couple of words. Finally around midnight they went altogether. There was nothing to do about it but go along in person. The general went north and east, I went west. You can ask the commanders concerned: they'll all tell you where he was. Believe me, he was nowhere near Paradise Alley, which I understand is where Prentice was found."

"Yes it was. Thank you, Major. You must have been Paradise Alley way then. Did you see Prentice?"

Hadrian was unusually still. "No. I ... I was held up. My car broken down. I had to jury-rig it use a silk scarf on the fan belt. Took me the devil of a time. It's not really my sort of skill. But no choice that time. No one else to ask."

"I see. Thank you, Major Hadrian." Joseph was not certain if he believed him, but there was nothing further to be pursued here. There might be a way to find out if he had been where he said, but he did not know of it. He excused himself and was walking out of the building into the courtyard when the general's car drove up with Judith at the wheel. They stopped a few yards away. It was already dusk and the shadows were long, half obscuring the outlines of figures.

Judith turned off the engine and got out. She was very slender, the long, plain skirt of her VAD uniform accentuating the delicacy of her body, her slightly square shoulders. She moved with grace, intensely feminine. In the headlights her face had the subtlety of dreams in it, and the fire of emotion. She was looking at Cullingford as he got out as well and slammed the door. It was necessary, to make sure the catch held.

He stopped for a moment. He said something, but Joseph was too far away to hear it; his voice was very low. But it was the look in his face that arrested the attention. He can surely have no idea how naked it was: the tenderness in his eyes, his mouth, betrayed him utterly.

Then he straightened his shoulders, turned and walked over towards the entrance, his easy gait masking tiredness with the long habit of discipline, and disappeared inside.

Joseph moved forward into the pool of the headlights.

Judith saw him only as a figure to begin with, then suddenly recognition lit her face. "Joseph!" She dropped the crank handle on the gravel and came towards him.

He took her in his arms quickly and held her a moment. It was not perhaps strictly correct, but sometimes feeling was more important than etiquette. The touch of someone you loved, the instant of unspoken communication, was a balm to the raw need, a remembrance of the things that give reason and life to the man inside the shell. He could feel the strength and the softness of her, smell the soap on her skin and the engine oil on her hands. He was so angry with her for being less than she could have been, for twisting Cullingford's emotions till he was vulnerable to Prentice, and for laying herself wide open to contempt, or worse, that the words choked in his throat.

He pushed her away. "You shouldn't have done it, Judith!" he said hoarsely. "If it was someone else, I could excuse them that they might not have known any better! But you do!"

"Done what?" Her expression was defensive, but she could not make innocence believable. She tried, but an inner honesty belied it. "What are you talking about?"