The First Casualty (20 page)

THIRTY-FOUR

Lunch at Simpsons

Cumming proposed that they venture across the river into south London and find an out-of-the-way chop house or perhaps a small Chinese establishment. Not unreasonably, he saw no sense in running any more risk of Kingsley’s being recognized than was necessary.

‘Once you get to the front,’ he said, ‘I do not anticipate any problems. People there have better things to do than worry about recently dead detectives but here in London many people know you, particularly in the West End and the City. There’s always the chance of you bumping into an old acquaintance. Kingsley would have none of it.’

‘We shall not skulk about, Sir Mansfield. I should have thought that you above all people would understand that no bluff is effective unless delivered with
absolute
conviction. The skulker will always be detected and fortune will always favour the brave. If I do not have the confidence to stroll along the Strand then I am not safe anywhere. But I
do
have the confidence, you see, Captain. Because Inspector Kingsley is dead, Captain Christopher Marlowe, bearded, bespectacled and splendidly uniformed officer of the RMP, no more resembles him than does General Haig. But even if I were clean-shaven and put amongst my former peers I can assure you that they would not know me, for I do not
wish
to be known and therefore I shall not
be
known. A successful deception is about
inner conviction
,’ Captain, not facial hair and hats.’

‘Hmmm. Well, quite frankly that sounds like absolute balls to me but I have to admire your side, Inspector…’

‘Captain.’

‘Yes, Captain. Besides,’ I do agree that got up like that I cannot imagine why anybody would recognize your old self, even strolling along the Strand.’

‘They will not and I suggest we put it to the test by lunching at my favourite restaurant, where I have dined many times. Simpsons-in-the-Strand.’

Together the two men strolled out into Whitehall and back through Trafalgar Square towards the Strand. The revolutionary peace demonstration was over and in its place a military band was playing.

‘
Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile smile smile
,’ Cumming sang along good-humouredly. ‘They appear to be playing your song, eh,’ Marlowe?’

They walked past Charing Cross Station, outside which as usual ambulances stood amongst the ranks of wounded awaiting dispersal. Those able to walk sat about miserably in groups, smoking their fags and drinking tea which was dispensed free from a small stall run by the Salvation Army. All the men were utterly filthy, still caked in the mud of northern France and Belgium, their eyes staring out from blackened faces as they scratched at the fleas and bugs that tormented them. The less fortunate were laid out in rows on stretchers; some groaned,’ others lay very still. Kingsley had never got used to sights such as these in the heart of London. Some of the men appeared to be dead, but he knew that the army did not go to the trouble of shipping back soldiers who were certain to die, for the spaces were needed for those who stood a chance. Male medical officers and female nurses were attending them. Some of the nurses had clearly come direct from France and were nearly as dirty and desperate as the wounded. Other young women had come over from Charing Cross Hospital and were clean and smartly turned out. Not much more than girls, most of them, newly trained and very nervous-looking. One or two, Kingsley noticed, were smiling shyly towards him and Sir Mansfield as they passed. He thought this most uncommonly forward of them until he realized that Shannon had sneaked up behind them as if from nowhere and was winking and waving at the girls.

‘Morning once again, Kingsley,’ Shannon said with irritating bonhomie. ‘Morning, sir. Splendid sight, eh? British nurses, all starch and powder. Jolliest in the world, say I. Think I’ll pop back after lunch, they’ll have seen a lot of hellish sights by then and will no doubt be
most
upset. They’ll need some comforting.’

‘Be quiet, you odious man!’ Cumming snapped angrily. ‘We are not interested in your wretched obsessions.’

‘As you wish, sir,’ Shannon said, but his manner was insolent.

They arrived at Simpsons and it was, as Kingsley had expected, very crowded. Nonetheless he strode straight up to the maitre d’ and, addressing him by his name, loudly demanded a table.

‘I am shortly to depart again for France, Ridley, and wish to dine once more at my favourite watering hole. Come now, I’m sure you can find room for us.’

The maitre d’ did not recognize Kingsley though he clearly felt he should have done, and he ushered them immediately to a booth.

‘We always try to accommodate our brave officers, sir,’ the maitre d’ assured them, ‘especially such distinguished ones.’

Both Shannon and Cumming wore impressive medal ribbons and whoever had organized Kingsley’s uniform had seen fit to invest him with a DSO.

‘Capital choice,’ Shannon said as the three of them settled into a booth. ‘Do you know, I think the reason we chaps like Simpsons so much is because it serves very posh school dinners. Two four six eight. Bog in. Don’t wait!’

He grabbed a bread roll and pushed almost all of the butter into it.

Both soldiers ordered beef cut rare from the big joint that was brought to them on a trolley but Kingsley had a piece of fish. He was by no means a vegetarian but after the sights he had just seen at Charing Cross Station he had temporarily lost his appetite for red meat. The wine, however, he was grateful for, as clearly was Shannon, who drained his first glass in a single gulp.

‘Of course the war’s playing absolute merry hell with the French wine industry,’ Shannon observed. ‘God knows what rubbish we’ll all be drinking in ten years’ time. Not that most of us will be around to try it, of course. Not anyone worth serving a decent vintage to, anyway. Rather a pleasing thought that, when all the sound, brave chaps are dead and only the cowards, smug old men and shitty conchies remain, at least they’ll only have war vintages to drink.’

Kingsley drank his wine and ate his fish in silence. He was thinking about the mission they wanted him to perform. He had been thinking about it all the way along the Strand.

‘Sir Mansfield tells me that you have been to France and spoken with the relevant witnesses in the Abercrombie case, Captain Shannon,’ he said finally.

‘Briefly, yes.’

‘Sir Mansfield mentioned a nurse.’

‘Yes, Nurse Murray. The last person apart from the killer to see Abercrombie alive,’ Shannon replied. ‘Very sweet girl, very, very sweet.’

The man’s voice made Kingsley’s skin crawl. He thought once more of sixteen-year-old Violet on Folkestone beach.

‘Did you manage to apply your rule?’ Kingsley asked coldly.

‘Rule? What rule?’ Cumming enquired through his roast beef,’ Yorkshire pudding and tobacco smoke.

Shannon smiled the most charming of smiles.

‘Oh, just something Kingsley and I have been discussing, sir. A matter of no consequence. But yes, as it happens, Inspector, I did
probe
the witness
most
thoroughly. I felt it my duty to do so. ‘Shannon let this hang in the air for a moment before adding, ‘And she told me that she saw an officer hurrying from Abercrombie’s room but she did not see his face or his rank.’

‘How did she know he was an officer?’

‘Cap and boots. We don’t issue riding clobber to privates, they get canvas leggings.’

‘What about the other witness to this mysterious officer?’

‘McCroon?’

‘Yes. Did he get any more detail?’

‘Sadly not. Again he caught only a fleeting glimpse. The château is a large one, a sort of stately home, lot of corridors, lot of shadows.’

Once more Kingsley took out his notebook.

‘Were McCroon and the nurse together when they made their sighting?’

Shannon drew heavily on his gasper and lit a second one from its glowing end.

‘No. In different parts of the same corridor, which turns a number of corners and contains numerous wards. Nurse Murray saw the figure leave Abercrombie’s room as she emerged from Hopkins’s ward, which is next door to it. She saw him hurry off in the opposite direction to her. McCroon was further along the same corridor, in a different ward, and says he had left it to relieve himself. He claims that the mysterious officer pushed past him and hurried on in front.’

‘So McCroon’s sighting of the officer would have taken place moments after Nurse Murray’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘And both witnesses saw only the back of this man?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘So if this mystery man shot Abercrombie, Nurse Murray would have been next door in Hopkins’s ward at the time. Did she hear a shot?’

‘She may have done but it’s impossible to say.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because, dress it up with as much Not Yet Diagnosed balls as you wish, this place is a loony bin and loony bins are damned noisy, especially at night. I know, I’ve been there. There are bangs, shrieks and much rattling of chains. Most unsettling. Also, the walls and doors of the château are thick. It would be quite possible for a shot to go unnoticed at any time in such a place.’

‘So nobody heard a shot?’

‘Oh, they all heard shots, any number of shots. I’ve told you this is a loony bin, a loony bin for victims of shell shock. Some of them hear very little else
but
shots.’

‘What about timings?’ Kingsley enquired. ‘Do you have any?’

‘We have Nurse Murray’s timings, which are very clear. She filled in bed reports for all the patients in the ward, reporting on their status as she left them. She did Abercrombie at nine twenty-five and then went next door to Hopkins’s ward. She spent an hour in there, what with changing dressings and the like, and filled out her last report at ten thirty-two. She would have left the ward and spotted the mystery officer moments after that.’

All three men ordered trifle and cream from the dessert trolley and called for more cigarettes.

‘So that places McCroon’s nocturnal visit to the lavatories at approximately ten thirty-three,’ he said.

‘Yes, but of course he cannot confirm that because he doesn’t own a timepiece.’

‘Imagine that?’ Cumming interjected. ‘Not having a watch. I can’t live without knowing the time. Feel absolutely naked.’

‘What time was the body discovered?’ Kingsley enquired.

‘Later. Between eleven forty and eleven forty-five.’

‘And when was Hopkins found with the gun?’

‘Moments after that.’

‘Who discovered the body?’

‘The night nurse who went on duty at ten forty-five, replacing Nurse Murray. She was the one who raised the alarm,’ ‘Shannon answered, before adding for Kingsley’s benefit, ‘I didn’t apply the rule there, by the way, face like a German general.’ Kingsley ignored him.

‘I presume that there has been an appeal made for the mystery officer to come forward and explain himself?’

‘We are assured that the local Military Police have made inquiries but so far with no result.’

‘And Hopkins was arrested because he was found with the murder weapon?’

‘Yes, Abercrombie’s own service revolver.’

‘Abercrombie retained a gun even at a centre for shell shock?’

‘It would seem so. After all, he had not yet been diagnosed.’

‘You are sure that this gun
was
the murder weapon?’

‘Well, Abercrombie had been shot, and Hopkins was found in the next room with Abercrombie’s gun, which had very recently been discharged.’

‘Yes, I can see that it is
probably
the murder weapon but are you
sure?
The bullet has been checked against the gun?’

‘I doubt it, they are fighting a war out there, you know. Lots else to do.’

‘But for heaven’s sake,’ Shannon, you must have proof! You can’t hang a man on weak circumstantial presumptions. There are an awful lot of guns in France.’

‘Well, that’s what you’re here for,’ Cumming said. ‘It’s your job to find some proof.’

They had moved on to the coffee and cigars. Shannon, true to style, had also ordered cognac.

Cumming, who clearly had other business, rose to go.

‘Your papers are being prepared as we speak. I shall leave Shannon to organize the details of your departure. Good luck, Kingsley, and don’t let me down. Sort out the bill, Shannon, get a receipt and
don’t
go ordering a pocketful of cigars to take away with you.’

With that, Cumming left. Shannon rolled the big balloon of cognac in his hands to warm the spirit and inhaled deeply of its vapours.

‘Do you know the Hole in the Wall pub at Waterloo?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll meet you there at six with your identification papers and movement orders.’