The Furies (10 page)

Elspeth blinked and stared at her. ‘You mean…'

‘Write to him…anonymously…a warning.'

‘But…' Elspeth began to say, then stopped as she realised the sense of Sylvia's suggestion. ‘I never thought I'd ever contemplate such a thing,' she finally said, ‘but Anya's behaviour is so worrying that warning McCarthy might be for the best.'

‘I'd feel awful if something did happen to him…'

‘I'll write the letter this evening,' Elspeth said.

‘Good.' Sylvia sat forward in her chair. ‘You know, Ellie, sometimes I wonder if Anya might be suffering from a mental illness, something like moral insanity.'

‘You mean psychopathy?'

‘Yes.'

Elspeth slowly nodded. ‘You could be right, Sylvie. Psychopath's have no compunction about killing and Anya's quite casual about the idea of shooting McCarthy. But after that performance a few weeks ago, when she thought she was being followed, and now her paranoia about us…well, it's possible she might be suffering from a paranoid psychosis.' She paused. ‘Which may be more dangerous.'

‘Why?'

‘Because when a psychopath kills it is usually for a logical reason, whereas when a paranoid psychotic kills, it is often for irrational, delusional reasons.'

‘Like thinking that McCarthy is directly responsible for killing Grace?'

‘Yes. Or that we might be about to tip off the police about her.'

‘Well we
are
going to tip off the police about her.' A smile appeared on Sylvia's face. ‘So strictly speaking that's not delusional.'

‘This is serious, Sylvie.'

The smile faded. ‘I know it is, Ellie.' She sighed. ‘So what do we do after you've written to McCarthy? If Vera is right, maybe we should leave London?'

Elspeth suddenly remembered the marconigram. She reached inside her jacket pocket and gave it to Sylvia. ‘Arrived this morning, from Dr Inglis, my mentor in Edinburgh.'

Sylvia quickly read the telegram. ‘Why is she going to the War Office?'

Elspeth shrugged. ‘She doesn't say. But I have a feeling it might have something to do with the fact she's the commandant of a Voluntary Aid Detachment in Edinburgh. I know she's trained over a thousand VADs and may be offering their services for the war effort. Anyway I'll go and meet her, find out what she's up to. It's just possible she might have something for us to do.'

The black taxi sputtered along Horse Guards Avenue towards Whitehall. Sitting in the back seat, Elspeth peered through the side window and watched the white corner domes and ionic columns of the War Office hove into view. The driver pulled up at the kerb and Elspeth quickly paid the fare; then climbed out the cab and hurried past two khaki-clad soldiers standing guard outside the main entrance. Stepping through the double doors, she found herself inside a spacious foyer, a large reception desk directly ahead of her, a uniformed porter wearing a peaked cap sitting behind the desk. A large bronze clock on the wall above his head showed half past five as Elspeth went up to him and told him she was there to meet Dr Inglis.

‘—who had an appointment here this afternoon,' she continued. ‘Is it possible to tell me whether she's finished or not?'

The porter lifted a clipboard and ran his finger down the page, ‘She checked in at…' He moved his finger along the line. ‘…3.57 p.m., but was only called in at…let me see…5.23 p.m.' He glanced up at the clock above his head. ‘She's had a long wait, ma'am, and only just gone in.'

‘Oh thank goodness,' Elspeth said with relief. ‘I thought I might have missed her.'

‘No, she's only been in for five minutes – she might be some time yet.' He pointed to a row of chairs nearby. ‘You can wait over there if you like.'

She thanked him and went to sit down. Leading away from both sides of the foyer, were two long corridors, the darkly polished wood floors extending the length of the building on either side, while at the back of the foyer a paisley-carpeted staircase led up to the first floor; two army officers chatted as they walked up the stairs. She sighed and sank back into the chair, pleased she hadn't missed Dr Inglis. It had been a busy operating list at St Mary's and she had rushed to get here on time, worrying that she might be too late. Now she would just have to sit back and wait. She glanced down at the ochre-coloured marks on the back of her wrists, from the surgical iodine used to sterilise the skin, which she had failed to wash away during her hurried exit from the hospital—

‘Elspeth!'

Startled at the call, Elspeth looked up to see a figure on the staircase, waving at her as she descended the steps. A slight woman, dressed in a brown skirt and jacket and holding a small leather holdall, Dr Inglis arrived at the bottom of the staircase and walked briskly towards the reception desk. The porter handed her the clipboard and pencil, and then pointed to a place on the page. As Dr Inglis signed her name, he glanced up at the clock. ‘Blimey,' he said. ‘That didn't take long.'

‘Well, there's no point in wasting time is there?' Dr Inglis replied; Elspeth was pleased to hear the familiar Scottish accent.

The porter grinned and nodded, and then doffed his cap to her as she walked past him to meet Elspeth.

‘Elspeth, dear, I'm so pleased you could make it.' Dr Inglis leant forward to give her a hug.

‘It's good to see you, too,' Elspeth said as they pulled apart. It had been almost a year since Elspeth had last seen her mentor and she looked older, her grey hair swept behind her head and held in place with a mother-of-pearl clasp. ‘I thought I'd missed you, but the porter told me you'd only just gone in.'

‘Yes, it wasn't a very long meeting I'm afraid…' Her intelligent green eyes glanced up at the clock above the reception desk. ‘Look, they kept me waiting much longer than I expected and I'm in a bit of a rush to get back to Edinburgh. Can you come to the station with me and we'll talk as we go?'

‘Of course.' Elspeth led Dr Inglis back through the entrance, past the two soldiers on guard, and onto the pavement. A taxi was just pulling up at the kerb, and an army lieutenant stepped out of the vehicle, paid the driver his fare, and then held the door open for Elspeth and Dr Inglis.

‘Kings Cross, please, driver,' Elspeth said and then sat back in the seat. As the taxi pulled away, she looked across at Dr Inglis. ‘I'm sorry to hear your meeting didn't go well. Was it about your Voluntary Aid Detachment?'

Dr Inglis sighed. She looked tired, Elspeth thought, her brow furrowed with worry lines, shadows under her eyes. ‘Yes, partly that. But as well as the volunteers we've trained, we've also established a Scottish Women's Hospital Unit and have raised enough money to send two hospitals overseas to care for wounded Allied soldiers: one to France and another to Serbia. Both hospitals will be staffed entirely by women. My meeting today was to let the War Office know of our plan.'

A hospital run entirely by women?
Elspeth felt a sudden glow of excitement at the idea and its implications. However she knew how the male military hierarchy would have received such a radical proposal. ‘They weren't interested, were they,' she said.

Dr Inglis shook her head, but then smiled philosophically ‘The senior officer in charge of the medical services took a minute to read the proposal and then point-blank refused to accept it. He said – and I quote – “a casualty clearing hospital at the battle-front is not the safest place for those of a gentler, more sensible disposition”.'

Elspeth gently laughed at her mentor's attempt at an upper-class English accent. ‘So he was condescending, with undertones of patronisation, and a hint of misogyny?'

‘Exactly that. “Go back to Edinburgh and sit still” were his parting words to me.'

Elspeth shook her head. She was used to this sort of treatment from men – it was one of the reasons she'd joined the WSPU – but she still found it frustrating beyond belief. ‘But you're going to go ahead with the plan anyway?' she said.

‘Yes. This senior officer said the War Office will refuse to accept our hospitals, but I've already spoken to the French and Serbian governments via their London embassies, and they are more than happy to have us. You see, it's not just VAD volunteers that will go out with these hospitals. We also need experienced professional women, like surgeons, nurses, drivers…people like you, Elspeth.'

‘So
that's
why you wanted to meet.'

‘Yes. I'd really like you to come with us. With your surgical training and experience, you're just the sort of person we're looking for.'

Elspeth felt light-headed at the thought. ‘I can't think of anything else I'd rather do right now.'

‘We're also looking for experienced nurses, so if you know of anyone—'

‘Yes! I
can
think of someone who would be keen to join,' Elspeth said, thinking immediately of Sylvia. ‘When do we go? We can leave immediately if you want.'

Dr Inglis laughed. ‘Actually the French unit is already fully staffed and due to leave in a few weeks. It's the Serbian unit I'm recruiting for now, but because of the logistical difficulties of transporting staff and equipment, we won't be sailing until mid-December.'

That was three months away, thought Elspeth with disappointment. ‘But we're both keen as mustard to help immediately. Do you know of anything else we could do before December?

Dr Inglis's brow furrowed. ‘Well, there is one possibility. The Women's Hospital Corps left for Paris earlier this week. They're another women-only-staffed hospital led by a young surgeon, Dr Louisa Garrett Anderson. Her second in command is Dr Flora Murray, a physician I know well as we used to work together. I hear through the grapevine that one of their associate surgeons has just been diagnosed with tuberculosis and they're looking for a last-minute replacement. Their London contact is Dr Louisa Woodcock. She lives at number four Nottingham Place, here in London. I suggest you contact her to see if they'll let you join their unit and travel out with them.'

‘That sounds perfect,' Elspeth said. ‘If Dr Anderson will take us to Paris now, then we can come back to London in time to join you—'

‘Just one slender note of caution, Elspeth,' Dr Inglis interrupted. ‘You should be aware that Dr Anderson has a bit of a chequered past. She was at one time a member of the WSPU, and two years ago was imprisoned for militancy.'

‘Oh,' Elspeth said, only just able to maintain her composure. ‘I see. What exactly did she do?'

‘She smashed the windows of a government minister's house in Knightsbridge,' Dr Inglis replied, with obvious distaste. ‘A crime for which she received six weeks' hard labour in Holloway prison.'

‘Well, thankfully, that sort of thing is now behind us,' Elspeth said.

‘Yes, and by all accounts she's a very good surgeon. You'll recognise the surname of course.'

Elspeth frowned for a moment and then gave a slow nod. ‘Of course: her mother is Elizabeth Garret Anderson, the first woman doctor in Britain?'

‘Exactly. So you can see that she comes from a very good medical pedigree. If Dr Anderson's Paris Corp does have room for you, I'd strongly suggest you go with them. Some early experience of battlefield trauma before you join us in December would be very useful.'

Their taxi came to a halt outside King's Cross station. Dr Inglis opened the door and stepped outside.

‘Please wait, driver,' Elspeth said, and then followed Dr Inglis onto the pavement. ‘When exactly are you sailing for Serbia?'

‘We're leaving from Southampton on the fifteenth of December, so you need to be back in London the week before.' She turned to look up at the station clock on the tower behind her. ‘Well it was lovely seeing you, Elspeth, and I look forward to meeting you again in December. Do write to me at the Bruntsfield and let me know how you get on in Paris.'

‘Of course.' Elspeth leant forward to give a hug, and then watched her disappear inside the station. A moment later she climbed back inside the taxi and turned to the driver.

‘Nottingham Place, please.'

Gabriel stood in the shade of a willow tree on the Serbian bank of the Drina, gazing down at a line of Austrian soldiers wading across from the Bosnian side. He had forded the river by horseback only a few minutes earlier, and after tethering the animal to the tree had stood watching the vanguard of the 6
^th
Army follow him onto Serbian soil. Most of the soldiers were in pale blue uniforms, although some of the men were in the dark green of the elite Alpine regiments. However, all the troops were bare below the waist, having removed their trousers and boots, which hung – tied by their laces – around their necks as they waded through the thigh-deep water. Reconnaissance patrols had already scouted ahead, but no Serbian opposition – perhaps surprisingly – had yet been encountered. Just as well, thought Gabriel, as the men looked vulnerable, literally naked as they strode through the river, their rifles and ammunition belts held high above their heads.

So far it had not gone well for Field Marshall Potiorek. It had taken not one, but three weeks for the 6
^th
Army to finish their preparations for war, and Gabriel and his medical column had only left Visigrad – the last town before the Serbian border – earlier that morning. They were already two weeks behind schedule and Gabriel had heard that Potiorek was furious at the delay, his hope of a quick victory over Serbia as a birthday gift to the emperor now foregone. The troops had been told they would have to make quick progress in order to make up for lost time, so Gabriel left the shade of the tree and trudged up the grassy slope to get a better view of the route they would soon take. A dried up water-track snaked uphill, a tributary along which water must once have gushed on its way down to join the river below. This defile meandered towards the hills of western Serbia, and beyond these were the mountains they would have to cross in order to reach the central Serbian plain and the town of Kragujevac on the far side.

Sudden laughter caught his attention and he turned to look down at the river bank. The soldiers who had just crossed were drying themselves in the sunshine, joking and sniggering at the sight of each other's river-cold shrivelled penises. The men were in good spirits, Gabriel thought as he watched them reassemble and begin to tramp up the slope.

He observed them for a little while longer, and then looked across to the Bosnian side of the Drina, where a line of ponies and mules – essential for moving supplies in this terrain – were waiting patiently at the water's edge. Beyond the animals a Red Cross flag marked the position of the Divisional Aid Station. A cluster of farm buildings had been identified near the river bank, and after requisitioning them for military use, Gabriel had arranged for the walls and floors to be cleaned and disinfected so they could be converted into a temporary hospital.

The last line of soldiers had finished crossing the river and Gabriel saw the first of the ponies being led into the water. From the red crosses on the animals' flanks he knew they were carrying the dressing station medical supplies. So he straightened the Red Cross armband on the sleeve of his captain's jacket – the only feature on his uniform that distinguished him from other officers of the same rank – and looked around to try and find the other staff from the medical column. Higher up the bank and a little further along Lieutenant Peter Flieger was talking to Klaus, Gabriel's orderly, and the two new medical reservists, Berger and Schwann. The four men had serious expressions on their faces, their heads inclined together in a secretive huddle, and Gabriel was curious to know what they were discussing.

‘Corporal Sparmacher,' he shouted up. Klaus quickly pulled away from the group – a guilty look on his face – and ambled down to Gabriel. Corporal Klaus Sparmacher had been with the Austrian army for many years, and during that time had been a faithful assistant to Gabriel, with a seemingly endless supply of good humour and a constant smile. However, some of Klaus's habits – a liking for idle gossip, a deep love of schnapps (his breath had smelt heavily of it this morning) and a natural inclination to laziness – were a source of continual irritation for Gabriel,

‘Captain?'

‘Come on, Klaus, we're under orders to make good time. Help get those ponies and medical supplies up here.'

‘Yes, Captain.' Klaus replied with a salute and then began to saunter down the bank.

‘And don't be all day about it,' Gabriel called after him and grinned as the old corporal started a slow rolling jog down the slope.

Flieger and the other two doctors arrived at Gabriel's side.

‘Well, I'm relieved we're finally on Serbian soil,' Flieger said, and Gabriel couldn't tell whether his First Surgeon was genuinely pleased or not. Gabriel had grown to like Flieger, a loyal colleague and family man devoted to his wife and five children. He was also normally a plucky, hard-working surgeon, who relished a challenge, but today Gabriel saw lines of tension beneath his round, silver-rimmed spectacles.

‘Well, Peter, I didn't realise you were so keen for the fighting to begin,' Gabriel said dryly, trying to keep a straight face.

Frown lines appeared on Flieger's brow. ‘No, what I meant was, the quicker we start, the quicker…' He stopped as Gabriel could no longer hide the grin from his face. ‘Oh,' he said, and then gave a short tight smile to allay his embarrassment.

‘I know what you meant, Peter.' Gabriel glanced at the two men standing beside Flieger; Dr Thomas Berger and Dr Karl Schwann were reservists who had qualified from Vienna only one year earlier. Berger, a gangly reservist with curly brown hair, had initially intended a career as a surgeon, but confessed to Gabriel he had lacked the necessary dexterity for tying surgical knots and thus had developed an interest in anaesthesia. This was welcome news for Gabriel, because although anaesthesia had traditionally been a nurse's job, the chief now insisted that, wherever possible, trained doctors should take over this role. Dr Schwann, a reservist with short, sandy-coloured hair, had worked in a fever hospital in Vienna over the past year and was going to be the medical column's physician. Both men had appeared quietly confident during the two-week preparation for war, but Gabriel was surprised to see that – like Flieger – both men looked unsettled.

‘Is everything alright?' Gabriel asked them with a puzzled frown.

‘Oh yes, Captain,' Berger replied – a little too quickly for Gabriel's liking – and Schwann nodded his head.

‘Are you sure?' Gabriel replied. ‘There's nothing you are worried about, or want to ask?'

Both men shook their heads and Gabriel scratched his chin; something was obviously bothering them, he thought, as he turned back to Flieger. ‘So, Peter,' he said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘How's your little boy? Born the day the Archduke died; is that why you named him Franz?'

‘No.' Flieger took his glasses off and wiped them on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘It's nothing to do with the Archduke. Maria and I decided on names well before he was born. It was always going to be Francesca for a girl and Franz for a boy.' He put the glasses back on and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. ‘Actually little Franz is driving his mother mad: he's not a good sleeper. Maria's often up with him during the night and during the day she has her hands full with the other four children.' He squinted through the lenses. ‘Do you think this will be a long war, Gabriel? We heard the field marshal say it should all be over within a few weeks…but…'

‘But what?' Gabriel asked.

Flieger hesitated. ‘Well…there are rumours.'

Gabriel tensed. ‘What have you heard?'

‘I don't want to get anyone into trouble—'

‘Just tell me,' Gabriel said, a note of impatience in his voice.

Flieger looked ill at ease as he spoke. ‘Well, Kramer in supply division told me that the 5
^th
Army's assault on the Cer plateau has been a disaster. He said that when the 2
^nd
Army were transferred to Russia, it left the 5
^th
Army flank exposed, and they've had twenty thousand men killed or taken prisoner. Apparently it turned into a rout.'

‘Is this true?' Berger asked.

At last Gabriel understood their agitation. Well, he thought, it was only been a matter of time before the story leaked out. ‘Yes, it's true,' he said. ‘Chief Fischer told me about it yesterday. He learnt it from the 5
^th
Army's chief surgeon when he asked the chief for an urgent transfer of medical supplies. The news is unofficial at the moment and you're to keep quiet about it. High command is worried about the effect on morale.'

‘Is it as bad as the rumour says?' Schwann asked.

‘Yes, I'm afraid so.'

‘What does this mean for us?' Flieger said.

All three men looked at Gabriel with concern. ‘Well, it means we're on our own and that the Serbs can concentrate their forces against us. The chief had thought the field marshal might call our attack off, at least until the 5
^th
Army has had time to recover. But for the time being, our orders are to carry on. Whether the field marshal will change his mind—'

A sudden harsh braying interrupted him, and all four men turned to look down at the river. The column of mules and ponies carrying the dressing station supplies was mid-way across the river, and Klaus was struggling with one of the mules, the animal whinnying with disapproval as the corporal hauled on the bridle, trying to coax it forwards. Suddenly the stubborn animal snapped its head back, jerking the reins in Klaus's hands and pulling him off-balance. With a splash he disappeared head first into the river and reappeared a moment later, much to the amusement of the men around him. Flieger and Berger burst out laughing, and even Gabriel could not help smiling as he saw Klaus flounder in the river, shaking water from his hair and cursing the animal, which mutely regarded him. The incident broke through the despondency that had descended over the group, and Gabriel glanced up the slope and saw that the last of the troops had disappeared into the defile. It was the perfect time to end the discussion.

‘Look, Peter, there's no point in dwelling on these rumours. We have our orders and you know what we must do. So you'd better get moving: the lead units are well ahead.' He gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and then turned to walk back down the slope towards his horse.

***

For the rest of that day, Gabriel and his medical column followed the soldiers of the Austrian 6
^th
struggling through the thick brush and undergrowth on the hills of western Serbia. It was a hard physical slog, transporting men, animals and their supplies through the densely wooded countryside and up the forested inclines towards the mountains. For much of the way, Gabriel had to dismount and lead his horse, as it was too treacherous to ride along the slender tracks, with precipitous drops into streams and gullies that lay on either side.

It was nine o'clock and dusk was falling when they finally set up camp close to a small Serbian hamlet on the far side of the hills, the shadow of the western Serbian mountains looming only a few miles further east. The regiment had temporarily requisitioned the well in the centre of the village and several scruffily dressed, sullen-faced Serbian men, clad in the typical tubular woollen caps and oriental-style straw shoes, glowered at the Austrians as they refilled their canteens. A gaggle of small children and a few women in brightly coloured peasant clothes stood a little way behind them. Gabriel was uneasy for the civilians, worried that their obvious antagonism might incite the soldiers to acts of violence. But the officers maintained good discipline amongst the troops, and after taking their fill of water the soldiers left the hamlet and erected their tents a few hundred metres away. It was a humid August night and Gabriel chose to sleep under the stars, chatting to Flieger and Klaus for a while before eventually falling asleep.

***

He woke before dawn and saw the first magenta tint of daybreak on the horizon. Then he closed his eyes again, and suddenly found himself standing on a station platform, dressed in civilian attire, waiting for a train to take him to Klagenfurt. A locomotive approached at speed, but did not stop: a blast of warm air and steam blew across his face, and the platform below his feet shook as the train screamed past him…

And then Gabriel realised that the screaming was not mechanical, but was like that of an injured animal…or person…

Waking from the dream, Gabriel heard the cries and shouts of men in pain. As he struggled to his feet he heard a strange whining sound: another artillery shell passed overhead and exploded twenty yards behind him, the rush of hot air and vibration from the shell burst knocking him off his feet.

He levered himself up again and saw that Flieger and Berger were already sprinting towards the screams of the wounded. Gabriel staggered up and stood in a crouch, squinting in the dawn half-light at the spot where the shell had landed: other men were already hurrying towards the smouldering crater. Quickly he followed them, the ground beneath his feet littered with debris from the explosion. Scattered amongst these smoking chunks of earth he saw charred scraps of uniform, and a piece of gleaming white substance laced with red that he realised with shock was a segment of human femur. Then there was the sudden crack of a rifle shot, the report echoing from the mountain behind, and one of the soldiers by the edge of the crater slumped silently to the ground. Another crack, and this time Gabriel heard the bullet whine as it passed overhead; then heard someone a short distance away let out a strangled cry. Gabriel threw himself down, trying to hide, trying to grind himself into the hard summer-baked earth, unnerved that Serb snipers could find their targets so easily in the early-morning gloom. He waited a moment and then began to crawl forwards again. Smoke drifted across the ground, and, hoping it would hide him, Gabriel quickly got to his feet and ran, half-crouched, towards the smouldering depression in the ground and slithered into it.