‘You’re going to what?’
‘To grab you. I realize it will be distasteful to you to be touched by a member of the lower orders, but for the purposes of this experiment you’re just going to have to grit your teeth and put up with it.’
‘For Christ’s sake, man, just get on with it!’ Carstairs growled.
Blackstone gripped Carstairs’ left shoulder firmly with his left hand, and swung his right fist until it made brief contact with the right side of the captain’s head. Carstairs tried to struggle free, but the fact that he was sitting down put him at a distinct disadvantage, and he had still not managed to break away when Blackstone’s fist made contact for a second time.
‘And remember, the more times I manage to hit you, the weaker you become,’ Blackstone said.
‘That’s enough!’ Carstairs bellowed.
Blackstone released his grip, and the captain brushed off the left-hand shoulder of his jacket, and smoothed down the right-hand side of his hair.
Carstairs was undoubtedly angry, Blackstone thought, but even in his rage, he could not dismiss the idea that what he had just endured was probably an accurate reconstruction of what had actually happened to Fortesque.
When the captain turned to look at Blackstone, his face was an emotional blank.
‘Fortesque not only allowed his killer to enter the dugout, but also let himself be blindsided,’ he said.
‘It looks that way,’ Blackstone agreed.
Carstairs shook his head in what might just possibly have been admiration.
‘I appear to have underestimated you, Inspector,’ he said.
‘You wouldn’t be the first.’
‘Thanks to your efforts, I see the whole thing clearly now,’ Carstairs said. ‘Thanks to your efforts, we now know who the killer is.’
‘We do?’
‘Of course! The only person who could have killed Fortesque — because he was the only person who’d have been permitted to get into the position in which an attack was possible — was Fortesque’s servant. I’ll inform Captain Huxton of that immediately, and the guilty man will be under arrest within the hour — and in front of a firing squad within the week. And as for you, Inspector Blackstone, you can return to England immediately, with a letter of commendation — which I will personally sign — in your pocket.’
‘Why should his servant have killed him?’ Blackstone asked.
‘I really have no idea — but, as you said, it’s the only possibility.’
‘I never said that.’
‘All right, then, if it’s a motive you’re looking for, then how about this — the servant felt that Fortesque had insulted him, though how you insult a servant, God only knows — and wanted to get his revenge. Or perhaps this constant bombardment we’ve been under had turned his mind. At any rate, it doesn’t matter to me why he killed Fortesque — it’s enough to know that he did.’
‘You’re ignoring the other possibility,’ Blackstone said firmly.
‘But there is no other possibility,’ Carstairs said, looking mystified. Then, as he realized what Blackstone was implying, his face darkened. ‘I have already made it quite clear to you that I will not entertain the idea that an officer might be the killer,’ he continued, angrily.
‘An officer wouldn’t need an excuse to enter the dugout,’ Blackstone pointed out. ‘He would have a right to be there, as you said yourself.’
‘Once he’s arrested, the servant will break down and confess — and you will look very foolish,’ Carstairs said confidently.
‘I’ve no doubt that Huxton’s lads will make him confess — given the right circumstances, most men can be made to confess to almost anything,’ Blackstone said, ‘but that won’t necessarily mean he’s guilty.’
‘What do you want, Blackstone?’ Carstairs asked, suddenly sounding very tired. ‘What do I have to do in order to make you see the truth?’
‘You have to do nothing,’ Blackstone told him. ‘I’ll get to the truth — the real truth — in my way and in my own time. And I’ll start by questioning Fortesque’s servant.’
‘You will do no such thing!’ Carstairs said. ‘What you will do is catch the first available train back to Calais, and-’
‘And as soon as I get back to England, I’ll go and see General Fortesque and tell him that you stopped me from doing the job he personally sent me out here to do,’ Blackstone interrupted him. ‘And how will he take it? Do you think he will consider you’ve acted honourably?’
Rage burned in Carstairs’ eyes, but slowly it became damped down by the blanket of inevitable defeat.
‘General Fortesque is a great hero of mine,’ he said. ‘If he questioned my honour, I do not think I could live with myself.’
‘I know,’ Blackstone said.
Carstairs shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Very well, since you have so little sense of your own honour that you are prepared to ride on the coat-tails of a great man to get what you want, I will permit you to question the servant,’ he said. ‘Are you satisfied now?’
‘No,’ Blackstone said. ‘There’s something else I want.’
‘Are there no limits to your demands?’ Carstairs asked, exasperatedly.
‘Not when I’m conducting a murder investigation, no,’ Blackstone said simply.
‘Then what more do you want?’
‘I’d like to see Lieutenant Fortesque’s body.’
‘That’s not possible,’ Carstairs said.
And then he laughed, as if he’d realized he’d just scored a small triumph, which did, at least, do something to mitigate his larger defeat.
‘Why isn’t it possible?’ Blackstone asked. ‘Give me a couple of men with spades, and I’ll-’
‘Do you think that he was buried here in France, like a common soldier?’ Carstairs said scornfully.
‘Wasn’t he?’
‘He most certainly was not. The lieutenant’s body has been shipped back to England, where, with all due and appropriate ceremony, he will be laid to rest with his ancestors, in the family vault.’
Of course he would, Blackstone thought, because even in death there was one law for the rich and another for the poor.
FIVE
The village of St Denis was perched at the apex of a small hill, some four miles behind the British lines. An old stone church stood at its centre — its spire straining upwards, as if it wished to pierce the sky — and the houses and shops were clustered around it. Seen from a distance, across the sunny summer meadows, it was as pretty a village as any which had ever graced a picture postcard.
It must have been a quiet, peaceful place a few years earlier, Blackstone thought — a sleepy hamlet which fully accepted that there was a whole wide world beyond its own narrow boundaries, but had no real interest in knowing any more about that world than was strictly necessary. But those days were gone forever. The simple innocence, in which the village had once been snugly packed, had been roughly ripped from it by the great iron fist of war — and the place would never be the same again.
He was less than half a mile from the village when he first noticed the rows of low grey tents pitched in a field at the foot of the hill. As he drew closer, he could see the soldiers, too. Some were being endlessly paraded up and down, in full battledress. Others, under the screamed encouragement of their NCOs, were charging sacks of sand, and stabbing them with their bayonets.
So even here, there was no respite from the war, Blackstone thought. Even here, where the weary and disillusioned men should have been able to snatch a little rest, they were being put through pointless drills which would be of no use to them at all, once they came under the deadly scything action of hot machine-gun fire.
Shaking his head, Blackstone slowly walked up the steep cobbled street which led to the church. The houses he passed were all half-timbered, and several of their lower floors had been converted into quaint business premises — a bakery, a butcher’s, a pharmacy, a doctor’s surgery, and a modest cafe — though all of them were now empty.