Several of the houses had all but been destroyed by shells fired in earlier battles, and even those that remained standing were pockmarked with bullet holes. And there were no civilians to be seen — no pretty girls, no gnarled peasants, no crafty shopkeepers — just men in khaki uniforms who wandered aimlessly, finally free of their pointless duties for a while, but with no avenues open to them to really enjoy that freedom.
At the top of the street he reached a square, with the church on one side of it, and the mairie — which was now flying the Union Flag instead of the Tricolour — directly opposite.
But it was not the mairie — nor the church — which immediately captured his attention. Instead, his gaze was drawn to the two-wheeled cart at the centre of the square — next to the village fountain — and to the soldier who seemed to have almost become a part of it.
The cart, known in military parlance as a limber, had been designed for moving heavy artillery, and so its wheels were over six feet high. And it was against one of these wheels that the man had been spreadeagled, his wrists tied to two of the upper spokes, his ankles to two of the lower ones.
‘Drunk and disorderly?’ Blackstone asked, as he approached the man.
‘That’s right,’ the soldier agreed, and he grinned sheepishly, though he was obviously in some discomfort. ‘Still, there’s worse things than Field Punishment Number One, ain’t there? Hanging here’s not so bad, once you get used to it — and they could have made the case for having me shot, if they’d been of a mind to — so I’ve no complaints. And they’ll be cutting me down in a few hours.’
‘And tying you up again tomorrow morning,’ Blackstone said.
‘That’s the way it goes,’ the soldier said philosophically, and if he’d had sufficient freedom of movement to shrug, he would probably have done just that. ‘Twenty-eight days, they gave me. I did three days before we went down to the front line, and I’ve done another six since we got back here. So, if they don’t send us into the trenches again, I’ve got another — ’ he did a quick calculation — ‘another nineteen to do. Course, if they do send us back — and I get killed — the army will just have to whistle for the rest of the punishment.’
There was a part of Blackstone that admired the man for his spirit of endurance, and part of him that was furious at the soldier’s casual acceptance of the brutality meted out to him. But there was no point in expressing either of these emotions — because this was not his army or his war.
‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked.
The soldier grinned again. ‘A pint of best London bitter would be much appreciated,’ he said, ‘but I’ll settle for a drink of water from the fountain.’
‘Get away from that man!’ screamed a voice behind them, and turning around, Blackstone saw a redcap corporal standing in the doorway of the mairie.
Blackstone laid his carpet bag on the ground, walked across to the fountain, scooped up some water in his cupped hands, and returned to the man on the wheel.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ the redcap bawled as he strode furiously across the square. ‘I told you to get away from that man!’
Blackstone held his hands up, and the man on the wheel drank greedily.
The redcap had drawn level with them now.
‘Can’t you understand the King’s English, you ignorant bloody Frog?’ he demanded. ‘You shouldn’t even be here in this village — let alone be making contact with the prisoner!’
He gave Blackstone a rough push, and seemed surprised when the other man held his ground.
‘Now listen,’ he continued, raising his fist threateningly, ‘if you don’t do what I say, you could get hurt.’
Blackstone balled up his own fists.
‘Touch me again, and I’ll break your nose,’ he promised.
Perhaps it was his tone of calm confidence that caused the redcap to lower his arm, or perhaps it was simply the fact that he realized he was dealing with a fellow countryman.
‘You’re English!’ he said.
‘You’re as sharp as a needle aren’t you?’ Blackstone asked.
The redcap frowned. ‘You’re not that copper from New Scotland Yard, are you?’ he asked, incredulously.
‘Yes.’
‘I expected somebody a bit smarter-looking.’
‘If you were expecting me, I assume that makes you the welcoming committee,’ Blackstone said.
The redcap’s frown deepened. ‘I’m Corporal Johnson, the bloke what’s been ordered to show you your billet, but you ain’t welcome in any shape or form,’ he said. ‘The MFP are the law out here on the Western Front, an’ we don’t like no civilian coming in and telling us how to do our job.’
Blackstone ran his eyes quickly up and down the other man. Johnson was around twenty-three or twenty-four, he guessed. He was of average height and had the sort of face which would not stand out in even a small crowd. His eyes suggested steadiness, but no great intelligence. He was someone you could put in charge of any routine task with confidence — but if you were expecting any leaps of imagination from him, you were almost bound to be disappointed.
‘Did you hear what I said,’ the corporal repeated. ‘We don’t want no civilians coming in and telling us how to do our job.’
‘You do know that your superiors are trying to pin Lieutenant Fortesque’s murder on one of your own people, don’t you?’ Blackstone asked.
‘One of my own people?’ the corporal repeated, as if Blackstone had suddenly switched to a foreign language. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘They want to put the blame on someone from the ranks.’
‘And how are they my own people? I’m no common soldier — I’m a corporal,’ Johnson said, tapping his stripes with two fingers, in case Blackstone hadn’t noticed them. ‘These mean that I’m a non-commissioned officer.’
‘And your old man — or is it your uncle? — is a porter at Billingsgate Fish Market,’ Blackstone said.
Johnson looked thunderstruck.
‘Who told you. . how did you know. .?’ he began.
I know because your accent gives you away, Blackstone thought — because there are just a few nuances in it that pin you down to Billingsgate, and if that’s where you’re from, it would be a bloody miracle if somebody in your family didn’t work in what’s possibly the biggest fish market in the world.
‘Having been given the right to sew two stripes on your sleeve doesn’t cut you off from the lads you grew up with — not unless you let it,’ he said.
But Johnson had stopped listening to him, and was clearly turning over in his mind something he’d heard — but not fully understood — earlier.
‘Hang on,’ he said finally. ‘If you think they want to pin the murder on one of the enlisted men, then that means that you don’t think it was an enlisted man that did it.’
‘I knew you’d get there in the end,’ Blackstone said.
Johnson’s brow furrowed again, as if so much thinking was starting to hurt his brain.
‘But if it wasn’t one of the men who killed Lieutenant Fortesque, then it has to be. . it has to be. .’
‘There’s a good chance it was one of the officers,’ Blackstone supplied.
‘But it can’t be!’ Johnson protested.
‘Why not?’
‘Because. . because they’re all gentlemen.’
It was terribly sad when a man chose to betray his own class in return for a few scraps from his master’s table, Blackstone thought.
But it was more than sad when the man accepted the mythology that the master used to justify his own privilege.
In fact, it was bloody tragic.
‘I’d like you to show me to my billet,’ he said.