Guilt!
By the time his platoon had reached the trench that they would be occupying, the decision had probably already been made. And as he entered his dugout, he may well have experienced that certain lightness of spirit which comes from knowing that — whatever the consequences — you are about to do what is right.
But he had then made his fatal mistake. Out of consideration for them, he had told his fellow officers — the men he thought were his friends — what he had decided to do.
And that had sealed his fate!
‘But what exactly was it that he’d done wrong?’ Blackstone said aloud, as he walked up the sharply inclined street towards the village square. ‘What was it that he needed to cleanse himself of?’
You’re talking to yourself, Sam, said a voice somewhere in the back of his head.
Well, who else in this Godforsaken place is there to talk to? asked a second voice defensively.
You do whatever you want to do, but you might just end up talking yourself into a padded cell, warned the first voice.
I’ll take the chance, countered the second.
‘Stop it — both of you!’ Blackstone told the voices, and then realized that he was speaking aloud again.
He had reached the square, and paused by the limber. He reached out with his hand, and felt one of its huge wheels.
Suppose it was not there in the morning, he thought.
Suppose that when the redcaps brought Private. . Private. .
He realized that though he had great sympathy for the man’s plight — and was angry about what he was being made to endure — he did not even know his name.
Call him ‘Smith’ then.
Suppose that when the redcaps brought Private Smith to the square, there was no limber to strap the poor bastard to.
If he could just get the limber to the edge of the square — which would not be easy, but just might be possible — it would roll down the hill and be gone forever, he thought.
And in the morning, the redcaps would run around like headless chickens for a while, and then contact Captain Huxton, who, this being the army, would have to write a report — probably in triplicate — explaining why he needed a new limber.
The whole thing would take days, and in the meantime, Private Smith would get a little respite from all the pain and humiliation.
It was as Blackstone caught himself giggling at the thought of the redcaps’ panicked faces that it occurred to him that he might be drunk.
What else would explain the action he’d just been contemplating? Who but a drunk would ever have come up with such a wild and fantastic plan?
And yet he was sure he’d had no more than two beers that day.
It was exhaustion — not drink — which was having this effect on him, he suddenly realized.
He had not slept since he left London, and that was over two days earlier. He needed to go back to his billet and grab some rest — before he really did something stupid!
The man stood in the shadows at the edge of the square, watching Blackstone examining the wheel of the limber.
Why was the detective doing that, he wondered?
Why hadn’t he gone straight back to his billet — as the plan dictated that he should?
It had all seemed so simple and straightforward when they’d been discussing it earlier.
‘When do I start following him?’ the man had asked.
‘When he’s finished watching the company march out of the village,’ the other had replied.
‘He might not be there.’
‘He will be.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I can be sure because I understand him. He’s at least as much an actor as he is a policeman, and he won’t be able to resist the opportunity of showing us that he knows everything.’
Panic!
‘He doesn’t know everything, does he?’
‘Of course he doesn’t — in point of fact, he’s on the wrong track entirely — but he thinks he knows.’ The other had paused for a moment. ‘Once he’s sure we’ve all left, he’ll go back to his billet.’
‘He might not.’
‘He will. He has nowhere else to go. And anyway, he’ll want to catch up on his sleep.’
‘Do I follow him all the way back to the billet?’
‘No, he’d be bound to notice that. Just stay with him long enough to make sure that’s actually where he’s going-’
‘You said that was where he would definitely be going. You said he had nowhere else to go!’
‘-and then give him time to get into bed and fall asleep.’
But Blackstone hadn’t gone straight back to his billet.
Instead, he was just standing there next to the limber, pressing his hand against its large wheel, almost as though he were thinking about moving it.
‘I need help,’ the man told himself. ‘I can’t do this alone.’
And then he let out a gasp of relief as the detective abandoned the limber and started to walk towards the street which led to his billet.
Blackstone lit the oil lamp first, and a cigarette which he promised himself would be his last of the day.
If he only knew what Charlie Fortesque had done that was so wrong, then he’d also know why the young man had been killed, he mused.
And if he knew that, he would also know — with absolute certainty — who the murderer was.
He walked over to the window, and looked out at the street. There was only a pale moon overhead, and the cobblestones the street was made up of were barely distinguishable from each other.
He was glad the moon was so weak that night, because there were no shutters on his window — though, from the evidence of the iron hooks embedded in the walls, there once had been.
He wondered what had happened to the shutters, and guessed they had most likely been taken down and used for firewood. It seemed a waste that something which had probably been painstakingly crafted, by a man who had spent years learning his trade, should meet such an inglorious end, but then war was wasteful — war was about nothing other than waste — and he certainly did not begrudge the poor soul who had removed them the little warmth it would have brought him and his family.
He was surprised though, when he reached for the catch to close the window, to find that that was missing, too. Why, he wondered, would anyone have gone to the effort of removing something which, once removed, could have been of so little practical use.
He moved the oil lamp closer to what was the stump of the catch. It had been sawn through, probably with a hacksaw blade, and since the ragged edge still glinted, it was likely to have been done fairly recently.
He took out his cigarette packet, placed the remaining two cigarettes in his pocket, and doubled the packet over. Next, he closed the windows, and jammed the cardboard packing under the edge of one of them.
‘That should hold them well enough,’ he thought, as he crossed the room towards his bed.
And then, as if eager to point out his folly, a sudden gust of wind from the street sent the two windows banging open before he had even had time to remove his jacket.
He thought about going back to the window, and making a better job of wedging it shut, but there didn’t seem to be much point. If some passing girl wanted to climb through the window, throw herself on the bed, and ravage him, then she was more than welcome. And if some passing thief thought his lucky day had come, then he was in for a disappointment, since — apart from a second-hand suit, a shaving kit and some faded underwear — there was nothing much to steal.
Blackstone stripped down to his long johns, blew out the lantern, and climbed into bed.
ELEVEN
The town was dead. The streets were empty.
The enlisted men were all in their tents, playing cards, seeking silent self-relief under their blankets, or turning fitfully in a sleep which was filled with dreams of destruction.