‘Damage?’ Blackstone repeated, mystified. ‘What damage are you talking about?’
‘You have no idea of what reputations you might destroy, have you?’ demanded Hatfield, drawing on reserves of spirit that probably even he had not known he possessed. ‘You don’t know what pain you’ll be causing to some very fine people back home. You can’t even begin to imagine the effect you might have on the war effort, right here in these trenches.’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘But if you explained those things to me, I would understand, wouldn’t I?’
‘I. . I can’t explain,’ said Hatfield, clearly drained by his previous effort.
And when he dove for the protective cover of his dugout, Blackstone did not try to stop him.
The two men had been walking slowly around the gardens of Hartley Manor for over a quarter of an hour, with General Fortesque leaning heavily on Patterson’s arm for support. So far, not a word had been spoken, but the silence was not an awkward one — at least for the sergeant.
The gardens quite took Patterson’s breath away. They were simply magnificent, he thought — like the best parts of the best London parks, only much better.
There were perfectly flat and manicured lawns. There were box hedges trimmed into weird and wonderful shapes. There were greenhouses growing fruits and flowers which the shoppers at Southwark’s New Cut Market would — at best — have treated as oddities, and — at worse — would have regarded with extreme suspicion.
And there were peacocks — there were actually bloody honest-to-God peacocks — the colourful males strutting around with puffed out chests and tail feathers spread, the drab females waiting stoically for the ravaging which would come at the end of the display.
Now this was nature as it should be, he told himself — not wild and uncontrolled, but neat, tidy and organized.
Finally, they reached a series of ornamental fountains, and the General said, ‘I’m rather tired. I think I’d like to sit down now.’
‘Of course,’ Patterson agreed, helping the old man gently down on to a marble bench.
The General sighed. ‘Does anyone ever really think they’ll end up old?’ he asked.
‘Not in the part of London where I come from,’ Patterson replied. ‘But then, they’re mostly right not to think it — because by the time they would have been old, they’re already a long time dead.’
‘Are you rebuking an old man for his self-pity?’ the General asked sharply.
‘No, sir, I’m simply stating a fact,’ Patterson replied.
‘Yes, I suppose you are,’ the General said, reflectively. ‘Why do you want to know about those three young lieutenants?’ he continued, suddenly switching tack.
‘Because they may be pertinent to our enquiries,’ Patterson said, in his official voice.
‘In other words, you’re not going to tell me.’
‘That’s right, sir.’
The General nodded.
‘They were all three at Eton with Charlie. Two of them — Maude and Soames — attended a number of my house parties, but Hatfield was never invited, for some reason, so all I can tell you about him is that his grandfather was a brewer who eventually bought himself a title.’
Patterson chuckled. ‘You sound as if you disapprove,’ he said.
‘Why would I disapprove?’ the General asked. ‘If a tradesman wants to spend a fortune to gain the ermine robes, then good luck to him. After all, it will probably impress his friends — and it’s not as if he’s fooling anyone who really matters.’
‘Tell me about the other two,’ Patterson suggested.
‘I’m not quite sure what it is you want me to say,’ Fortesque replied. ‘They are both — in their own ways — fine young men.’
‘In their own ways?’ Patterson asked, pouncing on the qualification.
‘What I mean by that is that if I was still on active service, I would have no hesitation in having them on my staff. They both love their country and would die for it without a second thought — and a commander can ask no more than that from his officers. However, I cannot say that I actually like either of them.’
‘Why is that?’
‘William Maude is something of an intellectual. I expect that, if he survives the war, he will go up to Cambridge and do quite brilliantly.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing at all. We need our deep thinkers, just as much as we need our men of action. But, in my opinion, Maude values his intellect just a little too highly. He’s a little like a cat that has caught a mouse.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘He plays games with other people’s minds, for the same reason that a cat plays with its prey — for his own cruel amusement. No doubt it’s all very clever, but it does not sit well with me.’
‘And Soames?’
‘Roger Soames is quite a different case. He’s a big strapping lad, which you would have thought would give him all the confidence in the world, but he used to follow Charlie around like a devoted puppy.’
And yet, according to Blackstone’s telegram, he was the one most likely to have murdered Lieutenant Fortesque, Patterson thought.
‘You sound as if you disapprove of his devotion,’ he said aloud.
‘It was more that I felt sorry for the boy,’ the General confessed. ‘We all have our heroes — we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t — but it seems to me that the heroes we choose should be an inspiration to us, someone who we might strive to be like ourselves one day. And much as I loved my young Charlie, he was still only a boy, who had yet to make his mark on the world.’
Perhaps that was the key to the whole investigation, Patterson thought. Perhaps Fortesque had been Soames’ hero, and when he had failed to live up to the image of him that was burned into his friend’s mind, Soames had felt so betrayed that he had killed him.
But that still didn’t explain how Hatfield and Maude had become part of the conspiracy — if, indeed, there had been a conspiracy at all.
An old gardener shuffled slowly past, pushing a wheelbarrow with evident signs of effort.
‘How are all the daffodils doing, Danvers?’ General Fortesque called after him.
‘They’re doing fine, sir,’ the other old man called back.
Fortesque shook his head sadly, as if what he had just heard merely confirmed what he already knew.
‘There have been no daffodils for the last four months,’ he said. ‘That man used to be the best head gardener in the county. I’ve lost count of the number of prizes he’s won me. Now I have to employ two extra men to undo the damage he does to my gardens. I should have pensioned him off years ago, but I knew it would break his heart, and I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it. And now, of course, I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to do it, however bad he gets.’
‘Why’s that?’ Patterson asked.
‘I’m not the only one who’s lost a grandson,’ Fortesque said. ‘Danvers’ grandson bought it in France, just a few hours before Charlie was murdered.’ He paused for a moment. ‘As I told you, I was devastated when I learned they’d lost Charlie’s body, but now I’ve come to realize that, in a curious way, I was also relieved.’
‘Oh!’ Patterson said, non-committally.
‘You see, it didn’t seem quite right to me that my own grandson should be brought back for burial, while Danvers’ grandson — who was also a soldier — languished in a shallow grave in No Man’s Land.’ Fortesque smiled. ‘After my remarks about Hatfield’s grandfather, I’ve surprised you, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, I think you have,’ Patterson admitted.
‘I’ve surprised myself,’ the General said. ‘Whoever would have thought that an old dinosaur like me would speak about my grandson’s body and my gardener’s grandson’s body in the same breath — almost as if they were of equal importance. It seems so modern — so democratic.’ He sighed. ‘But then I suppose we’re all going to have to get used to a lot more democracy once this war is over.’