‘But we’ve already agreed that it was a particularly violent attack,’ Carstairs protested. ‘And if the killer wasn’t enraged, why did he continue long after it must have been obvious to him that Fortesque was already dead?’
‘Maybe he wanted to give the impression of being enraged, even though he wasn’t,’ Blackstone said. ‘Or perhaps he actually was in a fury. At the moment, we’ve no way of knowing.’ He looked around the room again. ‘Have you found the murder weapon yet?’
‘No, we haven’t,’ Carstairs said.
‘Do you know if Captain Huxton’s men even bothered to look for it?’ Blackstone wondered.
‘No, I don’t know, as a matter of fact,’ Carstairs admitted. ‘What I do know is that if I’d been in his place, I wouldn’t have wasted my men’s time on such a pointless exercise.’
‘Pointless?’ Blackstone repeated quizzically.
Carstairs sighed. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a trench — in the middle of a bloody war,’ he said. ‘There’s any number of things lying around that the killer could have used. There are hammers, there are shovels — he might even have used the butt of his rifle. Of course, you could look for something that had a bloodstain on it, but given that a German shell fell in this trench two days before the murder — blowing up three men in the process — you’d be very lucky to find something that wasn’t bloodstained.’
‘You said he might have used his rifle butt,’ Blackstone mused.
‘And so he might.’
Because it was an enlisted man who killed Fortesque, wasn’t it, Blackstone thought. It just had to be an enlisted man.
‘Who has access to this dugout?’ he asked.
‘The officer who is on duty, his servant, a visiting officer, a sergeant making a report. .’ Carstairs paused. ‘That’s about it.’
‘Do enlisted men ever enter the dugout?’
‘Of course not! The dugout is the officer’s sanctum.’
‘Is it possible that Lieutenant Fortesque might have summoned one of the enlisted men?’
Carstairs shook his head, almost pityingly. ‘I don’t know how things worked in your day, Sergeant, but in my army, an officer does not address the men directly, but instead communicates with them through an NCO.’
Thus avoiding the unpleasant necessity of breathing the same air as a member of the working class, Blackstone thought.
He’d been right in the assumption he’d made in the command dugout — the army hadn’t changed at all.
‘An officer doesn’t address the men directly, yet, according to your theory, one of the enlisted men did enter this bunker,’ he said to the captain.
Carstairs laughed at the detective’s obvious stupidity.
‘It would be a serious breach of regulations for a common soldier to enter the dugout without permission,’ he agreed, ‘but given that he had his mind set on a cowardly murder, he was probably more than willing to wave such minor considerations aside.’
‘So the killer checks there’s no one watching, bursts into the dugout, and kills the lieutenant,’ Blackstone said.
‘Exactly!’ Carstairs agreed.
‘Then why was the blow which killed Fortesque delivered to the side of his head?’ Blackstone asked.
A frown filled Carstairs’ face. ‘I’m not following you.’
‘Didn’t you say that Fortesque was sitting in his chair, facing the door?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Carstairs agreed, puzzled. ‘What of it?’
‘I have a theory,’ Blackstone explained. ‘Would you mind sitting where Fortesque was sitting, so that we can test it out?’
‘All right,’ Carstairs agreed, walking around the table and sitting down facing the entrance.
‘I won’t be a moment,’ Blackstone told him, opening the door and stepping out into the trench.
The bombardment had stopped, and the soldiers were squatting on the duckboards, eating the breakfasts which had been sent up from the field kitchen. Blackstone nodded to them, but only one or two nodded back. And even then, it was a cautious nod — a nod which said, ‘Judging by the way you’re dressed, you might just be on our side — but we’re not putting any money on it.’
Blackstone turned, opened the door again, and re-entered the dugout.
‘Well?’ Carstairs demanded. ‘Are you going to tell me about this theory of yours, or must we continue playing silly bloody games?’
‘If you were facing the other way — towards the back of the dugout — you might not even have noticed I’d come in,’ Blackstone said, ‘but you’re not facing the back of it — and neither was Fortesque.’
‘So what’s your point?’
‘You’re Fortesque, and you see an enlisted man enter your dugout without your permission. What do you do?’
‘I ask him what the devil he thinks he’s doing.’
‘Exactly! And what does the killer say?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
‘Remember, this is a major breach of protocol, so Fortesque is both outraged and on his guard. If the killer wishes to blindside him in order to deliver the fatal blow, he must first calm him down. I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘Possibly.’
‘So how does he go about doing that?’
Carstairs considered the matter.
‘He makes up some excuse for being here,’ he said finally.
‘Like what?’
The captain shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he says that there’s an emergency further down the trench.’
‘Wouldn’t he report that to the sergeant?’
‘Normally he would, but perhaps he tells Lieutenant Fortesque he can’t find the sergeant.’
‘Let’s try that theory out,’ Blackstone suggested. ‘When I next speak, I don’t want you to think about what I’ve said — I want you to react instinctively.’
‘All right,’ Carstairs agreed.
Blackstone turned away in a leisurely way, then suddenly swung round again and shouted, ‘The Huns have overrun the trench, sir!’
Carstairs sprang to his feet immediately, then checked himself, and slowly sat down again.
‘Do you see the point now?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Anything that the killer said to Fortesque would have been much more likely to get Fortesque out of the dugout than the killer in,’ Captain Carstairs conceded reluctantly.
‘Just so,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘But that didn’t happen, did it? What actually happened was the killer was allowed to advance.’
‘You don’t know that for a fact,’ Carstairs said stubbornly. ‘The killer could well have lured Fortesque to the door, killed him there, and then put him back in the chair.’
‘So Fortesque walks over to the door and turns sideways on, in order to allow the killer to hit him on the side of the head?’
‘He could have been distracted. The killer says, “What’s that on the wall?” Fortesque turns his head, and the killer strikes.’ Carstairs smiled triumphantly. ‘Your problem, Blackstone, is that you just don’t think things through.’
‘You said there were several blows to the head, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course, but. .’
‘I think if I’d received a sharp blow to the head, I’d probably keel over, fight back, or try to escape.’
‘As would any man.’
‘But Lieutenant Fortesque doesn’t do any of those things. He just sits there, and allows the killer to finish off his work. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Of course not! He did do one of those three things you mentioned.’
‘Which one?’
‘He keeled over.’
‘And landed conveniently on his side, thus giving the killer the opportunity to continue raining blows on exactly the same spot?’
‘It’s possible,’ Carstairs said — but it was plain from his tone that he didn’t really believe that.
‘I want to try something else,’ Blackstone said, walking across the dugout and positioning himself at Carstairs’ side. ‘In a second, I’m going to grab you.’