‘If you were of a cynical disposition, Lord Powerscourt,’ Orlando Thomas was looking as innocent as the day is long at this point, ‘you could say that Lord Chelmsford, officer commanding, used the success at Rorke’s Drift to conceal the earlier catastrophe. And you’d have to admit that he has been more or less successful.’
‘How long have you had the painting, Sir Charles?’
The director of the National Gallery smiled. ‘That’s a curious tale, Lord Powerscourt. It used to belong to a man called Smith Dorrien, Horace Smith Dorrien. He was actually present at the battle of Isandlwana and one of the very few to get away. The painting used to hang on the wall of his drawing room. But he found people looked at him very strangely when they asked about the battle and were told he’d survived. They all thought he must have run away, which he didn’t do at all. He was only obeying orders when he left. The last straw, he told us, was when he was entertaining some French military man as part of the Entente Cordiale, and the Frenchman actually said to him, “Run away then, did you? Probably best thing you ever did. Means you’re still here. Discretion better part of valour, c’est vrai, n’est ce pas?” So he packed the thing up and sent it off to us. He said he hoped we’d look after it. Which we have.’
‘And where is this Smith Dorrien person to be found now?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘Very much so,’ said Sir Charles, ‘He’s still with the army but he’s now General Officer Commanding, Aldershot. I took the liberty of telephoning him before you came. He’ll be more than happy to see you this afternoon or tomorrow morning. Then he has to go to Sandhurst for a few days.’
‘Did you tell him about the marks?’ Powerscourt asked.
‘I just told the general there was something of a mystery involved and that he should be able to help.’
Powerscourt rose to take his leave. ‘Thank you very much indeed, Sir Charles. I cannot say how grateful I am for this news. I feel a whole new shaft of light is opening up in my investigation. Quite where it’s going to take me I have no idea, but without your help I couldn’t even start. Thank you again.’
‘I think you may have forgotten something, Powerscourt. Lunch at the Savoy when your investigations are complete? I think we should add young Orlando to our party as he’s done this excellent research, don’t you? They tell me the chef at the Savoy Grill has found a miraculous new source for oysters.’
Inspector Grime had brought the Lewis brothers to Inspector Devereux’s police station. When questioned again about their whereabouts on the day and night of the murder in Fakenham they had stuck to their story about the chess, even though their accounts of the result were incompatible. They had tried to laugh off their inconsistencies by saying it was easy to forget such a thing. Could Inspector Grime, Montague Lewis asked, remember what he had to drink the last time he was in a pub? Well, the results of chess matches were like that for him and his brother. Inspector Grime was not impressed. The two men were now locked up in the cell where a person next door could hear every word that was said.
‘This is a right pickle and no mistake,’ said William, staring unhappily at the bars on the cell window.
‘Do you think we should ask for a lawyer?’ said Montague. ‘Aren’t they bound to let us have one?’
‘As far as I understand it, they are and they aren’t. I mean they will say yes, of course, but then the man will be sent to the wrong police station, or they won’t pass the message on immediately. He’ll get held up.’
‘Did that horrid policeman tell you how long we’re going to be kept here?’
Inspector Grime, on the other side of the wall, grimaced.
‘No, he didn’t,’ William replied. ‘He just said we could be locked up for a long time.’
‘Do you think they have food in a place like this? Or do we just starve?’
‘God knows. I’ve not been in a police cell like this before.’
‘Do you think we should tell them the truth?’ said Montague.
Inspector Grime turned his ear ever closer to the wall.
‘Certainly not,’ said William. ‘Very bad idea. Think of what might happen then.’
‘I think we should try the lawyer,’ said Montague. ‘At least we’d be doing something useful rather than fretting ourselves to death in this bloody cell. Damn the policeman! Damn his sergeant too!’
‘Damn the whole bloody lot of them,’ agreed William.
Inspector Grime decided to leave the Lewis brothers where they were for the time being. The only thing he had gleaned from his sojourn up against the wall was that both of them were lying about their activities on the night before Roderick Gill was murdered. But then, he reflected, he’d known that already.
Aldershot, Powerscourt thought, had that air of impermanence that hangs over garrison towns all over the world. Headquarters of the British Army, it could send thousands of the soldiers based there off to distant wars across the globe. Dick Turpin and Springheeled Jack may have graced the place with their exploits in the past, the Duke of Wellington on his enormous horse and enormous statue might dominate the streets today, but a quarter of the population could disappear in a week or less.
The General Officer Commanding’s office was in an imposing building facing the parade ground. Powerscourt was escorted to the office of General Horace Smith Dorrien by a handsome young lieutenant who looked rather embarrassed as he asked him to wait. They could hear a fist banging on the table next door and a mighty roar of disapproval.
‘What do you mean you missed parade because you didn’t wake up in time?’ Crash! Bang! ‘What does the army give you a bloody servant for if not to make sure you can get out of your bloody bed when the time has come? What do you have to say for yourself, man?’ Crash! Bang! ‘Speak, dammit! Or have you lost your voice as well as your wits?’ Crash!
‘I’m afraid the general does have something of a temper on him,’ whispered the young lieutenant.
‘How long do these turns go on for?’ Powerscourt whispered back, remembering some veteran shouters in his time in the military, who seemed able to go on for an hour or more in a single rant.
‘Hard to say, sir,’ the lieutenant murmured. ‘Form book’s not much use on these occasions.’
‘Have you lost the power of speech? Have you? Well, you’d bloody well better find it! Fast!’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’
‘Is that the best you can do, for God’s sake? Look here, Captain Morris, not that you’re likely to be captain much longer if I’ve got anything to do with it, what do people join the army for? What do they want from the army, the King and the Prime Minister and all those damned politicians up at Westminster? I’ll tell you what they want. They want us to protect the country from attack and defeat the King’s enemies. Defeat means fighting, you bloody fool. Fighting, for God’s sake. Why do you think the army has people doing drill until their arms nearly fall off and their feet swell up in their boots? Discipline, that’s what it means. Discipline!’ Crash! Bang! Crash! ‘And why do we need discipline? I’ll tell you why we need discipline, you pathetic wreck of a human being. With discipline, soldiers will do what they’re told however dangerous it may seem. They’ll die where they’re sent if they have to. Those poor unfortunate soldiers under your command know that. Discipline also includes getting out of bed in the morning on the day when your men are on parade.’
Powerscourt and the lieutenant heard a low muffled sound that might have been a man crying. Then there was an almighty crash accompanied by a tinkling sound that lasted a few seconds and then died away.
‘Great God,’ the lieutenant whispered, ‘there goes the telephone. That’s the fourth one this year. Heaven knows how I’ll get another one out of the engineers.’
Even the general seemed taken aback by his assassination of the telephone. There was a brief silence.
‘For God’s sake, stop blubbing, you fool! Nothing gets my goat more than people supposed to be officers of His Majesty blubbing. More lack of discipline. You’re pathetic. Just get out of here, before I throw something at you. Go on, clear out.’