'Ah yes. Private Stephen Pascoe. I did check naturally once I realized my father's involvement,' said Studholme. 'It was rather a sad case. Technically he did desert. His uniform and identity discs were found bundled up at the railway station in Liverpool and it was assumed he'd either stowed away or otherwise obtained a passage to America. The thing was that though he made a fair recovery from the injuries he sustained in August, the medical records show that the movement of his left upper arm and shoulder was going to be permanently impaired. On the day he took off, he'd been before a medical board to assess his condition. This was normal practice for all wounded men prior to returning them to their units — or, of course, advising further treatment. The board examined him and made their recommendation, which was for discharge. He had no future as a fighting soldier and would be more use to the country in his old job.'
'Nobody, of course, thought to tell him this on the spot,' snapped Pascoe.
'That's not the way the army works, I'm afraid,' said Studholme with genuine regret. 'Proper channels are the thing. Presumably he went off thinking they were going to rubber-stamp his return to the Front and decided he'd had enough. Technically, as I say, he was still in the army till he received his official discharge. But no regiment likes to have desertions in its records and in this case to haul a chap back to try him on a capital offence when it had been decided he wasn't fit to fight anyway would have offended natural justice. So his discharge was quietly and quickly processed at the depot, which was here in Leeds, and the fact that he went AWOL for his last couple of weeks of service gently passed over.'
'Well, I'm so glad another Pascoe's name wasn't allowed to besmirch your precious records,' said Pascoe bitterly. 'Let's get back to your father, shall we?'
'Of course. The next entry begins: I should never have written "But no one's asking me!" They just have, or rather, they've just told me, because naturally there's no saying no in such matters. I'm to be Pascoe's Friend. The CO told me it was a nasty job but he knew I'd do my best. Evenlode said that on the contrary it was a cushy number, the verdict was in no doubt, so all it meant was I spent a couple of days out of the line, keeping myself warm and dry and killing lice. I said, that must mean it's cushy for you, too, rather sarcastic. But he missed my point, saying, oh yes, it's killing that one big louse that I'll particularly enjoy. He really is a nasty piece of work.'
He paused again and said to Ellie, 'Refill. Do help yourself.'
'Gosh, have I drunk it? Thanks, I will.'
She did. Pascoe said, 'So what does your father say about the trial?'
'Well, before that he writes about his difficulty in getting Pascoe to talk about his defence: He really doesn't seem to grasp the danger he's in. He admits freely he struck Grindal but says it was only to disable him from harming himself by continuing to advance in a dazed state, and then he describes leading the remnant of his platoon back to the jump-off point as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world to do. All he seems to have any regret about is being rude to a staff officer, and the reason he regrets this is that there's no point in losing your rag with dumb animals, which is unlikely to endear him to the court. Though on second thoughts, if they are all line officers, they may well take his point!'
The major permitted himself a smile as he read this and Pascoe said, 'How comforting that your father didn't lose his sense of humour in face of someone else's adversity.'
'Peter, for heaven's sake,' said Ellie.
'No, my fault, I'm sorry, Mr Pascoe, this must be very painful for you. There's little more. He records that Sergeant Pascoe is clearly relying on the testimony of Lieutenant Grindal and of the members of his platoon to clear him, or at least reduce his punishment to loss of stripes. He regrets that his efforts to cross-question witnesses, in particular Private Doyle, are unproductive and cut short by the president. He tries to object to the admission of Grindal's written testimony because it didn't afford opportunity for cross-examination, but is told that these Chancery Lane tactics are entirely out of place here. .'
'There's none of this in the trial record!' protested Pascoe.
The major's eye lit up with interest.
'You've seen it, have you?' he enquired.
Ellie bared her teeth at her husband, and said firmly to Studholme, 'No, he hasn't. But we did get an unofficial digest from an influential friend, one condition of which was complete confidentiality.'
'My lips are sealed,' said Studholme. 'I know how these things work. Mr Pascoe, I can understand your feelings about my father's ineffectiveness. I shan't bore you with the details, but please believe me, he agonizes at some length about your great-grandfather's fate and despite knowing in his rational mind that there was nothing he could do to alter it, he felt, and continued to feel till the end of his days, I believe, guilty that he should have played any part in it.'
Pascoe refused to catch Ellie's eye and said nothing.
Studholme sighed and went on, 'You will be relieved to hear my father had nothing to do with the actual execution, so I am spared the macabre task of reading out a description. He did however see Sergeant Pascoe the day before, when he took on himself the task of bearing the news that there was no hope of mercy and the sentence was to be carried out the following morning.'
He put down the book to take a sip of whisky, then picked it up again and began reading.
'The sergeant gave me a letter to his wife which he asked me to post. I said I would. Then after a little hesitation he produced a book consisting of several sheets of paper roughly sewn together between covers made from squares of rubber from an old groundsheet. This, he said, was a journal he'd been keeping. There'd been another book from the start of the war which he'd left at home on his last leave, thinking that either he'd be able to use it to recall these years for himself in later life, or if he fell, it would be a record for his family. But he is uncertain whether he should ask for these later leaves to be sent home also, because of the tragic material they contain. He asked me if I would take it and, when I had time, read it, then send it to his wife or not at my discretion. It was not a task I wanted, but equally it wasn't one I could refuse. Then we shook hands and he thanked me most courteously for what he called my kindness and help, and I left and walked around in the dark by myself for an hour or more for shame of being caught weeping'
Studholme put the book down and removed his glasses.
'There is a note added at a later date in which he says that he has read the journal with some difficulty and decided after much thought that Pascoe was right to be reluctant to have it passed on to his wife. He concludes, There is little in here to heal and much to keep old wounds raw. RIP.'
'So what did he do with it then? Burn it?' demanded Pascoe.
'No, Mr Pascoe, it is here.'
He put his hand into the bureau drawer and produced a volume of the same surface dimensions as the one Pascoe had received from Ada, though much slimmer.
'I have glanced at it. It is difficult as my father implied, but what little I have managed to interpret seems to confirm he may have been right in his decision. But that was eighty years ago. Before you condemn him for interference, read it yourself and see if you would have wished him to act differently.'
He handed the book over. Pascoe took it. It felt cold and clammy and the lights in the room seemed to dim as he recollected the circumstances in which his great-grandfather had last touched this volume.