Two Storm Wood, page 30
He sensed movement, a subtle shift of weight somewhere on the other side of the clapboard wall. It would be dark in there, dugout-dark – best cleared with Mills bombs. But he only had the Webley.
One deep breath. He yanked open the door, stepped inside.
Take aim, fire.
Table. Upright chairs. A stove. On one of the tables a strange metal contraption like a giant sewing machine. He lowered the revolver. Nobody there.
He took a couple of paces. The machine had a large iron wheel at the side. It was not until he saw the pots of ink and the stacks of paper that he understood what it was. Some of the papers had already been printed. Crumpled copies lay scattered across the floor. In the dim light he read: all men loyal and true shall rally to his flag. SOLDIERS! BE READY!
His eye was drawn to something hanging on the wall: a cavalry sword, sheathed in a plain metal scabbard. He put down the revolver and drew out the blade. It was straight and true, polished to a shine: a weapon designed not for the cut, but for the thrust. He tested the end. A bead of blood welled up on the tip of his finger.
He extended his arm. The weapon was perfectly balanced, an extension of the body as natural as a limb. Light danced over the rippling steel. Holding it, he felt restored.
Newspaper cuttings plastered the wall: photographs, trophies. Faded headlines shouted at him from the shadows: VALIANT CAVALRY TURNS THE TIDE.
He stepped closer. Groups of officers and NCOs posed like schoolboys in orderly rows. THE HEROES OF BAZANTIN RIDGE. Mounted men in turbans, lances slung across their saddles, grinned at the camera. A German officer’s cap hung from a nail, a bloody tear in the crown. HAND-TO-HAND IN BUCQUOY, LANCASHIRE MEN BREAK THE HUN. In every story he read the name of Rhodes: Captain Rhodes of the Deccan Horse, Major Rhodes of the Manchester Regiment, Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes, battalion commander of the valiant Seventh.
Something stirred beneath his feet. A gentle thud.
One photograph was bigger than the others. It had been cut from the Pictorial Review. An officer sat astride a black horse with a white star on its forehead. He was looking down at the camera, sword in hand: a handsome, clean-shaven man, eyes deep-set, the beginnings of a smile on his lips. No hint of a pose, no pretence. A picture of complete belonging. The photographer, the photograph, the readers of the Pictorial Review: they were all his. This was his war, his stage, made for him.
From beneath his feet came another thud – louder, angrier. He ran back down the stairs, still holding the sword. The stable door was shut. The noise on the other side grew more insistent: someone trying to break out, or break in.
He pulled back the door. A horse was tethered in the furthest stall. It jostled against its confinement, hindquarters knocking against the walls. A saddle lay waiting on a rack, polished, spotless.
The horse was powerful and tall: seventeen hands. Even in the stormy gloom, the white star on its forehead was bright.
Forty-one
At Sailly-au-Bois one of the horses pulled up lame and the carter would not risk the other any further. Amy walked the last two miles to Colincamps, her shawl pulled over her head, her clothes wet and heavy. No one passed her on the way.
She had thought to spend another night in Naours, where a small, half-timbered inn had reopened to civilian guests, but after the encounter with Bill Egerton, she had felt a need to go back.
Egerton’s story should not have surprised her: Edward had fallen on the Serre Ridge, killed by a mortar round. It was a story that conformed with what she had been told before, except there was a difference: Egerton had spoken to witnesses, to Edward’s comrades. Their reports could not be doubted, even if they were no longer alive to confirm them. The unyielding certainty of that fact drove Amy back towards the battlefields, as if Edward were still there, waiting for her. She felt the need to reassure him that she would not abandon him, even now.
Colincamps was deserted. Where the camp had stood there were now only wheel tracks, cigarette ends and scraps of rubbish. Captain Mackenzie’s billet and the Company HQ stood empty. The only sign of life was a pair of civilians trying to repair a roof on the other side of the road.
Amy nodded to herself. She had been hoping for some company, for a chance to share what she had learned, for a little hot food – though she knew she had no right to them. But she was alone now. This was how it would be from now on. She was beyond the point where anyone could be expected to help her. The essential facts were known. To go on with the search, from cemetery to cemetery, from grave to grave, meant crossing a line from devotion to madness – and the mad were shunned, as if their affliction were catching, or their inner ruin too troubling to witness.
The rain ran down her face, carrying dirt and grit into her mouth. Standing outside Captain Mackenzie’s old billet, her wet skirt flapping against her shins, she asked herself how long she would be able to endure, and how the end would come. Would she simply run out of money? Would her family take her away and lock her up? Or would she one day cease to care, to feel anything when she thought of Edward, his smile, his touch, his love? In which case, what feelings would she have left?
At the door of the farmhouse something caught her eye. A white envelope was pinned to the door, just above the latch. On the front she read the words: Miss Amy Vanneck. Across the bottom was written: If uncollected, please deliver to POSTE RESTANTE, AMIENS.
She pulled off her gloves and opened the envelope.
Dear Miss Vanneck,
As you know, my company has been designated a new sector on the Hindenburg Line. I have received orders to decamp with immediate effect. Our work on the Ancre is incomplete, but the passage of time and the shortage of manpower make it essential that other battlefields are subject to a preliminary search without further delay. I am confident further searches of the Serre Ridge will take place at a later date, and I will make it my business to inform you if anything of significance is found. In the meantime I must once again urge you to leave the old battlefields and find lodgings in Amiens or another town where you will be safe. I am truly sorry that our acquaintance must be cut short, and that our sudden departure makes it impossible to say goodbye in person.
There is something else you should know. In your absence, Major Westbrook came here asking for you. He has certain new information regarding Captain Haslam, which he wishes to discuss. I did not tell him your whereabouts, and he will be none the wiser, should you decide against seeing him. For what it is worth, I can see no value in raking over rumours and conjectures that your fiancé is not here to confirm or deny. But that must be a decision for you. Major Westbrook is still billeted at the Hôtel du Grand Cerf in Acheux.
I have taken the liberty of leaving certain excess supplies in my vacant quarters, in the hope that these may be of use. It is my hope that you will feel able to return to England soon, and that awaiting you is some part of the tranquillity you once knew. I also hope that we may meet again in happier circumstances.
Yours most sincerely,
Capt. James Mackenzie
Amy let herself into the stables. She found a neat pile of blankets on a table, under which lay several tins of bully beef, another of jam, a loaf of bread and a bottle of red wine. Her body ached for rest, but the thought that there was more to learn – that Major Westbrook had information he wanted to share – was like a spark in the darkness, a small, cold flame of hope. She could not ignore it.
All the same, that Westbrook had come looking for her made Amy uneasy. In the beginning she had thought it was only his appearance that made him frightening, her aversion being unworthy and unkind. But there was more to it than that. His forensic demeanour, so practical and direct, masked a soul in turmoil – a conflict she could perceive, but not understand. At moments she had wondered if he were truly in his right mind. And the way he had driven away that day, without a word, had done for any notion that they were friends. She wondered how he had come by his injuries, in what brutal fight. She wondered how he had taken to the business of war, and an instinct inside her said: Stay away.
She stood for a moment, staring out across the empty yard towards the farmhouse, abandoned, lifeless. Then she put the bread and the wine into her bag and walked out of the village on the road to Acheux.
Forty-two
Kent, England, March 1919
The telephone operator could not get through. Rather than wait for an exchange of letters, Sir Evelyn travelled down to Farningham by car, trusting to luck that he would be received. It wasn’t that he was anxious to see Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes. The very thought of the man, his legendary bravery and ruthlessness, was unnerving. He was a man born to command, and yet so utterly different from those who did command, like Sir Evelyn himself – a fact that would be all too obvious to both of them. But a promise had been made, and Sir Evelyn had no intention of going back on it.
According to her friend, Amy had heard – she did not say from whom – that Edward Haslam was still alive and in hiding. There was even a suggestion that he had been taking secret orders from Whitehall before he disappeared. Amy wanted Sir Evelyn to find out if there was any truth to these rumours, any shred of hope. She was clutching at straws, almost certainly, but his own views on the matter were neither here nor there. Besides, Haslam’s commanding officer had been highly unconventional, by all accounts: arrogant, brilliant, delusional, or some combination of the three. Was it possible the two men had come into conflict – a conflict so severe that Haslam had considered desertion? Could things have gone that far? But then, if Edward Haslam really was alive, what kind of existence would he be leading? What possible future could he offer Amy?
Sir Evelyn had written to the War Office, asking for help: had there been, he asked, any kind of trouble in the 7th Manchesters the previous summer, any hint of desertion or mutiny – anything out of the ordinary? He had been surprised when a note came back by return. It stated that the relevant files were ‘confidential at present’, and that it would not therefore be possible to answer his query. Sir Evelyn wrote again, this time to a personal contact in the financial secretariat. This yielded a solitary nugget of information: Haslam’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes, was still alive and undergoing medical treatment at a military hospital in Kent. It was the only line of enquiry left.
The hospital was a large red-brick mansion hidden away behind tall, ivy-covered walls. A lake stretched away to the south. Sir Evelyn spotted a procession of men in wheelchairs being pushed around the grounds, taking advantage of a break in the weather. They wore their uniforms, with the occasional civilian addition of a scarf or a pair of mittens. Some distance away, rooks were nesting, their harsh calls echoing across the valley. In spite of its size, the place felt lonely.
Major Richardson, the hospital director, was a bald, bespectacled man close to sixty. He came hurrying down the stairs, struggling to do up the top button of his tunic.
‘Sir Evelyn?’ He held out his hand. ‘The War Office said you might be coming, but they didn’t say when.’
‘I’m sorry. I tried to telephone.’
‘Ah, a problem with the local exchange, I’m afraid. How can I help?’
‘The War Office didn’t explain?’
‘They only said you were interested in one of our patients.’
‘I am: Lieutenant Colonel John Rhodes.’
Richardson hesitated. ‘Rhodes.’ The name seemed to trouble him. ‘Yes, I see. Perhaps you’d better … Are you family, by any chance?’
‘No. My concern is a matter of military record.’
‘I see. My office is this way.’
In silence the director led Sir Evelyn through a series of narrow corridors to where an NCO sat typing at a desk. The building had an unappetising smell of boiled vegetables and bleach, but at least the patients were hidden away. He had no desire to meet their pitiful stares.
Major Richardson’s office was a panelled room overlooking a walled garden. Tidy rows of vegetables were growing where once there would have been roses and lavender.
‘I expect you’ll want to see the colonel’s file?’ Richardson said.
Sir Evelyn was surprised. He had assumed that medical records were confidential, as in civilian life. But then this hospital was a military establishment, and no soldier was allowed to have secrets from the War Office. ‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary. I’d simply like to speak with him, with your permission.’
A look of confusion crossed Richardson’s face. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s impossible.’
‘Is he …? Has he succumbed to his wounds?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Then …?’
‘He isn’t here, Sir Evelyn. You weren’t told? We informed the War Office some time ago.’
‘Then where is he?’
‘I couldn’t say. Please do have a seat. Let me take your coat.’
A pair of leather-bound armchairs stood opposite the window. Sir Evelyn sat down. The portrait of a grand lady in a green ballgown stared down at him from above the fireplace.
‘He left some weeks ago,’ Richardson said, ‘of his own accord. Simply vanished. We’ve had no word of him since.’
‘I thought he was badly injured. Near death.’
‘He was. He was hit by a grenade at close quarters. But that was last autumn. He underwent a series of operations, all quite successful. I attended some myself, as a matter of fact.’
Sir Evelyn nodded on cue. ‘I hear you’re doing some remarkable work here,’ he said, although he had not, in fact, heard anything.
Richardson had been hovering around his desk, as if unsure whether to sit down or not. The compliment seemed to make up his mind. ‘Physically, his convalescence was excellent.’
‘Physically?’
Richardson pulled up a chair. ‘His mental state was harder to read.’
‘Did he suffer brain damage?’
‘We were trying to establish that, when he disappeared. His essential brain function seemed unimpaired. There was certainly some memory loss – entirely to be expected with head injuries – but beyond that … Let’s just say, there was cause for concern. In any event, we’d not planned to discharge him for a good while. It seems he took matters into his own hands.’
Sir Evelyn suppressed a shudder. Colonel Rhodes convalescing in a hospital was one thing; Colonel Rhodes at large, whereabouts and intentions unknown, was another.
‘If I could find him, would he talk to me?’
‘I see no reason …’ Richardson’s expression darkened. ‘He could be uncooperative. He also exhibited a degree of suspicion towards the War Office and authority in general. So … I couldn’t promise.’
‘You said something about memory loss. When it comes to the war, are his recollections clear?’
‘For the most part. He struggled to remember names, as I recall.’ Richardson frowned. ‘I think it would be best if you talked to Captain Price. Psychiatric matters are an interest of his. I’m a surgeon, as you know – cranial work. Price is your man.’
Before Sir Evelyn could stop him, Richardson had sent the NCO to find his colleague. When he returned to the office, he had a slender green folder under his arm. Sir Evelyn was on the verge of excusing himself. If Rhodes’s whereabouts were unknown, there was nothing to be gained from investigating his mental state.
‘Yes, paranoia,’ Richardson said, looking over the contents of the file. ‘That was the first red flag. Rhodes told the nurses that his injuries had been inflicted by a traitor.’
‘A traitor? Why would he think that?’
Richardson frowned. ‘I don’t think he had a reason.’
‘Didn’t anyone ask?’
‘We humoured him, of course: asked why anyone would want to kill him – besides the Germans, of course.’
‘And?’
‘He said he planned to find out. We left it at that.’
Sir Evelyn remembered what Amy had heard in France: rumours that Edward Haslam had been taking secret orders from London. If the rumours were true, what exactly would those orders have involved? Haslam had prospered under Rhodes’s command. He had risen rapidly to command a company of his own, advancement that would surely have been earned. There could have been no greater mark of trust.
Richardson sat back in his chair. ‘An irrational sense of persecution, it’s not unheard of in cases like these, especially if combined with shell shock. In the end we decided to move him onto a busier ward, give him some companions to talk to – Captain Price’s idea, and it seemed to work, after a fashion. He struck up a friendship with another patient, though it was more a case of listening than talking.’
Sir Evelyn’s gaze drifted towards the window. The more he heard about Rhodes, the more difficult it became to picture him, to pin him down. Nothing about the man was ordinary. If the same singularity had extended to his subordinates – to Edward Haslam – then anything was possible.
‘Things started going downhill again after his last operation,’ Richardson went on. ‘The shock of his altered appearance, I think, was profound. Sadly, it seems his fiancée had much the same reaction.’
‘Rhodes was engaged? I’d no idea.’
‘They seem to have kept a low profile. Some issues of station, I believe, not to mention …’
‘Heritage?’
Richardson nodded gratefully. ‘A touch of the tar brush’ was the expression Sir Evelyn had heard bandied about the ministry, although, as far as he could tell, there was no evidence that Rhodes was of mixed race.
‘In any case, the young lady broke it off.’ Richardson wrinkled his nose and sniffed. ‘Of course, one mustn’t judge.’
‘Unfortunate. Was Colonel Rhodes very …?’
