At Some Disputed Barricade

He walked in the late afternoon mist, his boots sodden and sloshing in the mud. He moved slowly because he had no wish to arrive. The gunfire sounded far away, over the rise and beyond the woods toward Passchendaele itself—or what was left of it. All along the Ypres Salient there were miles of mud and blasted tree stumps, craters with corpses floating in the stagnant water, some still wreathed in the heavy poison gas.

He could imagine the scene at night: Judith and Wil Sloan arriving in the ambulance, possibly even two ambulances. They would stop. One would get out, probably Judith, tired, tense, her face pale in the headlights, skirts heavy and dark with mud. She would have gone up to the guard and asked for something—perhaps fresh water or another blanket.

Wil might have waited until they were occupied helping her, and crept up. Or had they simply been honest and said what they wanted, and asked for help? Joseph might never know, and it did not matter. Without thinking about it at all, he knew if they were ever facing trial, they would say they had done it by violence and deceit. They would see that no one else was blamed.

Joseph reached Colonel Hook’s dugout. He pulled back the sacking and saw the light burning inside. He knocked on the lintel.

Hook looked up and waved Joseph in. Fear was in his eyes for an instant, then he mastered it. “Yes, Captain Reavley? Have you found out anything about the escape?”

“Nothing at all, sir,” Joseph said instantly. “It could have been anyone at all. The only answer is to see if we can find the escaped men. I am quite certain that only one of them is guilty of murder. The others did no more than…than behave insubordinately, provoked by extraordinary circumstances. Then we could have a court-martial that would be fair and reasonable…sir.”

“We have no chance of finding the men, Reavley. They could be anywhere. Unless—” Hook stopped. “Do you believe you can?” His face puckered, gaunt with weariness. He did not daresay it, but he was begging Joseph not to tell him what he did not want and could not afford to know.

“I believe so, sir.” Joseph stayed standing to attention. “If I have your permission, I would like to try. Immediately.”

“They have several days’ start on you,” Hook pointed out.

“I know. But I think the Royal Flying Corps might give me a little help if I explain. And if you give me orders…sir?”

“Try,” Hook said quietly. “And God help you!”

CHAPTER

NINE

The day after Wheatcroft’s death, Matthew received an urgent summons from Dermot Sandwell. He had asked for Sandwell’s help, but he had not expected to hear from him so soon. He went eagerly, even with a sharp flutter of excitement. He found his heart beating hard as he strode along the pavement, bumping into people unintentionally, having to apologize. He had spent three years seeking the identity of the Peacemaker, moving from one fear to another, hoping and yet also dreading the moment when he could no longer deny that it was someone he knew and liked. It had to be someone his father had once trusted, and that trust had cost his father his life.

It was a close, heavy day in late August. The air seemed to clog his throat. The sky was hazy and there were heavy clouds gathering to the west. There would be a thunderstorm by midafternoon. The armies along the Western Front would be drenched once again.

Matthew walked because it was ridiculous to try to find a taxi for the mile or so to Sandwell’s office. He kept to the main thoroughfares and moved briskly.

Everything was scarce at the moment: petrol as much as food and clothes. Naval losses had severely limited all imports; nevertheless in London, if you had money, you could get almost anything, while in some areas in the country there was actual starvation.

He reached Whitehall and went in, giving his name and telling the official on duty that Mr. Sandwell was expecting him.

He was received immediately. Sandwell stood up from behind his desk and came forward, extending his hand. He looked tired. The lines were etched more deeply in his face, both across his brow and around his mouth. His fair hair had paled to silver at the temples, but his eyes were as deeply blue as ever and the grip of his long, thin hand was firm.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Reavley.” He waved to a chair and peered at Matthew intently as they both sat down. “Miserable business about Wheatcroft’s suicide. Did you learn anything of value from him?”

“No, sir.” Instinctively Matthew guarded the threads of impression he had of someone else behind Wheatcroft’s accusation of Corracher. “I’m afraid not.” It sounded too bare. “He still protested his innocence, but felt no one would believe him.”

“The reason for his suicide, do you think?” Sandwell asked.

In that instant, Matthew knew what he did think. “Possibly. That’s certainly what his note implied.”

“Implied?” Sandwell picked up the word.

“Said,” Matthew corrected.

“And Corracher’s betrayal of him,” Sandwell added quietly. “Poor man.”

Matthew said nothing. It was Wheatcroft’s betrayal of Corracher that lodged in his mind, and something else that eluded him, a memory of something that did not fit where it should.

Sandwell leaned forward, his blue eyes studying Matthew’s face. “I’m afraid I have come to some deeply disturbing conclusions. I must swear you to secrecy before I share them with you. You will understand why as soon as I do.”

“Secret from whom, sir?” Matthew asked, puzzled by such a request—in fact it seemed to be a condition. He had imagined he was being told in order to refer them to Shearing.

“From everyone, at least for the time being,” Sandwell answered. “What I have discovered is more dangerous than I can begin to tell you, and I have no idea yet how far it extends. A word or a whisper in the wrong ear, and we could both be killed for it, if I am correct.” He leaned forward. “Do I have your attention now?”

Matthew stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

“I imagined I would.” Sandwell smiled openly. “Apart from your loyalty to your country, a man such as you could never resist the sheer curiosity of it. If you could have stood up and walked away from here without knowing, I should have recommended your removal from the Intelligence Service.”

“Why me?” Matthew asked. It was a bold question and to one of Sandwell’s seniority perhaps impertinent, but it was not irrelevant.

Sandwell’s eyes widened slightly, appreciating the perception. “You are ideally placed” was all he said. “I think you will understand when I have told you what I know and what I fear.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sandwell touched his fingertips lightly together in a steeple and looked at Matthew.

“You said that in the beginning you believed Corracher was not guilty of attempting to blackmail Wheatcroft, although Wheatcroft might indeed have behaved indiscreetly. I considered the possibility that you were right. If that were so, then there is only one conclusion that makes sense, and that is that there is a conspiracy behind it, formed and carried out by someone else.”

He continued to regard Matthew steadily. “I weighed the likelihood of it being purely personal, driven either by ambition or revenge. I could find nothing to suggest it, and it seemed less likely than the desire to get rid of them both from their positions of political power. They are of similar beliefs in many issues, especially regarding the kind of peace we may make with Germany.”

The muscles of his face tightened as if for an instant the reality of the deaths and the rage of destruction overwhelmed his mind, and the quiet room overlooking Horse Guards Parade on a great August morning was only an island, a temporary haven in the midst of ruin.

Matthew waited.

Sandwell composed himself again, but he did not apologize for his emotion. “I have noticed that two other