The Somme Stations

Brewster was rather stooped for a military policeman, as though perpetually ducking the shellfire that he’d never been subjected to. Having been cold-shouldered by all the blokes in the house, he came up to my room, and told me that he personally had nothing against me, and that I might move freely about the house on my crutches, and he would see his way clear to letting me roam the grounds once my leg had got a bit better.

For four days, I lay in bed. I wrote to the Chief saying I’d been charged, and he told me to expect a visit from himself at some point in the near future. On my first night downstairs, I sat in the library with my crutches by the side of my armchair and a packet of Virginians Select on my lap. There were a dozen of us in there, and we were watching a fellow from Leeds – name of Ross (although whether that was his first name or his last, I wasn’t sure) – who was an amateur magician, and who performed tricks with cigarettes. This was a species of war work. He toured the hospitals and convalescent homes entertaining the men. He had lost an eye at Mons, and so could not be accused of slacking, and he began by giving an account of how this happened. He then started in on his tricks. All of his audience smoked, so he was well away. He would take a man’s Woodbine, and put it into a packet of, say, Churchman’s, then hold out the packet, and the Woodbine would rise up. After he’d done this a couple of times, I noticed my guard, Brewster, watching from the doorway and grinning in his shamefaced way.

Ross would offer a cigarette from his own packet; he would then turn this packet around, and it would have become a box of matches. He performed a couple of other tricks, just as good, and he was going on very well indeed until he tried a bit of business with Anderson, who was very badly shellshocked. Well, Anderson could remove the cigarette from the packet as instructed; he was able to inspect it carefully, as also instructed, but the returning of the cigarette to the packet… that was quite beyond him owing to his shaking hand, and so the trick had to be abandoned. Ross seemed to lose heart after that, and he went off shortly afterwards.

Over the next two weeks I began to walk in the grounds, trying to master crutches along with all the other crocks, but my progress was evidently the fastest that Hawks had ever seen, and my target became the lower slopes of the snowy Moor, which lay directly beyond the gates of ‘Ardenlea’, and the white house up there, a place where folk would take spring water baths: it was called the White Wells, and seemed to have been assembled from the surplus snow all around.

The grounds of ‘Ardenlea’ received a fresh dusting most mornings, and a little ritual developed: Anderson and Birch (who was just as nervy as Anderson) would go out every morning and break the ice on the fish pond. They would always be watched by Major Dickinson, who was the most senior man in the place, and who propelled himself in a bath chair, being partly paralysed through shellshock – he didn’t believe he could move his legs. Breaking the ice, and so giving the fish what Major Dickinson called – it was a queer expression in the circumstances – a ‘dog’s chance’ of surviving was the highlight of the day for all three, and I had the idea that the job never took as long as they would have liked.

These three men would talk of a stranger who had been seen in the grounds lately. Dickinson (who was a bit nuts, shellshock aside) believed him to be after the fish, some of which were valuable, but the other two reported that he’d been seen looking up at the windows of the house. My own suspicion was that this man was looking for me. I knew he would not be friendly, and I wondered whether Brewster would find himself having to guard me from him. Brewster carried a gun, and the Chief in one of his letters had urged me to do likewise, for I’d told him of my expectation.

But I did not want to be guarded from my visitor, should he arrive, by the man Brewster, and I did not particularly want to shoot my visitor either. I wanted to talk to him, my aim being to confirm my suspicion about the cigarette lit on the train from Amiens. I wanted to draw him in, and then draw him out.

I began to encourage Brewster to walk with me in the frosted garden, and I would look up at the Moor, at the White Wells. ‘I’ve no hope of getting up there,’ I said. ‘But I might get halfway.’

The fish pond trio were going past us at that point, and I believe it was to get points with them that Brewster said, ‘Want to try? Don’t mind me. I can keep cases on you from here, if I want.’

But he didn’t want to, and the next day I got halfway to the White Wells on my own and, as far as I knew, unobserved from the house. Later that same day, the wife came, and then the man from the Army Legal Corps – my lawyer. This fellow’s name was Roberts. It was his second visit, and he told me he thought he could prove that the rifle with which I’d supposedly shot Tinsley hadn’t been fired for ages at the time of its discovery by my side.

The next morning, I offered to sign for Brewster the special bail undertaking that required me to keep to the house and grounds and that he had not got round to asking me to sign up to that point. He said, ‘We might amend it to include the path up to the Wells, or shall we just take it as read?’ He seemed as amiable as ever, but later on that morning, while walking past the office of the Matron, Oldfield, I heard him say to her, that if I made it up to the White Wells, it could be safely concluded that I was fit enough to go to gaol. Oldfield replied something to the effect she’d be glad to be shot of me.

That afternoon, I went all the way up to the White Wells in falling snow. The sky was the colour of… I would say the dirty white of a young swan – the colour of a signet – and it made a pleasant change to see something soft coming down from it. The white cottage that housed the Wells was closed, and the stone bench before it was covered in snow. I waited a while beside this bench, then returned to ‘Ardenlea’ when the cold began to hurt my new-set bone.

At four o’clock the next day, with darkness closing in, I cleared the snow off the bench, leant my crutches against it, lit a cigarette, and sat down. I surveyed the lights of Ilkley, which were somewhat subdued on account of the Zeppelin threat, giving the effect of many small points of gold under a purple sky. Presently, a man came across the Moor from my left, and sat down by me on the bench. It wasn’t the man I’d expected – not quite.

‘Some leave finally came through, then,’ I said to Oliver Butler.

‘Well, I’m not deserting, Jim,’ he said, and he took in the view for a while, before saying, ‘… sailed home a week ago… and it’s back to France tomorrow.’

I offered him a cigarette; he shook his head.

‘Well, you got to him in the end,’ he said. ‘I knew you would. He was questioned… let me see… the day before yesterday by your governor, Weatherill.’

‘That was on account of letters I’ve sent from here,’ I said, indicating the low lights of ‘Ardenlea’. ‘I put Chief Inspector Weatherill in the picture.’

‘You’re proud of the fact, and that does you credit, Jim. You’ve a brass neck… amongst other things.’

‘You gave us the green light against orders.’

‘Those orders were more confused than you might think, Jim. Remember, this is the British Army.’

‘It surprised me because it seemed to me at the time you ought to have let the boy live. Roy had overheard the conversation – most of it – that I’d had with Tinsley on the train back from Amiens, so you would have known that the kid was about to come clean over what happened on Spurn. Thackeray would have called off his investigation, and that’s what you’d been hoping for all along, given that the twins were always the likeliest suspects on the face of it. So you’d a reason to see Tinsley live; trouble was, you’d obviously been given a better reason to see him killed – him and me both, in fact. That’s why you gave us the green light to go along the dangerous stretch at Flers. What could that reason be? I revolved it all the way back in the hospital train, thought of everything I knew about Tinsley. Well, it didn’t amount to much. He was a railway nut… and then there was your friend.’

‘Not my friend really, Jim.’

‘Tinsley’s hero, Tom Shaw, bicycled into the engine shed over muddy lanes, yet he always kept clean. He lived in a place that had a railway connection to York. Naburn fitted the bill in both cases. And he looked a nasty bastard from his picture.’

‘You worked it all out from that?’

I shook my head.

‘Going over that chat between me and Tinsley on the train from Amiens, one sentence rang out clear. “He’s capable of anything, is Tom Shaw.” The train wasn’t going over points just then, you see, and it struck me – in recollection – that it had been going over points during every other part of our talk that touched on Shaw. So it seemed to me that Roy wouldn’t have heard those parts – which were all to do with how, if Shaw wanted to arrive early at a station, he’d just go ahead and do it. Tinsley was making out that he was bloody-minded as an engine man, not saying he was a killer. But that would have been lost to Roy in the jangling of the points. He’d have heard Tinsley’s account of the Spurn business – we’d run clear of the points by then – but all he would’ve picked up on the matter of Shaw was that Tinsley believed him capable of anything.’

In Ilkley, all the lights showing in the window of a mill went off in an instant. More snow was coming