yesterday, asking for the relevant papers to be prepared. Your colleague the corporal seems not to have understood that, Captain.’
‘Wait here, please.’ The captain drained his glass and took the corporal off into the interior of the building. Johnny thought you could go mad in one of these places, surrounded by the records of the fallen like some Egyptian priest with the Book of the Dead. He wondered how different the atmosphere would be in the Officers’ Mess. He checked that he had his pocket book with him containing all the names Powerscourt thought he might find in one list or the other. After fifteen minutes the fat captain reappeared.
‘My apologies, Mr Fitzgerald, there has been a misunderstanding here. We have the documents for you in the study area. Please come this way.’
The corporal resumed his position at the entrance. Johnny and the captain made their way down passages lined with innumerable files to a small area with a couple of tables and a fire. Johnny wondered if this was where the captain came to enjoy his solitary whiskies. He sat down.
‘This thicker folder obviously lists those who perished at the battle,’ the captain said. ‘The smaller one lists the names of the survivors. I should tell you that the lists were compiled based on the last rolls taken before the battle. The authorities knew who had survived. They could only assume that all the rest were dead.’
‘And how long before the battle were the last rolls compiled?’
The captain looked down at a black notebook. ‘The rolls were taken in October, four months before Isandlwana.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Johnny. ‘So the records might not have been totally accurate about the people who died. In the gap between the rolls in October and the battle in January, some men may have left, others, not recorded here, may have arrived. Is that right?’
The captain smiled. ‘You are absolutely correct. That is the position.’
The names had been handwritten. They were in alphabetical order. As he worked his way down the pages — Abbot, Acland, Addison F., Addison W. — Johnny thought that most of these men would still be alive if they hadn’t signed up for the colours. He wondered about their parents and how they would have been told the news. He expected these sad battle rolls would have been published in the relevant local newspapers, worthy of notice today, forgotten tomorrow. He knew there was an impressive memorial to the men who had fought in the Zulu wars in Brecon Cathedral, close to the barracks. Davis, Davidson, Davies, Denby, the names rolled on. When he reached the halfway point at the letter L, he paused and took a stroll up the corridor. Outside he could hear the regimental band playing ‘Men of Harlech’ rather badly. The captain waved at him, glass in hand, from a distant piece of shelving. When he reached the end, he checked through the names he had brought with him and the notes he had made to make sure he had not missed anything or made a mistake. He flipped through the list of survivors, and wrote them all down on Powerscourt’s instructions. The captain reappeared.
‘Tell me, Captain, if you can, allowing for the time difference between October and January, how accurate do you think these records are?’
The captain stared at Johnny as if nobody had ever asked him such a question before. ‘I don’t think anybody knows the answer to that. Nobody ever went round the battlefield writing down the names of the dead. Basically, as I understand it, though the military historians would never admit it, if you didn’t show up at the regimental HQ after the battle, they would list you as dead.’
‘And which do you think is more likely, Captain, that you could have been listed as dead when you were alive or listed as alive when you were dead?’
The captain took a large draught from his glass. ‘I could be wrong, but I think it is more likely that you could be listed as dead when you were actually live.’
‘Thank you,’ said Johnny, grateful that the man had in the end proved a helpful guide. ‘Let me buy you a drink, Captain. But could you lend me a phone first of all? I have to relay an urgent message to London.’
The three police Inspectors gathered in Powerscourt’s house in Markham Square at half six in the evening. Inspector Grime had read the letter on the way down to London and returned it to Powerscourt without saying a word. The other two Inspectors went through it as soon as they sat down.
‘Well, gentlemen, you could say that this letter, taken with what we now know of the knobkerries from the medical men, shows a possibility at least that this battle long ago may hold the key to the murders. What do you think, gentlemen?’
‘I have never held out much hope for the marks on the victims’ chests being a significant clue, I’m afraid,’ said Inspector Grime, confirming himself in the role Powerscourt thought he would play at this and any other significant meetings, that of Doubting Thomas.
‘I’m not sure at all,’ said Inspector Fletcher after a long pause. ‘There could be a connection with this battle but it’s all so long ago and so far away. It’s very distant, if you know what I mean, while the murders are right in front of us.’
Two against so far, Powerscourt said to himself.
‘I’m not sure I agree with my two colleagues on this one.’ Inspector Devereux was stretched out on a sofa, smoking a small cigar. ‘I think this new information about the weapons and the letter is very promising. I could well feel like murdering some people who abandoned me to the mercy of the Zulus on the battlefield, if that’s what happened. But the letter does make a chap rather cross. There’s no date on it. There’s no address. There’s no signature. I presume there’s no sign of the envelope. Did the author send it from England or from somewhere else? And if it is somewhere, where? And going back to the knobkerries and the battle, why should somebody wait all those years to take revenge? Surely if you thought about the betrayal every day, as he said he did, you wouldn’t wait this long, would you?’
‘I think,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that there are a number of things we could do. We should return to the people who knew the victims, even Mrs Lewis, I’m afraid, and ask if they ever mentioned the battle and what happened there. And there’s one other thing we should do. Let us suppose that the man who wrote the letter lives somewhere else, say in South Africa. How does he know how to find the addresses of his victims? In fact all he would need to do would be to ask the Silkworkers if they knew the addresses for Meredith, Walcott and Gill, but how would he know about the Silkworkers?’
‘I can look after that, my lord,’ said Miles Devereux. ‘I was involved in a case last year that involved a number of private detective agencies. They owe me a favour. I’m sure I’ll be able to find out if anybody has been inquiring about our three friends.’
There was an apologetic cough and Rhys the butler sidled into the room. ‘I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, my lord, but Johnny Fitzgerald is on the telephone for you, my lord. He says it’s very urgent.’
Powerscourt made his apologies to the Inspectors and hurried down a flight of stairs to the room he called his study.
‘Johnny?’ he said. ‘How is Wales?’
‘Wales is wet, Francis, and the beer is very poor. I’ve had better in the Hindu Kush. Do you have a piece of paper handy? You may want to write this bit down. It’s quite surprising, really.’
‘I’m ready, Johnny.’
‘Fine. Here goes. Two of the names you gave me, two of the victims in fact, are mentioned in the records, Private Abel Meredith and Corporal Roderick Gill, both of the Twenty-fourth Foot.’
‘I presume they’re in the survivors’ column, Johnny?’
‘There you’d be wrong, Francis. According to the records of the South Wales Borderers into whom the Twenty-fourth Foot were drafted some years ago, Private Meredith and Corporal Gill were indeed at the happy event. But they’re not listed in the survivors’ column, Francis. They may have been murdered earlier this year, but according to the army rolls they’ve both been dead for thirty-one years.’
19
There was general astonishment when Powerscourt brought the news back to his drawing room. Even Inspector Grime, for so long the Doubting Thomas of the party, seemed interested.
‘How very strange,’ he said
‘It can’t be true, surely,’ was the verdict of Inspector Fletcher.
