—the ones he hadn't taken against—and he was fearless, albeit vicious, or he would have been in trouble before. But there were always rumours. The men said he was a devil with the ladies and we'd nearly had him up on a charge for seling coloured water as a cure for the clap. The lads didn't like getting the lecture from the MO, and Tucker's stuff worked a treat because most of them never had the clap in the first place. First-timers, boys, with nothing worse than a guilty conscience. But we were a long way forward at that time, so there weren't a whole lot of mesdemoiseless in petticoats waiting for Tucker's blandishments. I seldom dealt with him directly but the man was a clever opportunist and, I can quite believe, a brute at heart. And he'd disappear from time to time. I suppose we thought he might have been out poaching.'
Again Laurence must have looked puzzled because Wiliam's expression changed to one of weary distaste.
'You must have come across them. Loners? Men made for kiling? Couldn't have enough of it, so went out to find the odd extra German for sport or mementoes?' He ran a finger across his throat.
Laurence nodded. Angels in the sky; bulets deflected by prayer books or cigarette cases; footbal armistices; berserkers. Battlefields acquired their own myths; he'd rarely found much truth in them.
Wiliam went on, 'Stil, John had him down for something else. He wouldn't say, or not to me—I was new to the unit then—but he clearly loathed the man. I went to see Emmett once he was strapped up and waiting to go. He was stil very pale but quite composed, and he asked me about Perkins, and where Tucker had been when the tunnel colapsed. He was more suspicious than grateful. I told him I hadn't seen Tucker at al until everyone came running and that he owed his life to him.
But I got the feeling that John thought Tucker might have had something to do with the accident itself. Perhaps that's a bit strong. He didn't say anything specific and he'd had a bad shock.'
'He didn't like smal spaces,' Laurence said. 'He had claustrophobia, I suppose. Even at school.'
'God.' Wiliam puffed at the pipe. 'Must have been hel, then. He was two hours down there, at least. Must have seemed like a lifetime. Anyway, a few weeks later everything goes up. John's in hospital, localy until the casualties start pouring in, then shipped home. Never gets a chance to cal it with Tucker. Not then.'
'And when he died he left you the money?' Laurence said. 'Do you mind me asking?'
'Of course not. It was as much a surprise to us as I fear it must have been to his family. In fact, when John's solicitors wrote, we asked them what the family's circumstances were. Didn't want to leave them in dire straits. Can't say but that the money was helpful—you can see how it is—but no reason for them to do without.
Chap said that he didn't know the family personaly but that John had left his people the house they were already living in, which he owned, and most of the rest of his estate. The solicitor seemed to think their needs were covered quite wel. Eleanor wrote to the family, too—partly with condolences, partly to try to find out what John had meant by it. No answer.'
Laurence stayed silent, trying to remember if Mary had mentioned a letter.
'They're not in trouble are they—the Emmetts?' Wiliam looked concerned.
'No. There's no question of that. His mother and sister would be grateful you saved him, even though the end came as it did. They just—wel, his sister mostly, to be honest—wanted to understand.'
Wiliam nodded. 'It's a funny thing,' he said slowly. 'I was angry when I heard John had shot himself. There were so many men who didn't come back, and then John makes it, and makes it in one piece, and then ... puts his family through al that. But Eleanor understands it. She saw plenty of men with their nerves gone. She was a nurse; that's how I met her. Shel-shock, that's what they cal it now, and it didn't seem to matter how strong a man was before the war; it could hit anyone, any time.'
The faintest of smiles flickered. 'Wel, not Sergeant Tucker, obviously. War had its own rewards for his sort.'
Laurence thought of Charles, another man whom war suited very nicely. Charles was an ideal officer: not over- imaginative, unflappable and robust. But what happened to those men who had found some pleasure in the fighting and the routines, once it was al over?
As to what pushed him over the edge,' Wiliam went on, 'who can tel? I've no idea. He came back from convalescence in England once he was patched up but I never saw him again. I'd been injured by then. We were wiped out, or damn nearly, at Lateau Wood. One leg virtualy blown off.' He pointed to the limb, which ended at the knee. 'Other leg went septic. I hovered between life and death—I don't remember a thing—and was nursed by Eleanor, who viewed their having to take off the other leg as a personal insult and wasn't prepared to put up with me dying after al her labours. I don't know exactly what John did when he got back. Seconded to another outfit's my guess.'
'And Tucker?' Laurence asked, not quite knowing why.
'No idea. I expect he survived. His sort tended to. Probably came home with his clap tonic and the Military Medal in his bag.'
Wiliam was starting to look tired. Laurence fired off one last question. 'I don't know if you were told but there were another two bequests besides yours. A Mrs Lovel. That doesn't mean anything to you, does it?'
Bolitho shook his head. 'The solicitor implied there were other beneficiaries, mostly to put my mind at rest about taking the money, but he was far too circumspect to volunteer names and I didn't ask.'
'Not Tucker, anyway,' said Laurence, feeling guilty that he'd been so much less discreet than the legal advisors. 'So there were limits to John's gratitude. And there wasn't any Lovel involved in the rescue?'
'No, I'm pretty sure not. Perkins died. I think it was Smith who was probably buried alive. There was Tucker, and the major's batman and a couple of other Welsh lads whose names escape me, if I ever knew them. But I don't think I remember a Lovel at al. Not there, anyway. Certainly never came across a Mrs Lovel.
What are you thinking: somebody's wife? Mother?'
'I haven't a clue. It's the wildest of wild cards. I hope to speak to her, if she stil lives at the address I have.'
'And could she even have been somebody's sister? A Miss Tucker or Perkins or whatever at one time, I suppose?' Wiliam said. 'Or maybe she was a young widow with hopes of being a Mrs Emmett?'
'Possibly. And a Frenchman—caled Meurice? No bels ringing?'
