perspicacity behind his comments. He started to write to Mary about the trip but gave up after two muddled paragraphs. In the end he simply agreed they meet as she'd suggested. But by the time he'd stuck down the envelope, he'd also decided on one further journey. After that, he thought he would stop living someone else's life and get back to his own. His slender manuscript lay on the edge of the desk, very tidy, but, to his shame, a fine layer of dust covered it. He drew an M on it with his finger.
He went out to post the letters. The sky was palest blue with fast-moving clouds. He walked as far as Coram's Fields, where he sat down on an empty bench.
There was a folded newspaper abandoned on the damp wood and he read the headlines. Opposite him an old man was tossing crumbs to a dozen squabbling pigeons.
A nursemaid holding a wel-wrapped smal girl by the hand walked past, pushing a perambulator. Laurence smiled at the child and she looked back at him curiously as she passed by.
As he walked home he read a piece about the next month's Varsity match. Having finished with the paper, he put it in the dustbin beneath his own steps. He looked up to see his neighbour, a man who rarely left his rooms, appear in the doorway. There was invariably a faint smel of cats about him. He thrust out a letter to Laurence.
'It's for you,' he said, almost reproachfuly. 'Picked it up with my own post.'
'Thank you.'
Laurence examined it, failing to recognise the handwriting. His neighbour nodded and retreated back to his flat. Laurence's eyes folowed him briefly. It was possible the man was no older than he was but life had aged him.
He hung up his coat and opened the envelope, expecting it to be from a woman: the writing was what he vaguely thought of as artistic. His eye went to the bottom of the page. This time the letter was from Wiliam Bolitho.
Dear Bartram,
It was very good to see you the other day. I realise Eleanor may have given you a different impression but I have enjoyed our brief talks. I rather envy you having a meaty task to get your teeth into, though I continue to regret Emmett's death. He was a decent man. You must not take Eleanor's rebuffs to heart. Eleanor is very defensive of those she loves. It is a sterling quality—I doubt I would be here were it not for her—and I count my blessings even though she sometimes overrates threats to my welfare.
What I wanted to tel you, though I fear it may be of slight use in your enquiries, is that I remembered the name of the major who was bileted on us in 1917 and whose batman helped rescue John Emmett in the tunnel colapse. The man who was in your photograph. Calogreedy was his name. Name like that, can't think how I ever forgot it. Ex Indian Army man. God knows what his servant was caled; al I can remember of him is his accent—broad west country—Somerset, perhaps, if that helps at al. It's quite a coincidence but yesterday I was checking some smal investments I have and I noticed a firm caled Calogreedy and Weatheral were quoted on the stock exchange. As far as I can tel, their business is locks, safes, strong-rooms and so on. It was such an unusual name that I remembered the major instantly and I thought there might, just, be a connection.
I hope this is helpful and that when things are calmer we shal meet again. In the meantime I shal take the slightly clandestine step of handing this to Ethel to post.
Yours,
Wiliam Bolitho
Laurence ran back downstairs to where his scavenged newspaper lay on top of the rubbish in the bin. Self- consciously he looked around to check he wasn't observed and smoothed it out on the wal, brushing tea leaves off its back page. He suddenly had an image of Louise's father scrutinising the financial pages, making gruff noises of approval or concern and occasionaly putting a mark against certain figures. He remembered Louise's mother objecting to her husband tucking his silver propeling pencil behind his ear while he read. For a brief moment, his father-in-law felt more real to him than any memory of Louise.
Laurence's fingers traveled down the columns. Calogreedy and Weatheral were there; their shares seemed to be healthy. He put the paper back in the bin. The next day he would try to find out where they did business.
He was relieved that Wiliam Bolitho had been in touch; Eleanor had been so adamant that he was causing her husband distress that he had been almost persuaded of it, although, if anything, Bolitho seemed bored by the constraints on his actions. John's death must have eased the Bolithos' circumstances, but it could never have given Bolitho any kind of life. Fleetingly, he wondered whether Eleanor could have been petitioning John for financial help but Eleanor was only a colateral beneficiary anyway. Had she simply become over-involved with John while she nursed him? Or was it a passionate love affair, independent of war, and was it reciprocated? The period when she would have visited John at Holmwood would have been wel after she got married so an enduring love affair seemed unlikely.
He wondered whether Eleanor knew about John's role in the firing squad. Whether she was friend or nurse, it was not unlikely she shared his secrets. Not that this one was his alone; there would have been plenty of others at an execution, of course.
He stared at the photograph he'd received from Mary and remembered Chilvers' evidence to the inquest, stating that John was preoccupied by the event. This photograph was one that John had carried with him to his death. Bolitho had identified John, Tucker and the sapper's servant. They were al men involved in the trench accident, yet this was clearly winter and Bolitho had said the colapse took place in the heat of summer. Could they also have been part of a firing squad? Although the presence of the medical officer meant it could have been an execution detail, there were also plenty of times when soldiers clustered together, looking glum and waiting for action. Yet who could have photographed the men and why? Whose was the monogram on the back?
He'd never seen an execution but tales of them circulated from time to time. Sometimes he thought that their circulation was deliberate; it made it clear to nervous soldiers that whilst the Germans might be aiming to kil them on one side, the forces of their own military discipline were equaly lethal on the other. Like every other aspect of the war, horror stories abounded. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who'd been involved. The officer who was supposed to deliver the
Trench tales were always about removing choice, he reflected; the good soldier was a resigned soldier. The good soldier never wasted time thinking about alternatives.
Chapter Seventeen
