phenomenon. If commissions were awarded on intelect alone, he'd have been an officer of engineers. As it was, he just proved that if you had a good batman the war could be a very much more congenial experience.
Started off as a bit of a joke, getting him to do mental arithmetic. Lads used to throw questions at him and lay bets on how long it would take him to tot up forty numbers, that kind of thing. He was always quicker in his head than anyone doing the same sum on paper. Heaven knows where he got his abilities from; left school at twelve and, from what he tels me, they never got the farm to pay. But I've kept him with me. Man who showed you in.' He nodded at the door. 'He married one of our lady typewriters the same year we set up and I've half a mind to bring him on to the management side eventualy. One day. Just need to persuade Godfrey who is a conventional chap. Can't see the brain behind the rough edges.'
'Byers was your mess servant in 1916?' Laurence asked. He had temporarily forgotten that Calogreedy was rumoured to have kept his batman with him when the war finished. It was not so odd for a regular officer but usualy the relationship became one of master and valet. The making of such an easy connection, after so much information that had seemed to go nowhere, caught him by surprise. He was looking for a Byers, and for the batman, and now they had turned out to be one and the same.
'Was there a Darling or a Coburg there?' It was a very long shot and he wasn't surprised when Calogreedy shook his head. His mind was evidently stil on his employee.
'He's had a tough time recently because of al the palaver over the death of his cousin a few months back. Poor chap was murdered. In cold blood. Can you believe it? Policeman came here to tel him as the nearest surviving relative. He took it badly. Can understand why: his cousin makes it unscathed through three and a half bloody years in France and someone does for him while he's milking cows. As I said: desperate times—desperate men. But have a word with him in a while; he'l be in his office until late.'
'I do have one other question.' Laurence hesitated. 'It's a slightly strange one. Perhaps this should be for Mr Byers himself and you may not know the answer anyway, but was he ever part of a firing squad?'
It was obvious he had hit on something. Calogreedy's face answered for him.
A bad business. He realy shouldn't have had to do it. I was on leave or I would have stopped it. He was forced into making up numbers because so many had dysentery at the time and even then there was a bit of malice in his selection, I think. The condemned man was an officer, you see.'
Laurence stiffened. The execution of an officer was virtualy unheard of. He struggled for a second to take it in.
'His own men were loath to do it,' Calogreedy said, 'but once the sentence had been handed down and confirmed, I expect the powers that be wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. At least Byers didn't know the man, but neither did he realy know anybody else on the squad except for the sergeant and a couple of the officers. And although he was a country lad he wasn't even very good with a gun. Needed spectacles.'
An officer executed?'
'Yes. Poor felow. Cowardice, I imagine. Of course you can't make exceptions but stil, he was very young, I gather. There were chaps out there who couldn't have commanded a tea party, much less an assault on a machine-gun post.'
'You don't—?'
'Remember his name? No. Absolutely not, if I ever knew it. Not very good on names. I dare say you could find out. Careful how you go with Byers—touchy subject. Al this stuff in the papers now: accusations of summary justice and so on. Though it beats me how you can expect much subtlety in military law, not in the field, not when there are men out there who couldn't find their way into battle with a map. So deciding theoretical degrees of guilt when the German guns were rumbling in the background ... Wel, a lot seemed to depend on local morale and setting examples, nothing consistent about it. But, d'you know, I only ever read of one other officer being executed. They were tougher on the whole: good schools, independence, team sports, values. Byers won't welcome talking about it, I can tel you. I'l have a word. Smooth things over. You'l need to be persistent.'
It was obvious that Calogreedy had little else to share with him and Laurence stayed only long enough not to seem impolite. He was eager to speak to Leonard Byers and Calogreedy made it easy for him by taking him across to a smaler office on the far side.
'Look, it's almost their lunch hour. He might feel more relaxed off the premises. Take a walk, that kind of thing.'
Calogreedy strode ahead, pushing open a door. Laurence looked up at the spitting rain without enthusiasm. Inside the office, surrounded by graphs and diagrams, Leonard Byers sat hunched over a desk between hefty files, writing notes against columns of figures in front of him. He didn't hear the door open or see them standing there at first. When he did he looked embarrassed, jumping up while straightening his tie.
'Sorry to disturb you,' Calogreedy said, 'but curiously it turns out that although it was me that he had come to see, you were, in a manner of speaking, realy the man Mr Bartram was after al the time. He was hoping you might be able to help him look into the death of his friend. Anyway, take your time. Nothing urgent to do here.'
It might have been Laurence's imagination but he thought he detected a look of wariness cross the younger man's face. Although it was gone almost immediately, he looked uncomfortable even as he belatedly reached out his hand.
Calogreedy paused in the doorway. 'Difficult times. But try to help him, old chap. I'd be grateful, you know.'
Chapter Eighteen
Leonard Byers had a pale, serious face, a faint shadow of stubble on his chin and purple holows under his eyes. One lens of his wire spectacles was cracked. Laurence remembered that he had only recently, and violently, lost a close relative. Most people stil assumed that talk of death meant talk of the war, but here they both were with enough distance from it to have experienced death in peacetime.
Byers, who was slight in build with inteligent eyes, looked younger than his years. He must be in his mid- twenties at least but could have been five years younger. He faced Laurence unsmilingly. A farm boy, Calogreedy had said. Yet here he was, translated by the war into an urban clerk on the banks of the Thames.
Byers motioned him to a spare chair and sat down behind the desk.
'I'm sorry,' Laurence said. 'I gather this is a difficult time for you. Death in the family. Not a time to answer questions, perhaps?'
