Текст книги "The Bee's Kiss"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Four

‘This is rubbish! Dangerous rubbish! It’s never going to get an airing outside these walls but even if you could get anyone to listen to this blather, you’ve got absolutely nothing.’

Pleased to have rattled him, Joe pressed on. ‘Oh, but I have. I have evidence of the best sort. The sort that would convince any Old Bailey jury. A big bold thumbprint on the poker that killed her which corresponds with your right thumb, Bill. To say nothing of your right index finger on her throat. Not so clear, that one, but the thumb’s a cracker!’ He picked up his tea mug, saluted the sergeant and set it down again. ‘Fifteen matching details, they tell me. I’ve got whorls and loops enough to hang you with.’

Bill was silent, pale and staring. If Joe had read it right, not even name, rank and number would be forthcoming from the tight lips but he decided to go on needling the sergeant anyway.

‘Why the hell did you get involved with a bunch like this? You’re doing well in the force, aren’t you? What is it? Money? An urge to kill for which you’ve found a legitimate – or, at least, state-approved – outlet?’

He wasn’t seriously expecting a response. Men in this line of work were, according to police folklore (and this was the only source of information), granite-jawed thugs who would go to the grave in silence, taking their secrets with them.

The sergeant shrugged the pressure away. Slowly, the old Armitage smile appeared again and, to Joe’s surprise, he seemed not just prepared but even anxious to communicate something. He considered for a moment or two then began slowly. ‘I never stopped counting the minutes. You think, like most, that we’ve been through the war to end war. We’re rebuilding ourselves . . . jazzing our lives away . . . lighting up London, trying to forget, but some of us know it didn’t end there where we thought we’d buried it, there in the Flanders mud. We’re under attack still from more than one direction. I used my skills to knock minutes off that war and if I have to use the same skills to buy time from the next one, I will.’

Was there the faintest sneer as he went on? ‘Loving your country isn’t the prerogative of the upper classes, Captain, though I know they think they own the title deeds to the finer feelings. I’ve got less reason than most to feel gratitude to bloody old Britannia – the old bag’s never shown me any favours! But it’s my country and I’ll support it however I can. And that’s not an unthinking, visceral reaction. I question everything, including patriotism.’

‘And you think you’ve come up with the right answers?’ Joe hardly needed to offer encouragement. Armitage seemed eager to unburden himself. The life of a government-paid assassin, Joe reflected, must be a lonely one.

‘In fact, I’d say it’s the lack of patriotism of the flag-waving sort that’s the saving grace of this country. In my class, at least, we don’t much admire the jingle of spurs and the parade of power. Did you notice in this last lot – when we marched, it wasn’t the victories we sang about, it was more likely to be the disasters. It wasn’t our glorious leaders – it was the rotten old sergeant-major we immortalized in bawdy verse.’

‘So unmilitaristic are we, you’d wonder we ever managed to acquire an empire,’ Joe commented mildly.

Armitage glowered, angry to be misinterpreted. ‘Bloody old Kipling would have understood,’ he said. ‘You only have to look at those peaked Prussian helmets to see what I mean. Mad! Try issuing those to the British Army and you’d be greeted with outright guffaws through all ranks. You can’t get away with nonsense like that without breaking up on the British sense of humour.’

‘Good God, man!’ said Joe raising an eyebrow. ‘If you launch into a eulogy on jellied eels I’ll have you chucked into a cell to cool off.’

‘Of course you will!’ Armitage smiled. ‘See what I mean? It’s to keep blokes like you from having to get their hands bloodied again that blokes like me wield the occasional scalpel. You’re not all worth the effort but – where else in Europe would inordinate appreciation of jellied eels be a criminal charge? I’ve thought it through. I have my own philosophy.’

‘A killer with a conscience?’

‘That’s right. For your own good, Captain, we’ve never had this conversation. This goes so high it’d make your head spin. You risk annoying some forceful people. Can’t imagine what the going rate is for making a Commander of the CID disappear but there’s bound to be one.’

‘But what possible danger could she be to the state?’ Joe persisted. ‘Playing Girl Guides with a bunch of silly debutantes and the lout Donovan?’

He was pleased to have provoked the response he wanted.

‘Not silly girls at all! Clever, able, well-trained girls.’ Armitage hesitated, weighing the knowledge that he was exceeding his brief against his understanding of his superior officer which was pushing him beyond his limits. He came to a decision. ‘Girls who, though they were unaware of it,’ he went on, ‘had, in their charming little heads, the power to lose the next war for us.’

‘Lose a war, Bill? But they were training to help win wars.’

‘Tell you a story.’ He leaned back and Joe had a clear impression that he was about to call up a brandy and soda. ‘Know who I mean when I mention Admiral Sir John Fisher?’

‘Of course. Father of the modern navy . . . innovator . . . brilliant man. Destroyers, submarines, torpedoes, guns – he was responsible for the state of readiness of the fleet when war broke out. It was Jack Fisher who said: “On the British fleet rests the Empire.”’

‘And he wasn’t wrong. It was his protégé, Admiral Jellicoe, who actually led the fleet into battle. Now, the Germans were caught on the back foot on several occasions early in the war because Jellicoe always seemed to know where and when they were massing for attack. The reason he was able to give them a bloody nose was the SIGINT warnings to Room 40. Signals Intelligence. Wireless telegraphy, radio, whatever you like to call it. Their shipping movements were being monitored, the information collated and interpreted and handed to Jellicoe on a plate. He and Admiral Beatty were on their way while the German fleet was still in harbour. At the battle of Jutland, he had victory in his pocket and the German fleet trapped at night in open waters at the entrance to the Skaggarak. He was ready to blow them out of the water come dawn but – he faltered. He was given signals information and he ignored it. Let them get away. No one’s quite sure why.’

Joe wondered why Armitage was imparting this information so freely and who was his source. He had remarked an unusual political slant which didn’t quite chime with what he had understood to be Armitage’s philosophy.

‘Jellicoe decided to accept instead the inaccurate information from his scouting cruisers,’ Armitage revealed, watching for Joe’s reaction. ‘Reverted in the middle of battle to the tried and tested old methods. If he’d acted in accordance with radio intelligence supplied, which was very clear as to the position of the High Seas Fleet, Jutland might have turned out really to be the victory Churchill told us afterwards it had been and not the uncomfortable and bloody draw it actually was.’

‘Why was the intelligence not acted on? Do you – or your masters – have a theory, Bill?’

‘You fancy yourself as a psychologist – you tell me! There is a phrase they’ve invented to cover it: the Incredulity Factor. A sudden refusal to put your trust in modern technology.’

‘I know it well,’ said Joe. ‘It affects me every time I change gear.’

He thought he would get the most out of Armitage by keeping their exchanges as light as possible and maintaining, as far as he could, their old relationship. ‘But I do begin to see how a well-placed squad of Wrens could wreak havoc at sea,’ he added carefully.

‘Yes, there’s no doubt that Jellicoe’s hesitation was due to incredulity but – think! Suppose a wireless operator had been in a position to send him a further communication confirming his own doubts. “Ignore previous message . . . we got it wrong . . . HSF now reported sailing west . . .” Bound to have influenced his decision!’

‘Certainly. We all like to have support for our own misjudgements.’

Armitage looked at him steadily for a moment then continued: ‘The navy was pivotal. If the Germans had destroyed us at sea in 1916 and blockaded the country – no supplies coming in and no troops going out – we’d have been on our knees in six months.’

Joe knew Armitage was not exaggerating when he said, ‘One duff message, Captain, that’s all it would take.’

Joe’s reply came haltingly, unwillingly. ‘And if the sender has knowledge of the language, coding, wireless technology . . . and – perhaps most vital – an understanding of overall strategy . . . Oh, my God! But would a woman ever be given such an influential role?’

The full enormity of the scenario had hit Joe and he shuddered.

‘It didn’t take the navy long to discover the girl recruits were smarter than the men when it came to SIGINT and they’re nothing if not innovators at the Admiralty – if it works, use it. If war were to break out again, I’d expect Queen Bea’s girls or the like to be operating in the signals section. Wireless, signals, codes. The next lot will be won or lost in the airwaves not in the trenches. One bad communication from a trusted source at a critical moment, that’s all you’ll need!’

At last Joe was in possession of the awful truth.

‘Are you saying the Dame was preparing to betray her country to the Bolsheviks?’

Armitage’s laugh was derisory and triumphant. ‘God no! I never thought I’d hear myself say it but – you’re wrong on two counts there, Captain!

‘For a start, her country, the one she really paid allegiance to, was not England. Given the chance, she was intending to foul up things for the British fleet and bring about a victory for the country she truly cared about – Germany.’

Joe felt suddenly awash with horror. Armitage must have been watching his every movement intently. He produced his brandy flask. ‘Gulpers, I’d say, sir. Go on!’

Joe was thankful for the warmth searing its way down his throat. Too late he remembered who had offered the drink.

‘It’s all right,’ said Armitage, amused. ‘Only the best scotch in there. I’ll have one myself.’

‘What a headache she must have given the various departments once they found out! But how did they get to hear?’

‘One of the girls who killed herself – no idea who . . . no need for me to know that – is understood to have written a letter to her highly placed father confessing all and warning him. Action was swiftly taken.’

‘Ah! The sting!’ Joe mused. ‘The venomous shaft she placed killed the victim but brought her own death with it. I like a neat, classical ending! But I see the problem: difficult to charge her with anything because, technically, she’d done nothing wrong. Her crime was in the future. Conspiracy, perhaps?’

‘You’re forgetting the friends in high places.’

‘Couldn’t one of them have been primed to take her out on to some terrace and hand her a brandy and a revolver, in the good old British tradition?’

‘There’d still have been public interest aroused. And these days we have to consider the reactions of the bloody press at every turn. They don’t just turn up and meekly take dictation from the Home Office any more. She was a colourful woman and very much in the public eye. There’d have been talk in any circumstances – but the tragic, though understandable, death at the hands of a burglar is a nine-day wonder. Cat burglars have become a national obsession – everyone was expecting something like this to happen. Just a question of time. She was unlucky. No one minds the press running with that story – let them enjoy it. But think, sir . . . if the truth came out about the Queen Bea . . . Remember the scandal of the trial of Sir Roger Casement after the war. We’re still in the outfall of that seven years on.’

‘And he was an Irishman! How much worse if a woman regarded by some as an English heroine were similarly exposed!’

‘More or less the conclusion the department arrived at, sir. Thought you’d get there in the end.’

‘So, they send in Armitage under cover – and what cover! A CID sergeant no less! He watches his subject go up to her room – noting that she’s alone – sets off outdoors on patrol wearing a cape and, on his two good legs, shins up the building, breaks in, murders the Dame and spends some time laying confusing evidence that will send the Plod off in several wrong directions.’

Joe paused, deep in thought. ‘No. You didn’t break in, did you, Bill? No sound of glass smashing reported by anyone . . .’ Then, seeing his way through, ‘You let yourself in by means of an unlatched casement. You’d been on patrol throughout the building earlier that evening. What was to stop you getting into her room – pass key part of the security man’s kit? Perhaps you borrowed one from a maid on her 9 p.m. rounds? And you unlatched the window while she was down below at the party? Then, when the hour comes for your external patrol, you simply push the window open silently from outside. You kill the Dame, steal her necklace, mess up her clothing to make it look personal, bash in the glass, muffling the sound with a Ritz towel, and redistribute the glass from the window. There, that’ll give someone a double headache! You probably put the jemmy and emeralds inside the pockets of the cape . . . I did wonder what that bulge was when you sat by me at the coffee stall . . . no, all right! I didn’t! Any blood splashing would have been fended off by the waterproofing of the cape and would have been invisible outside in the dark on a wet night.

‘So you go back out through the window, parting company with the poker halfway down . . .’ Joe hesitated. ‘Then you smarten up, with all the time in the world, in the staff cloakroom and rush about efficiently when called upon later on the discovery of the body. Of course, as it turned out, you didn’t have all the time in the world. You hadn’t bargained for Tilly Westhorpe taking it into her head to pay the Dame an impromptu visit. Very nearly wrecked everything for you, Bill. No wonder you wanted her off the job. Sharp-eyed, saucy young Tilly watching your every move! Playing detective! Nightmare!’

‘You’re doing well, sir,’ said Armitage affably. ‘There’s only one thing wrong with it and I don’t mind mentioning it as I see you’ve clocked it as well. Doesn’t quite make sense, does it? I didn’t kill Dame Beatrice. They’ve paid me for it all right but I had to confess that someone had already done the job for me. She was lying there dead when I went in. Just as you saw her later.’

‘So what happens now, Bill?’ Joe sighed.

For a moment he thought he might have overplayed his role. Indecision from his commanding officer was not what Armitage would have expected. But he seemed to think it a reasonable question in the circumstances and replied with a perceptible relaxation of his taut muscles. ‘Only one thing that can happen, Captain. You say, “Case closed and let’s look forward to working on the next one.” Then I bugger off.’

Joe narrowed his eyes, flinched, exclaimed sharply and examined the end of his cigarette which, unregarded in his absorption with the story, was burning his fingers. Armitage’s eyes followed it. A tap on the door divided his attention for a split second. It was long enough.

‘Come in, Ralph!’ Joe called.

The inspector entered to find Armitage still seated, staring, unbelieving, down the barrel of the Browning Joe was holding steadily in his left hand.

‘Ralph, did you bring them? Good. Cuff him to the chair, will you, and remove his gun. It’ll be on his inside left. Holstered. Try and stay out of range, Ralph – if he moves, I’ll shoot him.’

A pale but defiant Armitage, hands locked behind his back and a further set of handcuffs fastening him to the chair, listened in silence as Inspector Cottingham produced a warrant for his arrest and began to read it out.

‘This is a bloody farce!’ he hissed, exasperated. ‘There’s nothing you’ll be allowed to stick on me. Don’t think it! And I told you,’ he sneered, ‘I didn’t even bloody well do it.’

‘I know you didn’t. Just have a little patience, old chap, and hear the inspector out. He’s about to do you for . . . what have we got, Ralph? . . . breaking and entering the premises of the Ritz, stealing an emerald necklace, interfering with evidence to a murder, pre– and post-commission obfuscation . . . Carry on, Ralph. You read it – I’ll sign it.’

Cottingham, having completed his arrest manoeuvres with professional smoothness, now stood to one side, agitated and questioning. His eyes flicked nervously between the revolver which Joe still held at the ready and its target.

‘He wasn’t armed. Sir! It’s Armitage! He’s one of us!’

‘Was one of us. Technically still is. He goes through the motions, draws the pay, uses the cover but his loyalties are with some other department. Probably under the same roof, though we’ll never know it.’

‘Special Branch?’ asked Cottingham. ‘One of McBrien’s busy boys?’

‘Special? No, I’d have said rather – Extra Special. We’re not allowed even to think about it. A branch of a branch of the Branch, perhaps? A twiglet?’ He composed his features. Mistake to descend to levity. In a voice of purring conspiracy he added, ‘And if I guess rightly, there’ll be several firewalls between the grandee who first murmured from the depths of his leather armchair in a St James’s club that perhaps the Dame had gone too far and the time, sadly, had come . . . and, at the end of the line: the finger on the trigger, the hand on the poker.’

Cottingham was uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Dangerous work perhaps, sir, to meddle in matters like this?’

‘Oh, yes! Which is why I’ve taken certain precautions. I sent off this weekend a thick envelope for delivery to my lawyer. In the event of my unforeseen death, the letter will be copied to . . . and there follows a list of ten influential people. And, just to be sure, memos have gone to Sir Nevil, the Head of the Branch, the Foreign Secretary, the editor of the Mirror and, perhaps most importantly, to the Leader of His Majesty’s Opposition, to inform them of my insurance policy. A mixed bag of heroes and villains there! Having this in common – none of them will want what I’ve said to become public knowledge. I’ll be roundly cursed in some quarters but – what the hell! – this is England, not bloody Russia!’

He wondered if he’d been melodramatic but Cottingham seemed impressed by the speech.

‘Should have included your resignation with that little lot,’ Armitage growled.

‘But what will happen to him?’

‘Yes, Ralph. I share your concern. The situation is most dangerous for the sergeant. Broken tools get thrown away. If we let him loose on the streets we’d probably find that a passing hackney cab driver would accidentally lose his grip on the wheel with disastrous consequences for the sergeant within the week.’

‘Harsh retribution, sir? Considering you seem to agree with him that his only crime was burglary and tampering with evidence. That’s five years maximum.’

‘It’s just a holding charge, Ralph. He’ll be out of our control – and protection – as soon as his papers reach a certain level. Get your coat and hat. We’ve some ground to cover before he gets released. We’re going to pick up evidence of his other crime and then we’ll have to think about a further warrant. Get on the phone, will you, and whistle up an escort down to the cells?’

Armitage had turned pale and was frustratedly tugging at his handcuffs. He glared in silence as Ralph asked, ‘Other crime, sir? What have you in mind?’

‘The murder of Miss Audrey Blount. Let’s not forget Audrey.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

‘Where are we going, sir?’ Cottingham asked as Joe commandeered a police car and driver.

‘We’re going to pay a call on Armitage senior. According to the file, Bill’s home address is Queen Adelaide Court, just off the Mile End Road beyond Whitechapel. Being unmarried, his next of kin is a Mr Harold Armitage, his father. Retired soldier. Nothing so helpful as a search warrant in our pockets, Ralph, so we’ll just have to charm our way in. And while we go, I’ll fill you in on the latest developments in the Hive you discovered.’

‘What are we hoping to find chez Armitage, sir?’

‘Audrey’s handbag? The negatives? If Armitage is motivated by money he might have kept them back to do a little business on his own account. He claims to be motivated by patriotism but . . . I don’t know, Ralph . . . I think perhaps financial reward might play a starring role in all this. And let’s not lose sight of that necklace. No information from the usual sources?’

‘None, sir. Usual fences claim no knowledge. Could have gone abroad by now.’

‘Or been hidden until someone thinks we’ve taken our eye off the ball.’

‘But what’s the connection between Audrey and Armitage?’

‘She was prowling the corridors well before the murder – we only have her word that she saw nothing untoward. Did she catch sight of Armitage doing something questionable? Like letting himself into the Dame’s room with a pass key? She needed money in her changed circumstances and I think she was bold enough to attempt a spot of blackmail. She was certainly giving him a close inspection when we interviewed her down in Surrey. I put it down to the sergeant’s charming exterior but I think she very probably recognized him. She’d only have to ring up the Yard and leave a message. He would ring her back and arrange a meeting. The whole murder scene on the bridge has a professional ring to it. The rendezvous was set for exactly the time of poorest visibility. The witness, Arthur, said she turned to greet someone when the beat bobby approached. Wrong chap in fact but she could have been expecting to see a man in uniform.

‘Suppose, Ralph, our killer is waiting on the Embankment wearing, let’s say, a river policeman’s slicker and cap. No one would take any notice as their headquarters is right there by the bridge. They’re coming and going all the time. So he waits until the beat bobby has done his job and gone on his way then he approaches Audrey, grabs her bag and throws her over. Bag goes into the inner pocket of the cape and he strolls off unnoticed. I got taken for a policeman by a tram conductor myself, leaving Waterloo Bridge in a borrowed cape.’

‘Then perhaps I should be arresting you, sir? But, to answer my original question myself – we’re looking for a police cape possibly still stained with Group III blood and this item will have, secreted in an inner pocket, a lady’s bag containing photographic evidence of a dubious nature. If our luck holds, in the other pocket we’ll find an emerald necklace and a jemmy. And it will, no doubt, be hanging handily on the back of the door. With a confession pinned to the collar.’ Cottingham sighed.

‘Ralph, go home!’ said Joe on impulse. ‘I shouldn’t be involving you in this underhand operation. You’ve a wife and family to think about. I’m sorry! I was getting carried away. You’re right. I haven’t a clue what there may be to be found in Armitage’s house. He’s a careful type and has, of course, got rid of anything incriminating days ago. I just want to give it a try. Nosy, I suppose, but I wanted to get an impression of the man from his surroundings. He’s many-layered and I’m sure I don’t know all there is to know about Bill Armitage. Go back to the Yard. I’ll go on by myself. Constable! Stop here!’

‘Constable! Drive on!’ Major Cottingham of the Cold-stream’s authoritative voice countermanded Joe’s order.

‘Ralph, you’re not obliged –’

‘I know that. But I’m not happy about closing down this case any more than you are. It’s like looking at a suppurating wound and being ordered to slap a sticking plaster on it in the hope that it’ll go away. No, this calls for the scalpel and if I can help you wield it, I will. You said it, sir – “This isn’t bloody Russia!” We didn’t give our all in that hell for four years to emerge into an autocratic state where faceless men decide for us what the Law should be.’

They were dropped off at the City end of the Mile End Road and the driver assured them that if they struck out to their right they’d find what they were looking for. He didn’t risk taking his motor vehicle down into that warren – he was likely to emerge with bits missing and lucky if it was just the motor. He arranged to wait for them on the main highway.

They found the narrow entrance to Queen Adelaide Court. A grand-sounding title for a Victorian collection of slum dwellings erected for workers in the nearby docks. They stood, silently taking in the squalor and overcrowding of the terraced houses grouped around a central square. Joe spotted four outdoor lavatories and a central water pump. Washing lines crowded with drying linen filled most of the yard, reminding them that it was a Monday. Doors stood open on gloomy interiors; a few inhabitants were out on the doorsteps gossiping and casting an occasional eye on the bands of young children who played together in groups.

Springtime games were in full swing. Skipping ropes, whips and tops and hoops were being used by groups of girls, the inevitable football game, much circumscribed by the washing lines, raged around the perimeter. Once his initial shock at the noise and obvious poverty of the court had subsided, Joe noticed that all the children seemed happy and busy. A gang of small girls were first to challenge the strangers. Arm in arm, they were strolling along chattering and one was pushing a cart made from an old wooden fish box mounted on two perambulator wheels. It was lined with a dirty blanket and contained a selection of rag dolls. Joe bent to admire them as a friendly overture and was alarmed to see one of them move. The girls shrieked with laughter at his startled reaction.

‘’Sawright, mister! That’s just our Jimmy. ’E won’t bite yer! Not ’less you was to put yer finger in ’is marf!’

Joe explained that they were friends of Bill Armitage and were looking for his house.

‘Rozzers, are yer? That’s all right then. I’d took yer for gennlemen – watch chain an’ all,’ said the oldest with a sharp look at Cottingham’s waistcoat. ‘Well, come on then. ’Is dad’s in.’

Joe handed them a penny each and they set off, an unlikely cortège, to weave their way across the court, their every step followed by dozens of pairs of eyes.

‘I say, sir,’ said Cottingham quietly, ‘bit odd, all this, isn’t it?’

‘Bill’s a London lad. I expect he was born here.’

‘And that’s what’s odd. Remuneration’s not wonderful in the force, I’m sure we’d all agree, but he’s drawing a sergeant’s pay and he’s a single man. He could afford to live in the leafy suburbs like most of the CID blokes. Why’s he still here and what’s he doing with his salary?’

The girls led them to the open door of a house at the end of a row. It seemed larger than the others and the proud Victorian builder had, according to tradition, immortalized his wife or his eldest daughter by fixing her name over the door: ‘Violet Villa’.

‘Knock! Knock!’ sang out the girls in chorus. ‘Mr Armitage, you’re wanted! Visitors!’ They moved away in response to a raucous call from the other side of the court to come in for their dinner.

The doorstep was freshly donkey-stoned, the windows clean and the over-sized brass knocker gleamed. An elderly man appeared in the doorway. He peered out, failing to focus on either of them until Joe spoke. He had noticed that the old man’s eyes were both dimmed by the milky-white film of cataracts.

‘Sir!’ said Joe cheerfully. ‘Two visitors. I am Commander Sandilands and this is Inspector Cottingham. We are both colleagues of your son Bill and we’re all working on a case . . .’

‘Oh, yes! I know who you are. Come in, come in! Bill’s told me all about you. And if I’ve got it right, Commander, it’s not the first time my lad’s worked with you. His CO, weren’t you, at one time?’ Armitage reached for Joe’s hand and shook it vigorously. ‘Can’t be often a man has the chance to say thank you to the officer who brought his son safely through all that. Makes me thankful I put him with the Royal Scots Fusiliers. His mother was a big strong Scotch lass – a fisher girl I met up with when the fleet was down at Southend . . . never did settle down here – and my Bill was up there with her family when war broke out. I wanted him with a regiment where the officers knew their trade so I said, “Go on, lad. Sign on.”’

Joe wondered if the old man was lonely in spite of the hubbub outside in the court. He seemed to be pleased to have someone to chew the fat with.

‘A soldier yourself, Mr Armitage?’

The back straightened and the right hand trembled with the effort not to salute. ‘South African war. 2nd East Surreys. Clery’s Division. Wounded and invalided out.’

Joe launched into a knowledgeable military man’s appraisal of the campaign, agreeing with the old man that the best thing that had come out of that war was the lesson learned from the Boers in the matter of rapid fire. ‘Served us well in the early months in France,’ Joe commented.

‘Always taught young Bill to fire fast and accurate. ’E don’t mess about!’

‘No indeed!’ said Joe. His eyes, while he talked, had been scanning the appointments of the room, noting the table laid ready for a tea that Armitage would not be coming home for, the comfortable armchairs one on either side of the coal fire. The fire dogs shone in the hearth, the mahogany furniture gleamed, where the surfaces showed, under protective doilies and runners. The alcoves on each side of the chimney breast had been fitted with shelves and every inch was taken up with ranks of books. Joe saw, as well as battered volumes of Nuttall’s Standard Dictionary, Meiklejohn’s English Grammar and the works of Shakespeare, a collection of, it seemed, every published title in the Everyman Library. The shelf at hand’s reach of the armchair was most revealing: a collection of French novels in their familiar yellow binding, one or two Russian works, Palgrave’s Golden Treasury, Carlyle’s History of the French Revolution, Tom Paine’s Rights of Man and, sideways on, with a bus ticket marking his place, a dog-eared copy of Montaigne’s essays. With a flash of distress, Joe realized that this was a distillation of his own collection.