Barbara Cleverly - Tug of War

Georges turned on Joe. ‘Did you have to be such a swine?’ he shouted. He hurled his torch down at Joe’s feet and ran after his mother.

‘Oh my God!’ said Charles. ‘What a mess! What the hell was she doing here? How did she know? Look, don’t be upset, Sandilands. The boy was bound to react like that — I’d think the less of him if he didn’t. You did what you had to do. We did what we had to do.’ He patted Joe on the shoulder and his back stiffened in resolve. ‘And we haven’t finished by a long chalk. Leave Aline for later. She’s not going to run away. We’re going to have to clear this lot up. I suppose there’s a good deal here,’ he indicated the body, ‘a policeman will need to check over. Stroke of luck him dying clasping his cap badge though, wasn’t it? Could save us hours of research, I’m thinking.’

Was there a slight question in his voice?

There was more than a question in Dorcas’s voice when she spoke. It was heavy with sarcasm. ‘Joe doesn’t trust to luck just happening like that. Sometimes he engineers it. Like that little scene of discovery just now. I bet if I were to count out Georges’s collection of badges there’d be one missing and it would be an exploding grenade!’

‘Dorcas! How can you be such a cynic? Georges’s collection is complete. I didn’t make off with one.’

‘But then. . what. .?’

He held up the badge again. ‘Sleight of hand, misdirection. . Aline knows who this man is and she saw what she expected to see: a Royal Fusilier’s badge. But it isn’t! This one belongs to me — it’s the emblem of the Royal Scots Fusiliers. Very similar, to a civilian’s eyes. A grenade going off with flames curling out of the top — but mine has the lion and the unicorn on the base not the white rose, you see. And mine is gilt not bronze.’

Dorcas peered at the badge and nodded. ‘Do you always walk about with your old cap badge in your pocket?’ she asked, her voice slow with suspicion.

‘In my pocket? Well, of course not! You were so interested in Georges’s collection, I dug mine out of my kit and brought it down to give to you. I thought you might like to start your own collection — have it made into a sweetheart pin if you like — many girls do! I’ve given away dozens of these in my time. You find them all over London. But give it to Georges if you don’t want it. And if you’re going to be so sniffy. . ’

‘Children! Children!’ said Charles with weary good humour. ‘Pressure’s mounting, I know, but do you think we could get on with the job in hand?’

Contrite, Joe was instantly on his knees, going carefully and impressively through his post-mortem routine. With no possibility of taking notes on the spot, no photographer or fingerprinting facility available to him, let alone the supportive presence of a Scotland Yard-appointed pathologist, he did what he could.

He gave a running commentary on his findings for his own benefit as well as to allay the curiosity of Charles and Dorcas: ‘I am assuming from an inferred identification on the part of a witness that this is the body of Edward Thorndon, Royal Fusilier, record of disappearance available from the War Office in London. Physical details of corpse concur with known characteristics of said Thorndon. Dental records, if such exist, and fingerprints ditto will doubtless give further information, probably confirmation. In the absence of any medical assistance I will carry out a preliminary and non-invasive examination of the fatal wound on the spot.’

‘I say, should we look the other way?’ said Charles, moving to shield Dorcas from the sight.

‘I’m not digging very deep,’ said Joe. ‘Haven’t got the equipment. And you’re a valued witness.’

He took a penknife from his pocket and carefully cut a cross in the fabric over the centre of the bloodstain. With delicate movements of the blade, he peeled back the four corners from the wound. Murmuring, he lengthened his cuts and revealed a larger extent of the chest. ‘Wounds!’ he said. ‘Plural. There’s enough of the skin and flesh preserved to allow me to make out five at least. They appear to be one and a half inches in width, consistent with a cut from a sabre blade. Not a slash — a plunging cut. A great deal of blood was spilled and. .’ Joe shuffled on his knees all around the corpse, observing closely, ‘and, oddly, the victim would appear — from the path of the blood flow — to have been recumbent at the time the blows were delivered. Do you see? If I’d stuck a blade in you, standing face to face. .’ He got to his feet and offered up his penknife blade to Charles’s chest. ‘The initial outflow of blood would cascade down your front, staining your breeches and your feet. Here we’ve got a ponding of blood around the wound and a general overflow around what I think must have been a supine form. No stains, you see, on his lower limbs. But why would a chap be lying on his back in a cellar waiting for someone to come along and stab him? He clearly didn’t wander in here to die after a wounding that occurred somewhere else. You wouldn’t survive an attack like this for longer than a few seconds. Death must have been just about instantaneous.’

He bent to examine the right arm, again cutting away remaining shreds of fabric. ‘No sign of an old wound to the upper arm visible.’

Puzzled, he looked at the man’s face. ‘Either of you got a working torch? Thank you, Charles. Shine it closely on the face, would you, there on your right, his left. There! Are there signs of a blow to the head? Too faint to make out. The features are decayed, extremities show depredations by rodents. Broken cheekbone, though, I think. Premortem? Someone kicked him unconscious and, as he lay there, stabbed him to death?’

He looked at Dorcas, the doctor’s appalling mime of Thibaud’s nightmare performance vivid in their minds.

‘Check, Joe, can you see if his hands were tied? He wouldn’t have just knelt down to wait for the blow, would he?’

Joe lifted each hand in turn. ‘Hard to tell, honestly, without a microscope but there’s something there. On both wrists. A slight mark. A ligature he struggled against? It’s possible. And, significantly — it’s been removed. The man has been overpowered, we must assume, here on this spot, kicked unconscious and repeatedly stabbed.’

‘But who on earth could perform such a despicable act?’ said Charles. ‘Hard to believe that anyone we know and who — we must presume — was acquainted with his victim, could kill in this cruel and brutal way.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. .’ said Joe bitterly. ‘I’ve known much worse meted out by men who hadn’t even been introduced to their victim.’

He got to his feet, clicked shut his knife and dusted off his knees. ‘That’s all for the moment. I think — and it doesn’t please me to say this — that we now find ourselves in a position where we have little choice but to go along with some of Aline’s suggestions. Or were they orders? We must turn this sad relic over to the men to have it conveyed upstairs. And — opening a bottle? I could do with a whisky if I may make a suggestion of my own.’

‘Right. Right,’ said Charles, shuffling his feet in the dust. ‘Look, Sandilands, why don’t you go on ahead? Speak to Aline? She’ll be expecting it. She’ll be in the salon. Planning her next move and rehearsing her lines, shouldn’t wonder. You’ve been warned! Leave me to make all the necessary arrangements for our friend here. I’ll have the local undertaker sent for.’

Joe smiled and mimed stiffening his shoulders to take a command.

‘ Bon courage, mon ami! ’ said Charles as Joe stalked away down the corridor.

Joe went first to the stables, aware that he was dragging his feet, reluctant to encounter Aline once again. He took off his jacket, and stripped off his shirt, and began to wash his hands and arms and face thoroughly, making use of the cake of carbolic soap available in the grooms’ earthenware sink. He dried off on a towel hanging on a hook and finally, feeling clean but smelling disgusting, he put on his things again. He straightened his tie, squinting into a cracked looking-glass and grimacing at his strained face. ‘Can’t put it off any longer, Sandilands,’ he confided to his image. ‘Shift yer arse!’