Sally Spencer - Blackstone and the Great War

So why, they would ask themselves, had he taken his own life?

And then it would all come out.

They would learn of the dirty disgusting things that he and Danvers had done together.

They would tie that in with the death of Danvers — and suddenly that death wouldn’t seem as straightforward as it once had.

Disgrace would descend on the Fortesque family, and ridicule would be heaped on the regiment.

‘How can I stop that happening?’ asks Soames, still on the ground, still in the foetal position. ‘What can I do?’

He wishes Maude was there to advise him. But Maude is not there — and he dare not go to look for him in case someone else happens to discover the body in the meantime.

As he is climbing to his feet — eyes stinging and mucus running down his chin — he has an idea.

If, instead of committing suicide, Charlie had been murdered, then an entirely different set of questions — the wrong questions — would be asked about his death. And if the wrong questions were asked, the right answers would never emerge.

He sees a hammer hanging on the wall, and lifts it off its hook. He walks over to the table, and stands there for a moment, looking down at his dead friend. His free hand lifts, almost of its own volition, and gently strokes the dead man’s cheek. Then he removes the hand, steps back, and swings the hammer.

As it strikes the point at which the bullet entered Fortesque’s brain, he is sobbing again.

‘I wondered how you could inflict so much damage and yet not be covered with his blood,’ Blackstone said. ‘And then, of course, I reached the only conclusion it was possible to reach — there was so little blood because the heart had already stopped beating before your attack began.’

‘There was blood enough,’ Soames said with a shudder. ‘Blood and bone and gristle. God, it was truly awful.’

‘And then you left the body and carried out an inspection, before returning to the dugout and “discovering” it again,’ Blackstone said. ‘I must admit, I admire you for that. There can’t be many men who could have held themselves together after what you’d been through.’

‘Having survived Eton, you’re prepared for anything,’ Soames said, almost mournfully. Then a sudden anger entered his voice, and he added, ‘Don’t you dare say you admire me — I don’t want admiration from a man like you.’

‘You must have panicked when you learned the body was being sent back home,’ Blackstone said, ‘because while whoever examined Fortesque here might have accepted that he’d been battered to death, it wouldn’t have taken long for a good police surgeon in England to work out that he’d been shot. So you dashed to Calais and stole the body.’

‘Is that it?’ Maude asked.

‘Why would you want more?’ Blackstone countered. ‘There’s ample evidence there.’

‘So there is,’ Maude agreed. ‘More than enough. But, you see, it’s all circumstantial evidence.’

‘Even so, it would get you convicted in any court in England,’ Blackstone said, ‘and at a court martial — which requires a lesser burden of proof — it will be a cakewalk for whoever’s prosecuting you.’

‘Not if you’re not there to provide it.’

‘I’ve written down everything I’ve just told you,’ Blackstone lied, ‘and in the event of my death, it will be handed over to the authorities.’

‘Do you know, I don’t believe you,’ Maude said. ‘But it doesn’t really matter, anyway. If you’re lying, your death will mean we’ll get away with it. And if you’re not lying, we’re as good as dead anyway.’ He reached into his belt and produced a long wicked-looking knife. ‘So why should I let you live?’

‘Didn’t they teach you the difference between right and wrong at Eton, Lieutenant Soames?’ Blackstone asked.

‘Of course they did,’ Soames replied.

‘Then you know what’s about to happen is wrong,’ Blackstone said. ‘And not just wrong — it’s dishonourable.’

‘I. . I. .’ Soames said, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s.

‘Be your own man for once,’ Blackstone urged. ‘Don’t do what Maude wants you to do — do what you should do! Stop him before it’s too late.’

Maude smiled. ‘Well, what’s it to be, Roger?’ he asked. ‘Do I kill him — or do I let him live?’

‘I. . I. .’ Soames repeated, his mouth once more doing a fish impression. He turned, suddenly, so that his back was to them. ‘Do what you want,’ he said, over his shoulder.

Well, you tried, Sam, Blackstone told himself. You did the best you could, and you failed. Now it’s time to prepare yourself for the end.

There was a sound of footfalls in the trench outside.

Maude lurched across the table, and placed the point of his knife against Blackstone’s throat.

‘If you make a sound now, I’ll kill you!’ he hissed.

The door opened, and two men — one of them carrying an oil lamp — stepped into the dugout. The one with the lamp was Lieutenant Hatfield, and the one without one was Captain Carstairs.

Maude dropped the knife, and sprang to his feet.

‘You went running straight to the beak, did you, Benjamin?’ he sneered at Hatfield. ‘Well, I suppose that’s all I should have expected from a man of your background.’

‘You will not speak in my presence without my express permission!’ Captain Carstairs barked.

Maude came to attention. ‘I apologize, sir,’ he said.

‘As you have rightly surmised, Lieutenant Maude, Lieutenant Hatfield came to me and told me all about this unfortunate affair,’ Carstairs said. ‘It was the right thing to do — it was no more than his duty — and I will not have him criticized for it. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Maude said.

Carstairs nodded. ‘Good. And now I would like you all to follow me, gentlemen.’

He turned smartly, and left the dugout. He had not looked at Blackstone once, in all the time he was there.

Whatever the time of year, it always felt as if there was a slight chill in the trench in the hour before dawn.

That morning, the chill seemed more intense than usual. It clung to the sandbags, and wafted along the duckboards. It enveloped the Tommies who were queuing up for their ration of rum. And it appeared to have frozen the three lieutenants — standing apart from their men — into the sort of statues that would later be seen mounted on war memorials in country churchyards.

Mick had had two fears pressing down heavily on him. The first — more immediate one — had been that the rum would run out before he reached the front of the line, but now he had his tin cup of rum firmly in his hand, it was time for the second fear to come into its own.

‘I’ve never been into battle before,’ he told the man standing next to him.

‘I can tell that, just by looking at you,’ the other soldier replied, then took a small, careful sip of his rum.

‘Yes, this is my first time,’ Mick said, ‘and to tell you the truth, I’m a little bit scared.’

The other man laughed. ‘You don’t want to waste your precious time being scared,’ he said.

‘Don’t I?’

‘Of course you don’t. Look at this way — if you survive the assault, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘And if you’re killed by Fritz — well, then you really have nothing to worry about.’

Mick took a sip of his rum, and felt it burn, strangely comfortingly, deep down in his stomach.

‘If I live there’s no problem, and if I die there’s no problem,’ he mused. ‘I’ve never thought about it that way before.’