Sally Spencer: Blackstone and the Great War

‘I am being honest,’ Blackstone said firmly.

‘Then there is still the question of the reward I offered you,’ the General said, suddenly businesslike. ‘It was five thousand pounds, wasn’t it?’

‘Give the money to Dr Barnardo’s Orphanage,’ Blackstone said.

‘All of it?’

‘All of it.’

‘Well, if that is your wish. .’

‘It is.’

‘And there is nothing at all that you want for yourself?’

‘Nothing,’ Blackstone said.

And then he suddenly realized that, though he didn’t want it for himself, there was something he wanted — and wanted quite badly.

The long narrow street, standing in the shadow of a stinking tannery, was lined with terraced houses. The houses themselves were crumbling and neglected, owned by landlords who knew they need do nothing to them, because their tenants had no choice but to put up with the conditions and pay the rent every Friday.

The street was only a mile or so from one the finest parks in London, and not much further from Buckingham Palace itself, but it was in another world — a world which Blackstone knew well, a world he regarded as his own.

He knocked on the front door of No. 16, and a woman answered. She was only in her late-thirties, Blackstone guessed, and must once have been quite pretty, but the hard life she had led meant that she was already old.

‘Mrs Flowers?’ he asked.

‘Yes?’

Blackstone smiled inwardly. Mick had never told him his surname was Flowers, but that was more than understandable. For a hard lad from the slums — a lad whose whole sense of self-esteem was based on being tougher than his mates — the surname must have been a real curse.

‘My name’s Blackstone. I’ve come about your son, Mick,’ he told the woman.

‘Mick’s. . Mick’s dead,’ Mrs Flowers said. ‘He was killed on the Western Front.’

‘I know,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘Do you think I might come in for a few minutes?’

‘Of course,’ Mrs Flowers said. ‘Where are my manners?’

She led him into the front parlour. There was not much furniture, but there was a large pile of cardboard sheets in one corner, and a number of cardboard cylinders in the other.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ she said, indicating he should sit on one of the two chairs. ‘I make hat boxes, as you can see for yourself. And when there’s no call for them, I make paper flowers or scrubbing brushes. It’s what they call a cottage industry, but I just think of it as cheap labour.’

‘The money’s not very good then?’ Blackstone asked, though he already knew the answer.

‘You’re wrong there,’ Mrs Flowers said. She chuckled. ‘The money’s wonderful — but there’s just not much of it.’ She sat down opposite Blackstone, then stood up again immediately. ‘Would you like a nice cup of tea?’

‘I’m fine,’ Blackstone assured her. ‘Please sit down again.’

Mrs Flowers sat. ‘So what do you do for a living, Mr Blackstone?’

‘I’m a policeman — a detective inspector from Scotland Yard — but I’m not here on police business.’

‘If you were, you wouldn’t be the first policeman who’s ever been in here for that purpose, you know. They were always calling round about our Mick. Not that I can blame them — I loved him, but even I have to admit he was a bit of a tearaway.’

‘He doesn’t sound much like the bloke I met in France, then,’ Blackstone said. ‘ That Mick was a fine young man.’

‘Are you sure that it’s my Mick you’re talking about?’ Mrs Flowers asked suspiciously.

‘It was your Mick,’ Blackstone confirmed. ‘He helped me solve a murder — I’d never have been able to do it without his assistance — but he was killed before I had time to thank him, so I’m doing the next best thing, and thanking you.’

‘It was good of you to take the trouble to come,’ Mrs Flowers said gratefully.

‘And that’s not the only reason I came,’ Blackstone said. ‘I wanted to inform you that they’re going to give Mick a Distinguished Conduct Medal, and you’ll probably have to go to Buckingham Palace to collect it.’

‘You’re not joking, are you?’ Mrs Flowers asked, the suspicion back in her voice. ‘Because if you was, it would be a very cruel joke.’

‘I’m not joking,’ Blackstone promised her.

‘But there’s thousands of our poor brave lads die in France every month, and they don’t all get medals,’ Mrs Flowers said.

‘You’re right in everything you’ve just said,’ Blackstone agreed. ‘They are brave lads, they do die in their thousands, and they don’t all get medals — but, by God, they all bloody well should.’

‘So what’s so special about our Mick?’ Mrs Flowers wondered.

‘Just before he died, he captured an enemy machine-gun post,’ Blackstone said. ‘That one action saved the lives of a lot of other lads just like him. He died a hero.’

And maybe it was even true, he thought. Somebody had captured the machine-gun post that Carstairs had ordered his men to attack, and it might easily have been Mick. Even if it hadn’t been him — even if he’d been cut down by a bullet the second he left the trench — he would certainly have had both the character and the courage to have done it if he’d survived. And, if all that was true, why shouldn’t his mother have the consolation of a medal, which wouldn’t fill the aching void she’d been left with, but was at least better than nothing?

‘You’re not telling the whole story,’ Mrs Flowers said. ‘There’s something else you’ve left out.’

Blackstone smiled. ‘I told Mick he would have made a good detective — and I can see where he got it from now.’

‘Let’s have it,’ Mrs Flowers said firmly.

‘There is an element of influence in him getting the medal,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘Mick had a very good friend-’

‘That would be you,’ Mrs Flowers interrupted — though she was clearly finding it hard to believe that her tearaway son could have had a good friend who was a police inspector from New Scotland Yard.

‘That would be me,’ Blackstone confirmed. ‘And not only was I a very good friend of Mick’s, but I just happen to know an old man who was once a general — and who still has influence in some very high places.’