Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

‘Did you hear that?’ Conrad whispered. ‘She did murder Millie in Holland. And once I have got you into this car, she will shoot me. Don’t you care?’

‘Don’t talk to him!’ Constance said.

Oakford groaned again. He was sitting on the car seat with his legs dangling down to the ground. He was trying to say something.

‘Yes, Father?’ If Conrad was going to die he may as well die hearing what his father wanted to say.

‘I do care,’ he whispered. ‘If she killed Millie, I… I cannot forgive her. There’s a pistol in my coat pocket. Use it.’

Conrad glanced at his father’s suit jacket. There was indeed a heavy weight on one side; Conrad wondered how he had missed it.

‘I said, don’t talk to him!’ Constance shouted.

‘All right,’ said Conrad. And he put his hand around his father, slipping it into the side pocket of his jacket, out of sight of Constance. His fingers closed around a small gun.

It was a revolver. No safety to worry about then. He extricated the gun from the pocket and cocked the hammer, all out sight of Constance. He kept his back to Constance and straightened up. His father, still groggy, looked at him with unfocused eyes and nodded.

Conrad spun around, crouched and fired. He hit Constance in the shoulder just as she pressed the trigger. There was a double bang, the shotgun’s drowning out the crack of the revolver. He heard his father yell from the car behind him, and Constance screamed, dropping the shotgun and grabbing her shoulder.

‘Leave it!’ Conrad shouted.

Constance whimpered in pain. Already blood was spreading over her white dress.

Behind him, Lord Oakford groaned.

‘Are you hit, Father?’

‘Just my leg.’

Veronica darted forward and grabbed the shotgun. She took a few paces back from Constance.

Constance’s eyes blazed. ‘You’re too late!’ she said. ‘You won’t be able to stop Henry.’

‘ Donnez-le-moi ,’ said Madame de Salignac to Veronica, hobbling towards her.

Veronica looked at the shotgun in her hands and passed it to the old woman.

Madame de Salignac took the gun, pointed it at Constance’s chest and pulled the trigger. They were only five yards apart. Constance’s whimpers stopped as she fell backwards, her chest a bloody mess. She was dead before she hit the ground.

‘Someone should have done that a long time ago,’ said Madame de Salignac.

Conrad stared at the body of the woman who had killed his sister. He didn’t feel any thrill of revenge, or even any pity, just wonder that a nice English girl could have such a poisoned soul.

Another scream. This time it was Veronica. She was looking at Lord Oakford, who was slumped on to the back seat of the Packard, blood pumping out of his leg.

‘Father!’

Conrad leaned into the car, and lifted his father out, laying him on to the ground. It wasn’t ‘just his leg’. His left thigh was peppered with shot, and his trousers were already soaked in red. Blood was streaming out on to the ground beneath him.

Conrad remembered when his comrade Lofty Bennett had been shot in the leg at Brunete. The medics had tied a tourniquet above the wound to try to stanch the flow of blood. It had worked, sort of. Lofty survived the loss of blood, but died of gangrene a week later.

Conrad needed a strip of cloth, fast. He flung off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, tearing it off as his fingers fumbled on the buttons.

‘Pass me that knife!’ he shouted to Veronica, pointing to the breakfast table. She grabbed it and gave it to him. He cut his father’s trouser leg above the wound and pulled it down, revealing a pulsing mass of blood-soaked flesh. He wrapped his shirt around the leg above the wound and pulled tight. Within seconds the flow seemed to slow, but not stop completely. He tried to adjust the shirt, but then the blood started streaming again.

Oakford had already lost a lot.

His father’s eyes were open as he watched his son. He seemed to be conscious, but not in pain.

Veronica offered Conrad a towel from the kitchen.

‘Well done,’ said Conrad. ‘Push that down on the wound.’

‘Conrad?’ his father whispered.

‘Yes?’

‘You know we never agreed on much, did we?’

Conrad couldn’t help grinning as he kept the pressure on the tourniquet. ‘No, Father, we didn’t.’

‘Your mother always says you are just like me.’ He was struggling to get the words out. ‘I’ve always done what I believed to be right. You have always done the same. My time is over now. So you do what you think you have to do.’

Conrad looked at his father sharply. What was his father saying? He wasn’t admitting that Conrad was right and he was wrong, that wasn’t Lord Oakford’s way. But he was giving him permission to stop Alston. His blessing.

‘All right, Father. But let’s talk about it later.’ Conrad didn’t want his father’s blessing at that precise moment. He just wanted him to live.

But Lord Oakford’s eyelids were closing. He made an effort to speak. ‘Conrad,’ he whispered.

Conrad bent down.

‘ Sag deiner Mutter, dass ich sie liebe. ’ Tell your mother I love her.

‘Don’t give up now, Father!’

But Arthur Oakford closed his eyes.

Guillaume, Cécile’s aged husband, had emerged from the keeper’s lodge by the gate to see what the fuss was about. Madame de Salignac sent him off at once to the village to fetch the doctor. But by the time he returned with the man, Lord Oakford was dead.

‘I think we need to call the police, Madame,’ said the doctor, surveying Constance and Lord Oakford, whom he had confirmed were both dead.

‘Let’s wait until my guests have left,’ said Madame de Salignac.

The doctor, a squat man of about sixty, raised his eyebrows.

‘That woman shot the gentleman,’ said the old lady.

‘And who shot her?’

‘I did,’ said Madame de Salignac. ‘In self-defence.’

‘And your guests? Are they not witnesses?’

‘I am sure they did not see anything, doctor.’

‘But, Madame…’

‘We have known each other a long time, doctor. You must trust me on this. For France, and for her ally.’

Conrad and Veronica were back on the road within half an hour, Conrad wearing one of his own clean shirts, and a suit belonging to the late Monsieur de Salignac, which was too short and too wide for him. His own was ruined with his father’s blood. They were heading back towards the main road.

‘I’m sorry, Conrad,’ said Veronica, who was driving.

Conrad closed his eyes, trying to sort out in his head what had just happened. ‘Do you think it was the head injury? Or the shotgun wound?’

‘The shotgun wound,’ said Veronica. ‘Without a doubt.’

‘How can you know?’ said Conrad. ‘How will I ever know that it wasn’t me who killed him?’

‘He was talking coherently, and he lost a massive amount of blood.’

‘I can’t be sure.’

‘Conrad, listen to me,’ Veronica said. ‘You have two choices. You can fall apart. Blame yourself. Blame your father. Or you can assume that Constance killed him. You can remember your father’s last words and do what you have to do.’

Conrad was listening.

‘Your father was right, this is a beastly war, and he was one of its casualties. But it’s a beastly war we have to win. So let’s win it.’

Conrad closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Veronica had a point. He needed to focus.

‘All right.’

‘So, Lord Oakford, pull yourself together.’

‘Lord Oakford?’ Conrad was confused.

‘Like it or not, you are the third Viscount Oakford now.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Conrad muttered.

‘No,’ said Veronica. ‘It’s absolutely beastly. Look! We are coming up to the junction. Do we turn right for Paris, or do we turn left for Biarritz?’