James Hawkins - Missing - Presumed Dead

“You knew the Colonel?” enquired Bliss when the coughing subsided.

“An’ ’is boy — that little twerp Rupert,” he snorted noisily.

“You would know what happened to him in the war then. We understand he was badly wounded.”

“No more than what ’e deserved, I dare say.”

Strange reply, thought Bliss. “Why do you say that?”

“Talkin’ be thirsty work,” Arnie said pointedly, clearing his throat and spitting drily.

Bliss got the message and checked his watch. “I guess it’s lunchtime, Sergeant,” he said with exaggerated meaning. “Perhaps Arnie would like to join us for a drink.” He paused, looked to the old man for a response and saw the flabby cheeks puff into a toothless smile. “That’s settled then,” he continued without awaiting Patterson’s reply. “We might as well go to the Mitre.”

“I’ll just ’ave a jar a’ Guinness to start. I enjoys me jar,” said Arnie, his eyes roaming the opulent fixtures of the lounge bar in the hotel.

Bliss found himself straining to understand the thick country accent devoid of the “h” sound. “Sit down then,” he said, noticing the way the old man was suspiciously eyeing the deeply padded wing chairs, “The sergeant will get the drinks.”

Arnie wandered a little, gently scuffing the carpet for depth while surreptitiously inspecting his surroundings with the reverent intrigue of someone finding themselves taking tea with the Queen at Buckingham Palace. Apparently satisfied, he cleared his throat, tested the squab of a chair with his stick and lowered himself into it. “I usually drink in the public bar,” he explained, obviously believing an explanation was required.

The drinks arrived and Bliss kicked off by playing up to Arnie’s obvious dislike of Major Rupert Dauntsey. “I’ve heard Rupert, the Major, was a bit of an idiot. What did he do?”

“I were at Amiens meself, but we ’eard all ’bout it,” started Arnie, unaware that his moustache of white beer foam made a comical addition to his red nose and florid cheeks. “The Major were a laffin stock, though t’weren’t nuffin to laff ’bout fer the poor blighters unner ’im.”

“What happened?” asked Bliss barely controlling his mirth at the wizened clown-like face.

Arnie was in no rush to reach the climax of his account, willing audiences needed as much savouring as a good pint, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, his story could run to two or even three pints. Wiping his sleeve across his face, he offered some background information as a filler. “If it ’adn’t bin that ’is old man wuz a Colonel ’e’d ’ave bin canon fodder like t’rest of us,” he said, took a long pull on his drink, then spat, “Toffee nosed little twerp.”

“So,” started Bliss again, glancing at his watch, “what can you tell us about the Major, or the old Colonel?”

“A proud man was the Colonel,” Arnie replied, noticeably stiffening his back in respect. “’E were in the life-guards … Paschendale, Ypres, Mons … all the mudbaths. Got gassed in the trenches but wouldn’t come back without ’is men … so they say. But that boy of ’is, Rupert — the Major, were a big disappointment. ’E wuz nowt but a little runt. Failed the h’university they say. The guards wouldn’t ’ave ’im, even with ’is old man being the Colonel and all. So ’e does the next best and joins the Royal ’orse Artillery.” The old man paused for a short cough and lubricated his throat with the remains of his first pint. “Good stuff that,” he said, then stared wistfully at the empty glass until Bliss gave in.

“Another?”

Patterson scuttled off to the bar without waiting to be asked and Arnie, considering it respectful to await his return, fussed around with his pipe until the second pint sat in front of him. “It were a little after D-Day when it ’appened,” he continued after a short slurp. “They wuz dug in outside Paris when the Major got the order to retreat — the ’igh command had got wind of a counter attack.” He paused and stared out of the window with glazed eyes as he relieved the horror of war. “Massacred they wuz,” he continued, his gaze, his thoughts and voice all very far away.

“Massacred?” echoed Bliss, probing gently.

Arnie turned from the window, his face suddenly pale, his cheeks sunken. “The Jerries was on ’em in a flash,” he explained. “Damn near wiped ’em out. Only an ’andful got away an’ they wuz all pretty badly shot-up, the Major included.”

“So they didn’t have a chance to retreat.”

Arnie flashed him such a dirty look that Bliss realised immediately he had missed the point.

“’Course they ’ad time to retreat, plenty of bloomin’ time,” he spat. “But the Major was such a prissy-ass ’e weren’t gonna leave the place in a such a state. Didn’t want the bloody Boche accusing ’em of being scruffy so-an-so’s, ’e said. So ’e ’ad all ’is troops running round tidying the place up, even made ’em pick up all the shell casings and put ’em in neat piles.”

Patterson, who had been stewing in silent contemplation since Dowding’s revelation about Bliss’s registration number, couldn’t contain himself. “You’re joking.”

Arnie looked offended and crossed himself, saying, “As God is my witness — ’e made ’is men pick up every last bit of rubbish — even filled in the latrines — an’ all the time the Jerries were picking ’em off. Everyone hereabouts knows what ’appened — ask any of ’em. That’s why when ’e come back no-one would ’ave anything to do wiv him, only old Doc Fitzpatrick. An’ rumour ’as it as how the old Doc only treated ’im ’cos ’e went private an’ always paid cash.”

Bliss cogitated on the ridiculous spectacle of troops tidying up the battlefield under fire and, despite Arnie’s invocation of the Supreme Commander, put it down to the sort of outlandish rumour that would be spread about any unpopular officer. “You’ll have to carry on here,” he said to Patterson, feeling he’d heard enough. “I’ve got some business to attend to in London this afternoon. I’ll be back before nine for the re-enactment.”

Patterson gave him a jaundiced look then bobbed out of his seat. “I’d better get back to the station,” he said quickly, then mumbled about the need to supervise the house-to-house enquiries.

“I was rather hoping you could arrange to get Arnie home.”

Arnie heard. “I could prob’ly make me own way if I ’ad another pint,” he said, his voice pained in self-sacrifice, as he held out the empty glass and slumped comfortably back in the deep chair.

Sidestepping a guilty feeling that he was abandoning the hunt for the Major, telling himself there was little he could do until the body surfaced, Bliss set off for London. The driver of a small blue Volvo obligingly let him escape from the Mitre car park into the High Street and, with a quick salute of thanks, he slipped his Rover into the stream of traffic heading out of town toward the motorway.

The grey overcast had evaporated into milky blue and the hazy sun was already drying off the damp pavements as Bliss navigated the narrow streets, barely aware that the Volvo was tagging along behind. As the road opened up Bliss swept aside the fears that had been with him since the morning’s visit to the Dauntsey house and he found himself conducting the 1812 overture, volume blaring, bass speakers pulsating.

The music, erupting with canons, muskets and rifle volleys, rose in a crescendo and transported Bliss away from the bloody murder of the Major to another time, another place, and an altogether different scenario of violent death. In his mind he conjured formations of brightly festooned French Dragoons sweeping across the steppes, swooping out of the early morning mist, sabres and lances glinting in the sunrise, only to be mown down by a terrifying rabble of Cossacks armed with broadswords.