Nicola Upson - An Expert in Murder

She thought for a moment. ‘The girl who was killed at King’s Cross? I read about it in the paper tonight but I’d never heard of her before that. What makes you think Bernard’s death had anything to do with hers?’

‘She was involved with one of his employees – a young man named Hedley White. I gather your husband thought a lot of him and was very upset at the news of Miss Simmons’s death.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry – I can’t really help you there. He did talk fondly about Hedley – I remember because it’s an unusual name – and he was certainly a great believer in giving young people a chance, but I can’t be more specific than that.’

‘Had you noticed any change in his behaviour recently?’ Penrose asked, although he was rapidly coming to believe that Grace 166

Aubrey knew too little about her husband’s life to be able to throw much light on his death. ‘At the risk of being too straightforward, had he been unhappy?’

She smiled at him with a growing respect. ‘At the risk of being pedantic, I’d say angry rather than unhappy. He always had a short temper, but it was usually soon over. Lately, he often seemed worried or frustrated.’

‘Do you have any idea why?’

‘When Bernard was angry, it was usually because he couldn’t get his own way over something, but don’t ask me what.’

‘I know it’s unlikely, bearing in mind the manner of his death, but can you imagine anything that might have led Bernard to take his own life?’

‘No. Absolutely nothing. He had no great faith to prevent him from doing it, but after all he went through in the war and all the lives he saw snatched away before they were ever really begun, he scorned suicide as the coward’s way out. That was something he never was – a coward – and he despised it in other people. He had a bleak view of the world and he could be very hard on himself at times, usually because of things he hadn’t done that he thought he should have, but he always claimed that the greatest punishment for any sin was to go on living.’

Penrose wondered if the sin for which Bernard Aubrey had felt the need to repent went back as far as the war. He asked as much, and was rewarded once again with a look of approval.

‘What makes you think that, I wonder? You’re right, though.

Bernard had a terrible time, and he came back a very different man. Not broken, you understand, but with a combination of resentment and guilt which ran deeper than the grief we all felt to some extent.’ She lit another cigarette but lodged it almost immediately in the ashtray, where it burned steadily down, forgotten.

‘He’d been in the war in South Africa and distinguished himself there, so, although he was really too old to fight in France, they begged him to go over and lead the war underground. Lots of older men did the same – they needed the youngsters to do all the digging, but they only had a week’s basic training or something 167

ridiculous before they were sent out to that God-forsaken landscape and then expected to do battle with earth and water and charges going off all over the place. People like Bernard, who were experienced and could lead by example, were worth their weight in gold. I know that there was no such thing as an easy war for anyone – you look the right age to vouch for that – but it always seemed to me that tunnelling was a different level of hell. There’s something peculiarly unnatural about never seeing daylight. But he was marvellous with those boys, at least at first; he looked after them, taught them how to keep their nerve and anticipate the enemy’s next move, and believe me – there was nobody better than my husband at doing that. And they learned quickly – they had to; the slightest noise down there could cost lives and if you gave way to panic, that was it – you lost the confidence of your colleagues and your usefulness was over.’

‘And is that what happened to Bernard?’

‘No, not at all, although I don’t know how he kept it together.

He had to spend hours alone in cramped positions, straining every sinew to hear enemy noise. Apparently, sound travels further through solid ground and water than it does through air and it was his job to interpret what he heard, to plot the direction of the tunnels and judge the distances for the charges. There must have been enormous pressure on him, psychologically I mean, knowing how much depended on his decisions and how close he was to the enemy. It would have been easy to let your imagination run away with you in a situation like that.’

Penrose waited, not wanting to hurry her. When she didn’t speak for some time, he said, ‘It’s not surprising that he developed claustrophobia. Surely nobody could leave that behind and come away unscathed?’

‘I don’t know. He was a strong man, in some ways incredibly so, and I think he’d have been fine if it hadn’t been for one particular incident. It was in the spring of 1916 – some of the tunnels ran a third of a mile or so under enemy territory by then, so you can imagine how important the ventilation was. They’d judge it by a candle – forgive me if I’m telling you things you already know –

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and if it stayed alight, even if it was only the feeblest of blue flames, it was judged safe to work. With the longest tunnels, there’d be an infantryman above ground working those big blacksmith’s bellows, pumping air to the face along lines of stove piping. It was real teamwork, and a huge act of faith for the men underground.’

She got up and poured herself a whisky and soda from a decanter next to the flowers, then picked up a second glass and looked at him questioningly. He shook his head, reluctant to accept anything that would make him more tired than he was already, and she resumed her story. ‘One day, Bernard was down there with two others, young engineers who were placing charges according to his instructions. They’d nearly finished when they noticed that the air was beginning to deteriorate and it was getting harder to breathe. Obviously they couldn’t just call up to see what was happening with the bellows – it was too far and anyway, only sign language was permitted below ground – so Bernard ordered them back up immediately. Fortunately, because their senses were so attuned to the slightest change, they’d noticed in time to make it back to safety, but one of them refused to go.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’d nearly finished laying the charge and was determined to get it done. Bernard knew the boy had misjudged how long he could stay down there safely and he tried to drag him away, but he wasn’t strong enough to do it on his own – the third man had followed orders immediately and left – and he knew it would be dangerous to make a noise by struggling because it would alert the enemy to their position. He had no choice but to go back and get the bellows working again, and try to save him that way. When he reached the surface, he found his colleague and a few other soldiers wrestling with the piping; apparently the infantryman had been working the bellows constantly, so they realised there must be a blockage somewhere in the system. Of course, Bernard knew there wasn’t a chance in hell of locating it before the man below suffocated, so he turned and went back down.’

Penrose was silent, trying to imagine the courage it must have 169

taken for anyone to respond like that, to descend to what must have seemed like certain death. The mental picture of Aubrey’s contorted face and outstretched hand, already fixed distressingly in his mind, took on a new horror.

‘Needless to say, it was hopeless. The air in the tunnel was all but extinguished and Bernard only got a hundred yards or so in before he was gasping for breath and losing consciousness. He was on his knees, still trying to move forward, when the man he’d sent back caught up with him and dragged him out. It’s a miracle that either of them got out alive.’