Elizabeth Speller - The Return of Captain John Emmett

'I'm temperance.'

'Oh. Right. A walk?'

Byers looked to the window. 'It's raining,' he said flatly.

There was a long-drawn-out silence. The door of the smal iron stove rattled as wind came down the pipe. Laurence was absorbing the fact that Combe Bisset was one of the names written on the list John had carried at his death, but now was not the time to bring this up and he knew he was avoiding a more difficult topic.

'Look, I'm sorry to have to ask you this,' Laurence began in a rush, 'but were you ever part of a firing squad?'

Byers shoulders tensed. He looked down, turned his spectacles over in his hands. His lips tightened. For a minute Laurence thought he was going to refuse to speak.

'So that's why you're realy here. The major told you, is that it? And he wants me to tel you?' he said, stiffly. 'Why do you want to know? For the papers? It's al over now.'

'I asked him—your name had come up—and he said you'd help me,' Laurence said, not quite truthfuly. 'It's just the friend that he mentioned, the friend whose death I'm looking into, may have been connected with it.'

'You think he was involved in that dismal bloody mess?' Byers looked suspicious.

Laurence felt for his walet and took out the photograph. 'Is this you?' he said.

Byers took the picture. He stared at it impassively. 'Jesus,' he said. 'Mr Brabourne and his ruddy camera. Could never leave it alone. I'm surprised he didn't take one of the actual shooting as wel.'

'Brabourne?'

'First Lieutenant Tresham Brabourne. They caled him "Fiery". He wasn't so much fiery, though, as some kind of fizzing grenade that you're not sure if it's a dud or it's about to turn you to mincemeat. I'd been under him early on in the war. We were bantams. Short-arses. Never thought I'd see him again. He was so green, so lacking any normal sense of self-preservation, the lads there said just folowing him was the most dangerous thing you were ever likely to be asked to do.' Byers' face relaxed momentarily. 'Nineteen, twenty perhaps? Not that I was any older. Apparently his mama had given him the camera as a goodbye present. Perhaps she thought it was going to be like a touring holiday. Going to visit family friends in this or that chateau, chomp on snails and frogs' legs for dinner? When he went on leave, he hopped off to Paris. Brought back some champagne one time. Wanted to be a writer or some such, though what he realy loved was his camera. No, I remember now, he was going to be a newspaperman when he got out of the war. Which was about as likely as the Kaiser being invited back for tea at Buckingham Palace. If ever there was a man with a short lifespan it was Mr Brabourne.

'He'd been told about the camera. You couldn't have people taking any old pictures. He thought he could sel them to the papers, I suppose. Make his reputation. But he was heading for trouble if he was caught again. He could probably even have been charged with spying, though I expect his family knew people in the War Office. His sort did. But this,' he tapped on the picture with his forefinger. 'It has to be Brabourne's work. He was there. We were there. He was the only one who could've taken this.' He paused. 'Was Mr Brabourne your friend?'

Laurence shook his head. 'No. Can you tel me what's going on in the picture?'

'Apart from the fact that we're about to see off some poor bastard, which you obviously guessed already. Look, I decided way back never to talk about it.

Never even to think about it, if I could. You just come in here...' He was struggling to contain his anger. 'I don't know who you are. I've only said this much because the major.' He put the picture on his desk, laying it face down as he pushed it sharply towards Laurence.

'I'm sorry,' said Laurence, trying to disguise the excitement he felt at the confirmation that the image was of the firing squad. 'I realy wouldn't be bringing it up if it wasn't important. It's just my friend has a sister and she doesn't understand why he died. He shot himself, you see. And he was part of al this and felt much as you did, I think.'

He waited to see whether Byers would give him an answer. He sensed it was no good pushing him further.

'Then, assuming he was an officer, your friend must be either the MO, the padre, the APM—the assistant provost marshal—or the captain,' Byers said, after several minutes. His tone was resigned. 'Empson, I think his name was.'

'Emmett,' said Laurence.

Byers nodded and picked up the photograph again.

'Emmett,' he said. 'Right.' He fel silent again. 'You know, this wasn't the first time I'd met your friend the captain. I came across him before this business. He was a lieutenant then. I was passing near Albert but didn't know anyone. He asked where I came from in Devon. He could place anyone by their voice. I told him Combe Bisset. He said his mother's maiden name was Bisset. Next day the trench colapsed on him. Looked nasty, but he was lucky. Lucky then, anyways.'

Laurence was about to ask him about the colapse but then the young man pointed to himself in the picture. A slightly plumper self, but even more tense than he looked now.

'Watkins,' he said, moving his finger to the man next to him. 'Welsh nutter.' His finger moved again: 'Vince somebody, a cabinet maker in real life, a Londoner, on light duties with his rupture. Not the sort of light duty he had in mind, I'd imagine. Next to him—a man whose nerves were al over the place. Wound us al up.' His finger moved on. 'This one—nickname was Dusty. I suppose that means he was caled Miler—Dustys usualy are, aren't they? Can't remember this one at al, he was on the end. One of Dusty's lot probably. Just a lad. Two were from the poor bugger's own company. They were sick about it. Said their officer was no worse than any other. Old man's the doc,' he pointed, 'and very unhappy. Your friend, Emmett there. And that evil bastard—sorry,' he looked up at Laurence, 'but he was—is—

Sergeant Tucker. He's the one that had it in for me.'

'In what way?'

'Wel, they were making up a squad. Nobody wants the job. General feeling was that it was a rotten business. By al accounts, the poor useless bastard they'd got it in for was round the bend. And because he was an officer. You'd think some of them might have gone for that on general principles, but most felt it would bring bad luck. Not Sergeant Tucker, though. He was in his element. It wasn't personal or anything; he was just a nasty bit of work. I'd met him before, too, funnily enough, same accident you just asked me about. One of Tucker's so-caled mates had been suffocated. Tucker was supposedly trying to help him until a medic came. The others were al trying to get the rest out, but I'd turned round and watched Tucker, and I can tel you he wasn't lifting a finger to help his friend. He was leaning over him but it looked more like he was putting his hand over his mouth rather than clearing it of earth. He saw me looking and moved to block my view. When I met him again, I hoped he'd forgotten me.'

Laurence made a non-committal grunt.

'But he never forgot anything.' Byers was obviously thinking. 'Frankly, he made a bit of a mess of it, your friend. As for me, half the regulars were il. The others were al belyaching. I was there waiting for the major to get back from Blighty. I shouldn't have been there at al. It's difficult when you don't belong, when it's not your outfit. At night I had to kip with the others and Tucker had it in for me from the start. The other lads were taking the rip but most of it was pretty good-humoured. One pretended to put on an apron and dust the place down. When I went out for a piss, they made out I was picking flowers for the major's bilet. But Tucker, he was al for me being a nancy-boy. Caled me the major's girl. Caled me Leonora and soon they were al at it.' His cheeks flared red. Then he said, almost aggressively, 'Look, you realy want to know al this stuff? It's not pretty, any of it. Not the bit with your friend in either. Not stuff his sister and mother would want to know.'