ERIC SET OUT for the Britannia just a little later than his usual time the next day. His dreams had been filled with Chinese antiquities: terracotta warriors, porcelain urns, scrolls painted with yellow-robed monkeys wielding iron cudgels. These images felt to him both familiar and alien, like a well-loved book written in another language.
There was no hint of the light fog that had risen the evening before as he trotted down St. James’s Street to the corner of King Street. The fogs of London could, on occasion, last into the afternoon, growing denser in the sunlight rather than dissipating; but today promised to be clear and windy. It would be a marvelous day for flying kites, and Eric caught a glimpse of two or three brightly coloured lozenge shapes ducking and weaving over the skyline to the south. That would be St. James’s Park, he thought, craning his neck for another glimpse before turning into King Street. The wind hastened his pace, right past the posters for the play at the St. James Theatre.
He breakfasted in the club’s dining room and sat down in his Usual Armchair with his reading. He was thinking, mostly, about the contents of Benson’s box. What could those disparate objects add up to? Perhaps it would all become clear once Wolfe fulfilled his part of the bet. Wolfe had to know already that he was capable of the task, which made it almost certain that he’d emerge the victor. Still, there was always a first time for everything. Eric found himself rather hoping that, for once, Wolfe would fall a few inches short of his claim, and that he’d have a good view of Wolfe’s face when it happened.
At a quarter to twelve, Eric put aside his reading and contemplated the possibility of shepherd’s pie. Oh yes, tender chunks of lamb under a warm layer of mash delicately crisped on top … the Britannia’s kitchen added a sprinkling of grated cheddar and parsley over the top of its shepherd’s pie. Eric considered that most things were improved tenfold with the addition of cheese, and shepherd’s pie was no exception.
Eric looked up to see Jacob Bradshaw approaching the fireplace with a copy of the Times under one arm. “Hullo, Peterkin,” he said, smiling warmly behind his snow-white beard as he settled into an armchair. “Aldershott told me about this newest wager of Wolfe’s and suggested I drop by. Club security, you know.”
Bradshaw was the club secretary, another of the club’s board officers, and the longest-serving officer of the lot. He’d been club secretary when Eric first joined, and it looked very much as though he’d continue for several years yet, whatever happened to the rest of the board. It was simply that he Got Things Done: he was efficient, remarkably so, and over the course of his career, he’d collected a network of contacts stretching twice around the Empire. Anything you needed done, they said, Bradshaw knew a man to do it. Eric always thought Bradshaw looked more than a bit like Father Christmas, and it was hard to imagine him as company sergeant major at the Sussex training camp where he’d served. CSMs, in Eric’s experience, tended to be a queer combination of fatherly—which Bradshaw had down pat—and nightmarishly tough. But Bradshaw never seemed to raise his voice, and always seemed to have a kind word for everyone.
“Who do you expect will win the bet?” Eric asked, putting his manuscript aside. “I’ve learnt not to underestimate Wolfe, but you never know.”
“He isn’t here yet, is he?” Here, Bradshaw cast a glance at the clock. “And neither are Aldershott and Benson. I know Aldershott, at least, wouldn’t want to miss this. Perhaps his work is keeping him. I don’t know about Benson.”
“I got the impression he was staying the night with Saxon. He’ll have to hop to Saxon’s schedule.”
“I wonder how he and Saxon came to be friendly,” Bradshaw said. “I admit I was surprised, pleasantly so, when Saxon proposed him as a member and spoke up for his service as a stretcher-bearer. I was more than happy to have him—it’s no secret I think these membership restrictions just a little too restrictive—but talking Aldershott around took some doing. In the end, we put it to a vote, and Wolfe was the only holdout. And as you know, it takes two officers to block or boot a member. Wolfe was furious, though heaven knows why. I know a little of what Benson went through, and he deserves his place here as much as anyone else.”
Eric nodded. He still remembered what Benson had told him the night before about the perils of being on the battlefield in a noncombat capacity. “I expect this whole wager was Wolfe’s way of getting back at Benson, then. Make him look a bit of a fool.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Aldershott strode up to them as they both looked up at the clock. It was five minutes to the hour. “Are neither Wolfe nor Benson here yet?” he said, frowning. “It’s nearly time.”
Eric replied, “I expect Wolfe to sweep in with fifteen seconds to spare, deposit the prize on the table, and then calmly sit back and light a cigarette while the rest of us squawk in wonder and consternation.”
“That does rather seem like his style,” Bradshaw said, and let out a low chuckle.
They turned to watch the clock, Aldershott tapping his foot impatiently. Outside, a particularly fierce gust of wind rattled the windows. As the second hand of the clock swept past the nine, the lounge doors swung open to admit Mortimer Wolfe. He had a Cheshire cat smile on his face, and a small linen-wrapped bundle tucked carelessly under one arm. He swaggered up to the gathered men, dropped the bundle unceremoniously on the table, and threw himself into an armchair. “Benson not here yet?” he drawled as he lit up a cigarette. “That does rather spoil the effect.”
Aldershott eyed the bundle and said, “I suppose I owe you a quid. Unless Peterkin here can swear that this is not one of the items from Benson’s safe-deposit box. Peterkin?”
“Let’s wait for Benson.” It was only fair, though Eric could tell from the shape of the bundle that it was probably the pair of surgical scissors. An odd choice, Eric thought, but either way, it looked as though Wolfe had made good on the wager. Waiting for Benson was a mere formality.
“Bother Benson,” said Aldershott. “It’s past noon, and I’m fairly certain that nobody ever said anything about everyone having to be in attendance for the grand unveiling. Wolfe, let’s see what you’ve got there.”
“As you wish.” Wolfe stood up and whipped off the linen wrapping with a flourish to reveal the pair of surgical scissors, as Eric had expected, glinting in the light. All eyes turned to Eric for confirmation.
“That looks like one of Benson’s prizes,” Eric said. He turned to Wolfe. “I’d have taken the photograph, personally, as being more distinctive and easier to carry around than the medical report, but, unless you’ve gone and picked this up from Harrods, this looks about right.”
Wolfe frowned. “I don’t know what you mean about any photograph or medical report. That box just held this and an old hypodermic kit. And I don’t like your tone, Peterkin. If you want to see if I’d really taken this from Benson’s box, you have only to go look at it yourself: you’ll find only the hypodermic kit there, where I left it. As it so happens, I did choose this because it was easier to tuck into a pocket without leaving an unsightly bulge, but perhaps I’d have done better to take the kit instead. It had a nicely distinctive monogram engraved on its lid, as I recall.”
“No one’s doubting you,” Bradshaw said, but Eric was uneasy. Benson had said that those four items should right some great wrong, and Wolfe’s claim that only two of the four were in the box suggested nothing good. And where was Benson?
Eric stood up. “I think we should inspect the box,” he said, earning a hard glare from Wolfe. “If there’s a master key for the boxes—”
“No need for that,” Wolfe snapped, also standing. “I left the box conveniently open on the table so everyone could see just how shoddy the security around here really is.” He shot Eric a hostile glare. “Honestly, Peterkin, you people have no shame. I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”
Eric ignored him. He was already on his way to the lounge doors, and the others, swept up in the moment, followed behind him. They grabbed Old Faithful as they passed the reception desk in the lobby, and the group of them—Eric in the lead, followed by Old Faithful, Aldershott, Bradshaw, and Wolfe—trooped down to the vault’s antechamber.
It was deathly still. Some of the fog had got in from the night before and never left; Eric could smell a faint tinge of sulphur in the air, and … copper? The uneasiness he’d felt earlier redoubled as Old Faithful, asking no questions, began dutifully turning the wheel of the vault door. A moment later, the door swung open, and a hush fell on the assembly.
Albert Benson lay crumpled on the floor, half under the table in the vault. He was barefoot; his shirt and trousers appeared to have been thrown on in haste, and his braces hung loose at his sides. His head was turned just so, and he was looking right at Eric.
And for a moment, Lieutenant Eric Peterkin was not in the vault of the Britannia, staring into the eyes of Albert Benson. Instead it was his first day in Flanders, and he was looking out across the wire to no-man’s-land, right into the eye of a corpse not ten feet away. Mud and rot rendered the body the same colour as the field in which it lay, but that eye was still a startling pale blue that pierced his very soul—much as Benson’s pale blue eyes now did.
Protruding from the side of Benson’s neck was the decorative handle of a small knife. Too fancy for Flanders, Eric found himself thinking. There was something familiar about it, and with a start, Eric recognised it for the letter opener that normally sat on the desk of Aldershott’s office upstairs.
Blood had splashed a good distance out from Benson’s wound, in a fountain spray across the mosaic motto on the floor. It seeped into the grout, decorum est now outlined in Benson’s cruor.
It is honourable …
Above, the clinical white glare of the electric light bathed the room in contrasts. The clean white walls, the polished steel, the gleaming tiles—these things were a mercifully far cry from the murky, muddy shadows of the trenches.
Beside him, the others began to stir.
Old Faithful took a step forward, but Wolfe pulled him back. “Don’t. Don’t bother; he’s clearly beyond help. Call the police.”