Silk on skin. A hot bath, with some of those new Radox salts in it. A glass of something rich, a tawny port perhaps, or a glass of Bristol cream or . . . a brandy. A warming cognac or a Solera Gran Reserva. Or a hot toddy, a Laphroaig, a slice of lemon peel, hot water and a spoonful of demerara. One of Holmes’s favourites. Even in his febrile sleep, Watson’s lips smacked at the thought of these choices.
Next, clean underwear, nothing too fancy, just freshly laundered cotton next to the skin. Oh, why not something fancy? It was all a dream anyway. Why not push the boat out? So, perhaps a Smedley’s Anglo-Indian combination, the softest merino wool and white silk. Like being kissed all over by Maude Fealy’s lips. And new socks, straight from the packet, a pair of Morley’s cashmere would do nicely and . . .
He groaned, like a man who has gorged on too much of Simpson’s game pie, and turned over, his delusional state suggesting the ticking pillowcase was caressing his cheek like the softest of fingertips.
His eyes snapped open. It was the softest of fingertips, or at least his face was resting on gloriously fine-threaded cotton, made plump by duck down, not shredded paper. Now Watson understood, now he knew the truth. He had died and gone to heaven, or at least the place his dying mind had wished for. Perhaps these were the final few seconds on earth, before the blackest of curtains fell for ever. If so, he thought, closing his eyes once again and relishing the cool touch of the material, there were worse ways to go.
‘You are awake, I see, Major.’
Watson opened an eye. There was a vast plain of white as far as he could see. He raised his head slightly and opened the other eye. Before him was a pillow, an enormous, fat, soft pillow, stretching away, like a sea of cotton he could sail across. He was aware that his legs were swaddled in something cool and caressing. Up above was a billowing canopy, sporting a family crest in the centre. He was in a bed, a four-poster. On top of his covers was a heavily embroidered eiderdown, adorned with the same family crest, writ large in gold and red thread. He lifted the top layer up, taking the sheet with it. Underneath, he had on clean underwear. Not the Smedley of his dreams, but white and laundry-fresh.
The room was bright enough to hurt his eyes after the cell and he had to squint to take in an over-ornate wardrobe, a dressing table and the man standing next to the washstand.
Watson blinked away the tears from his watering eyes until he could focus on the figure. He still wasn’t certain that he hadn’t passed over. This could be an antechamber, a prelude to heaven, hell or purgatory. But the rumble in his stomach and the dryness of his mouth suggested he wasn’t yet beyond all earthly woes.
‘Where am I?’ he croaked.
‘Alive, at least. Be thankful for that.’ The accent was slight but unmistakable. The German had on an impeccably tailored uniform of the Sanitätswesen, the German medical corps. His face was sharp and sallow, and his black hair sparse. He had bags under his eyes the size of steamer trunks. He took out a packet of cigarettes and moved across to the bed. He offered one to Watson, who shuffled up in the enormous bed until he was upright and accepted it. The man lit it, then passed him a porcelain ash-tray, again with that crest, which featured two bears holding a shield that bore a maiden with flowing locks. The motto underneath was in Latin: Aut suavitate aut vi – either by gentleness or force. Watson thought that if it referred to the bears’ intentions towards the young woman, it was in very poor taste. It was the kind of crest Hugo Baskerville might approve of.
‘Your uniform has been fumigated and laundered, Major Watson. You’ll be free of those little friends. For a while, at least.’ Watson took a lungful of the dark tobacco and held it in his lungs for a moment. Not dead and gone to heaven, but close enough.
‘I’m sorry,’ Watson said, once he had exhaled. ‘You have the advantage of me.’
‘Dr Ernst Steigler, late of the Kaiser Wilhelm Bavarian Respiratory Clinic. Your heart and lungs, by the way, are in decent shape, considering. There is some inflammation in the left lung, perhaps, but I can give you something for that.’
‘What I am doing here?’ Watson looked at the doctor. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Me? For my sins, I am a medical inspector for the Army Group that runs this and several other camps in this district. I was on a tour of the ones around Einbeck but was summoned back here somewhat urgently and told there were two things to take care of. A patient who must be brought back from the brink . . .’
So he was still in Harzgrund. This must be a room in the big house. ‘Medical inspector? Have you been out there?’ He pointed to the window. ‘There is much that needs your attention.’
Steigler nodded, sadness and possibly shame in his eyes. ‘I know that. And it offends me mightily,’ he added defensively. ‘I can only offer recommendations to the High Command and make protests to the commandants. If you saw the conditions at some other camps . . .’
‘I have never really been convinced by that argument. If you think we treat our servants badly, you should see how the Monroes down the street beat theirs . . . if you think our gas is bad, wait until you see German flame-throwers. That someone is worse doesn’t wash as an excuse for cruelty and neglect.’
‘I repeat,’ said the doctor more forcefully, ‘it is out of my hands. I simply make my reports and obey orders.’
‘So why am I here? Why have I been pulled out of Stubby to . . .’ a wave of the arm took in the ridiculous opulence of his surroundings, ‘. . . all this?’
Steigler puffed on his cigarette. As he did so, Watson noticed how red and raw the skin was on the back of his hand. It was a common affliction among medical staff, given the powerful carbolics and bleaches used, but rare in a senior doctor. Steigler caught the appraisal. ‘I am afraid the medical facilities at some of the camps are very crude. I have no nurses or orderlies to assist. I do, literally, get my hands dirty. And bloodied.’
Watson nodded. He, too, had found himself at the ‘sharp end’ of the medical war when he had been in Flanders and knew the niceties of the peacetime ward quickly went by the wayside. ‘So what is this all about? Why am I no longer in a cell?’
‘All will be revealed, I am sure, when you see the commandant.’
‘Mad Bill?’
The use of the nickname didn’t seem to surprise the doctor. ‘Mad? Mad like a fox. You be careful. I’ve never known anyone be given such accommodations before. You must be a very valuable prisoner.’
‘How long have I been here, in this room?’
‘Two days. I gave you a sleeping draught to allow your body to recover. I shall send up some coffee. I think the commandant wants to see you. Perhaps he will feed you some of his fine pork. If you are strong enough.’
‘I’m strong enough,’ Watson admitted.
‘Be careful. A little at a time. And chew well.’
‘I am fully aware of how easy it is to overwhelm the deprived body,’ Watson replied stiffly.
‘Of course you are.’ Steigler stood. ‘You know, I don’t like this situation any more than you do. I had a teaching position before the war. I would have it still, but for . . .’ he paused. ‘I made enemies. A few indiscretions here and there. But for those, I would still be in Munich instead of trudging from charnel house to . . .’
‘What was the second?’ asked Watson, recognizing an imminent dose of self-pity coming his way.
‘What?’
‘You said you were summoned here for two reasons. One was to treat me. The other was . . . ?’
‘Death certificates. We have been reclassified as a category B camp by those meddlers at the Red Cross. They have begun insisting on death certificates for all inmates. So they can notify relatives and also to prevent summary executions, or so they say.’
‘Who died?’
‘Three of your fellow countrymen.’
‘Three? How? Trying to escape?’
The German shook his head. ‘Not exactly.’
‘What did you put on the certificates?’
‘Heart failure.’
Watson laughed. ‘All three? Three men died of heart failure in the space of . . . how long?’
Stiegler looked agitated. ‘I shall get food sent up. You can ask the commandant—’
‘How long?’ Watson insisted.
‘The same night. They all died at the same time.’
‘Of what? And do not say cardiac failure.’
The German squashed the cigarette in Watson’s ashtray and lit a second, inhaling several times before he spoke. Watson bided his time.
‘Are you a man of science, Major? Someone who believes all the wonders of life will one day be explained by chemistry and physics?’
‘I’d like to think so,’ said Watson. ‘Not the wonder of it, perhaps, but the mechanics, yes.’
‘I, too, but you know, as men of science even we have come across situations that challenge our beliefs.’
‘Challenge how?’
‘Things that suggest what we know of the world is pitifully little. Something beyond our feeble understanding—’
Watson felt his patience snap and a rush of anger brought a flush to his face. ‘Steigler, for God’s sake man, can you get to the point?’
‘I don’t believe,’ Steigler said evenly, ‘that they were killed by anything known to our science.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Whatever killed your comrades, Major Watson, came from beyond the grave.’