The applause took Watson by complete surprise. Of all the welcomes he was expecting back in Hut 7, a chorus of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ would have been some considerable distance down the list, along with backslapping, the offer of cigarettes and a tot of real, genuine brandy. The men crowded around him, firing a battery of questions that coalesced into a single inquisitive howl.
‘Gentlemen, please!’ he managed to yell over the hubbub. ‘One at a time. What on earth has caused this change of heart?’
‘We owe you an apology, sir,’ said one.
‘Slice of tongue, sir?’ offered Hugh Peacock.
Watson took it, as some recompense for the feast he had been denied. ‘Thank you.’
It was sharp and salty and he relished it. Peacock had pushed to the front. ‘You’ll have to forgive us for our previous behaviour. Jungle drums get it wrong now and then—’
‘When Brünning told us who you were—’ started one of the men.
Another chimed in, ‘—you could have knocked us down with a feather.’
‘Dr bloody Watson. Here, with us. Well, we knew then that all that stuff about you being a chat had to be a load of—’
‘The thing is,’ said Peacock, his rich, plummy voice drowning out all the others, ‘every man jack in here has read A Study in Scarlet and The Hound of the doo-dahs.’
‘Because they were the only books in English we had to begin with,’ a voice piped up.
‘Quiet,’ said Peacock. ‘It’s true other volumes were in short supply. But the truth is that those two copies fell apart from so much reading.’
‘I’m gratified,’ said Watson, ‘if they helped pass some time. Look, if you don’t mind, I’d just like to have a lie-down. I feel a little light-headed.’
‘Of course,’ said Peacock. ‘Thoughtless of us. A few days in Stubby knocks the stuffing out of any man. Move aside, let the major through to his billet. Come on, we can talk about Holmes at a later date.’
Watson groaned inwardly. If they had studied his texts in such detail they were bound to be picky about the odd lapse in dates. He hoped they hadn’t got hold of a copy of ‘The Man with the Twisted Lip’ – the typographical error from the printer that had Mary call him ‘James’ had caused him plenty of grief over the years. He really must get that altered. As well as stressing he had two war wounds, although only one of them was made by a jezail bullet.
Peacock led him through to the end of the hut and pulled back the curtain to reveal a most remarkable sight.
There was a young private sitting on his bed, a man in his late twenties, a cheeky smile on his face. But that wasn’t the shock. In his hand he held a brush and he was using it to bring a shine to a pair of Trenchmasters. Watson’s Trenchmasters. Watson gave a small gasp of pleasure.
‘Well,’ said Peacock, ‘I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted, sir. I’ll send some tea through.’
‘Splendid,’ said Watson, absentmindedly.
The orderly stood. ‘Hello, Dr Watson.’
‘Hello . . .er . . .’
‘Kemp, sir. Harry Kemp.’
‘Well, Private Kemp, thank you for my boots. They are a truly comforting sight. But how . . . ?’
‘Well, I was told to tell you there had been a misunderstanding. Which the gentleman in question understood at once, as soon as I pointed it out to him.’
‘You went and got them back for me?’ asked Watson. ‘From Lincoln-Chance?’
Kemp nodded. ‘In a manner of speaking. You don’t remember me, do you, Doctor?’
Watson peered at the face, but no recognition came. ‘I’m afraid . . .’
‘I was a Boots at Baker Street. Not long after you promoted Billy to Buttons. And before Mr Holmes’s long absence.’
Watson recalled the promotion of Billy and that several other lads had filled the lower position over the years. He and Holmes had the rather reprehensible habit of calling every boy, Boots and Buttons, ‘Billy’, as if they were all interchangeable, something he would never countenance now. ‘And what happened when Holmes disappeared for all those years, presumed dead?’
‘Well, Mrs Hudson helped me move on. To groom, eventually, for a most respectable firm of lawyers. I was only twelve when I came to you, sir. I’m not surprised you don’t remember clearly. It was not long after the murder of Charles Augustus Milverton, the one that seemed to excite Mr Holmes so much.’
‘Quite so. Well, I’m glad to hear you got on in life, Harry, although I am dismayed to see you here.’
‘Well, I feel exactly the same, Dr Watson. Exactly the same. I’ve asked to be transferred here as your servant, on top of me other duties. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. Someone who recalls the old days would be quite welcome.’
‘That’s settled then,’ Kemp said. ‘And I haven’t forgotten how to shine a boot.’
‘I can tell. I can see my face in those toe caps.’
Harry Kemp smiled and Watson had the sudden image of a much younger version offering the same broad grin after a nugget of praise. ‘I’ll go and fetch that tea. Anything else you need? See if I can get you a biscuit from Captain Peacock? Got a locker full of ’em, he has.’
‘No, Harry, thank you. Oh, there is one thing,’ he said, just as the lad had pulled the curtain back. ‘If you can manage it before Appell.’
‘What’s that, sir?’
‘Fetch me the chaplain.’
The lad looked alarmed.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not about my immortal soul.’
Father Hardie was the least likely chaplain he had ever seen. He had a crown of jet-black curly hair, a nose that had seen its fair share of blows, and hands like nicotine-stained steam shovels. When he spoke Watson saw teeth the shape of tombstones and spaced as far apart. Watson noticed a pattern of scarring across his nose and cheeks, like smallpox, but tiny, shiny dots rather than pits. There were similar ones on his wrists.
‘Thank you for coming, Father. Harry, can you fetch some more tea?’ Watson pointed to the solitary seat and he took the bed.
‘How can I help you? Are y’troubled in some way?’ Hardie asked in a broad Scottish accent. Before Watson could answer, the priest asked: ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Not at all. I’ll join you, if I may.’
Soon the room was hazed with fumes. ‘Some people think I’m not paying attention if I have a ciggie in my hand. Or that it is somehow disrespectful to God. Whereas I find it enhances my ability to concentrate on spiritual matters.’
Watson waited until the tea had been delivered and Harry departed before he got to the crux of his enquiry. ‘The three men who died a few days ago. Have they been buried yet?’
‘They have. No point in delaying.’
‘You conducted a service?’ Watson asked.
‘Aye. I said a few words.’
‘And you had no problem with that?’
Hardie looked puzzled. ‘It’s my job.’
‘They were suicides, so I was told.’
‘Suicides?’
‘Well, perhaps not deliberately so,’ said Watson. ‘It is possible that it was blood-letting during a séance leading to accidental death. But I thought there was enough there to give a man of your persuasion some qualms about them having a Christian burial?’
‘Me being a Roman Catholic, you mean?’
‘I do,’ said Watson.
The priest carefully lit a second cigarette from the first. ‘You know, if God was ever fussy about how a man met his end, I would imagine this war has cured Him of that. I can’t be certain. For all I know, on Judgment Day, He will haul me up by my hair and say, well Hardie, a fine dobber you are. Burying Methodists and Presbyterians, Quakers and Anglicans. Aye, and ministering to the living of all those congregations and more. However, I suspect He will be more forgiving. There is but one God. I think the distinctions we fret and fight about are man-made.’
‘I am sure you are right.’ Watson took a sip of his tea, not adding that it was feasible that God himself was entirely born of man. ‘The deliberate cutting of the wrists, though—’
‘It’s an old Greek tradition when you are talking to the shades. Read your Homer. Blood-letting helps summon the dead. There are hungry ghosts out there, so some say.’
‘Isn’t it possible that the blood loss helps make the participants more susceptible to suggestion by the medium?’
‘Ah,’ said Hardie, taking a tug on his cigarette. ‘Now, though, you are assuming all is showmanship and fraud, being the professional cynic. The man of science.’
‘An agnostic. But you sound like you believe.’
‘Believe?’ He gave a croaking cough. ‘Believe in what?’
‘That man can communicate with the dead.’
‘Now, Major Watson, I am someone who has to have faith in the Virgin Birth, in the resurrection of Jesus Christ Our Lord and in the transubstantiation of bread and wine. I am in no position to start telling other men that there is no link between the worlds or that they are simply being superstitious or gullible. I personally do not believe in a bridge to the afterlife. Not one we can access from this world. But, again, I could be wrong. I wasn’t always a priest—’
‘You were a shipbuilder. On the Clyde. A welder, I would suppose,’ said Watson.
Hardie tipped his head to one side, as if trying to get a different angle on the major. ‘Ah. I had heard the rumour. That you were that Watson.’ He smiled. ‘Is this some Holmesian witchcraft?’
‘Holmes never dealt in witchcraft, Father. He dealt in facts and observation. The scars on your face and arms. I couldn’t quite place them at first. But now I see you had been wearing goggles of some description, which is why the area around your eyes has not been burned by the sparks from a welding flame.’
‘Aye, they have better protection now.’ He looked at the back of his wrists. ‘Longer gloves, for one thing.’ He touched his cheek. ‘And full face masks. And I suppose once you had welding, with my accent, the Clyde is an obvious deduction.’ Watson nodded. ‘Simple when you know how. But, I was saying, I wasn’t always a priest. I lived my life in the shadow of the devil, drinking and whoring. Until God visited me and gave me a good slap around the back o’ ma heid. Oh, I can’t explain it, given up trying. But I do believe there are higher forces at work. I think those three men were misguided to try and contact the dead. Just like they were misguided in cutting their wrists and drinking that filth they brew in the camp. But I’ll no’ condemn them for it, Major. Now, would you tell me why you are so concerned about their immortal souls?’
‘One of them, Archer, came to see me on the day he died. He asked me to go along to the séance. You might recall I was hauled out of line and carted off to Stubby, so I couldn’t keep the rendezvous.’
‘And you think if you’d gone, you might have prevented the deaths?’
‘I suppose I do,’ admitted Watson.
‘It does not occur to ye that there might have been four bodies instead of three if you had started playing their foolish games?’
‘Not at all. I think I might have stopped them.’
Hardie gave a harrumphing sound that suggested he didn’t believe it. ‘I knew one of the men. Not Archer. Campbell. A Scot. A proddie, but a Scot. And a good man. He was convinced that they could speak to the dead. And in the end, I gave up trying to persuade him otherwise. Because, as he said, if this war has snuffed out all those young, innocent lives for good, deprived them all of an extra forty, fifty, sixty years of the one life on this earth . . . millions of them b’now . . . that that would be almost impossible to contemplate, wouldn’t it? So, he took comfort where he could. Not in my God, but in Archer’s bridge to a better world.’ He drained his tea. ‘Now. Is there anything I can do for you, personally? Because I think we should let those three dead boys be.’
‘No, thank you, Father.’
The priest stood and held out his hand, his impressive jaw jutting out even further as he spoke. ‘Anytime, Major. Anytime. And God be with you.’
When he was gone Watson lit one of his own cigarettes, swung his feet onto the cot and, right up until the call for Appell came, wondered why he hadn’t told Hardie the whole truth.
Because you want to dig them up, Watson, don’t you?