‘We have nothing to offer now,’ said Mrs Gregson, staring at the two bodies in the bedroom. Buller was sprawled on the bed, his throat cut, having leaked so much blood it was difficult for her to ascertain whether her theory about the methods Miss Pillbody had used to lure him in close were correct. No matter. She had managed to get Buller in within striking range, near enough to grab him and slice through skin, cartilage and blood vessels. The cut-down shotgun he favoured lay next to him.
Victor Farleigh was lying outstretched by the door. He had been killed with a piece of cutlery. Exactly what it was – spoon, fork or knife – wasn’t clear because only the handle was protruding from the eye socket. But it had been driven in with considerable force.
‘He’s been shot as well,’ said Nathan, pointing to a burned patch on his jacket. He flipped the coat open to reveal a leather harness that would have held a pistol. ‘So now she has a gun.’
‘How did she manage it? I was so careful. We were so careful.’
He shrugged. ‘Does it matter now? You are right, we have nothing to offer.’
‘What do we do?’
Nathan stood and straightened his clothes. ‘I telegram Mycroft. He can get someone to clean up this mess—’
‘No, Nathan. What do we do about the exchange?’
Mrs Gregson felt her eyes sting with tears of frustration. To come this far, to spring a monster from prison, drag her over the North Sea, only to have her . . . win! That was what was so galling. Somewhere along the way she had outwitted them, secreting tableware about her person. Perhaps she hadn’t used keys to undo her chains – it was possible she had managed to filch something to pick the lock. The pins and grips perhaps, when Mrs Gregson had done the prisoner’s hair back at the safe house. Had she counted them as she should have? No. Of course, a Sie Wölfe would be trained in such things as secreting pins about her person and picking locks.
‘Damn it!’ she shouted out loud. Now her witless scheme had cost the lives of three people.
‘We have a choice,’ said Nathan. ‘We can go home. Or we can go to the bridge as mere spectators.’
Something fizzed in Mrs Gregson’s brain, sparking like electricity. She fought off a feeling of light-headedness. She wasn’t going to be overwhelmed by this. She quickly crossed to the bed and scooped up Buller’s shotgun.
‘It’s no good looking for her,’ said Nathan. ‘The border is a matter of miles away. Miss Pillbody will be in Germany in no time.’
‘I’m not going to look for her.’
‘Then what?’
‘We do have something to exchange for Watson, you know.’
‘What?’ asked Nathan.
Mrs Gregson levelled the shotgun at his stomach. ‘You.’
‘You are certain nothing has come through for me?’ Von Bork asked.
‘Nothing, sir,’ said the communications clerk.
‘Nothing from Kassel?’
‘No.’
It was at Kassel that Watson was to be transferred to a faster, more comfortable vehicle and driven to the crossing point, a drive of about five hours by Adler. He was expecting a telegram to confirm that the change had been made.
‘Let me know the moment anything does arrive.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Von Bork stepped outside and lit a cigarette, looking at the scruffy collection of former farm buildings around him and the newer concrete structure that dominated them all. He was at the barracks of the border guards, the Grenzschutzkompanie, which consisted mostly of grizzled veterans, with a few battle-damaged front-liners moved to softer duty. There were some young men, whose parents or benefactors had greased the appropriate palms to keep them away from the trenches or, like the communications clerk, had skills that could not be found among older heads.
‘Von Bork, there you are.’
He turned to see Admiral Hersch, well wrapped against the cold in a new leather coat, striding across to him. ‘Sir. I didn’t expect to see you.’
‘Ach, I thought I’d best come along, keep an eye on the film people. Make sure they don’t get in your way.’
‘Of course,’ said Von Bork, realizing that the admiral wanted to make sure that credit for any propaganda coup would go where he reckoned it was due. To him. Hence the new coat – he intended to be on camera, recorded at the scene for posterity. Von Bork made a mental note to wear his smartest uniform and his own best topcoat.
‘Your man Watson is here?’
‘He is on his way.’ He knew that much. Kügel had at last telegrammed to confirm the doctor’s departure. But that was some time ago and the message that he had reached the changeover rendezvous was worryingly late. Perhaps they had broken down? Perhaps he should have insisted on a train to bring him. Or an aeroplane. Ah well, it was too late now.
Hersch checked his watch. ‘So we have, how long? Seventeen hours?’
‘About that.’
‘I have inspected the kitchens and the cellars here. Quite inadequate. I suggest we go into Geldern for a decent dinner. Or we could cross the border into Venlo.’
‘I’d rather stay this side tonight, Admiral.’
‘Of course. Well, we’ll crack open a bottle of Sekt, too, for a little celebration.’
Von Bork knew Holmes wasn’t in the bag yet. With Watson lost on the road somewhere, there was still plenty of opportunity for things to go awry. Surely Hersch was aware of that too? ‘I would rather celebrate after the event, sir.’
The admiral slapped him on the back, the hide of his leather coat creaking as he did so. ‘Forgive me. I’m not prematurely celebrating our bagging of the Great Detective. I have just heard that one of my Sie Wölfe escaped from Holloway prison. Ilse Brandt. One of the very best. By which I mean, in peacetime even we would probably lock her up and throw away the key. Quite, quite ruthless. And a damn fine fuck, to boot. The newspaper reports say she is dead, but I’ll take that with a pinch of salt until I have confirmation. If she is at large in England, then they had best watch out.’ He chortled at the thought. ‘She will cut a swathe through them like a reaping machine.’
‘Won’t she try and make it home?’ asked Von Bork, dropping his cigarette on the floor and grinding his heel on it.
‘To Germany? Almost certainly.’
‘Then that will be the time to break out the Sekt, surely.’
Hersch jutted out his lower lip as if contemplating this. ‘The woman has spent many months in British captivity. There is no knowing what they have done to her.’
‘Meaning?’
‘If she does make it home, it might be safer to treat her as a hostile. Like a potentially rabid dog.’
‘Quarantine her?’
‘That,’ said Hersch, gently but firmly moving Von Bork towards his car. His streak of sentimentality meant that it pained him to utter the next option. But he knew his affection for Ilse was a weakness he could ill afford. ‘Or put her down and have done with it.’
‘My name is Isle Brandt but it is so long since I used it I almost think of myself as Miss Pillbody now,’ she said to the young Dutchman. ‘The lonely, sweet, naïve Miss Pillbody. But it is time to put her away. Ilse, you see, had a husband who was killed by the British. A Zeppelin man. So proud of that machine, he was. The new frontier, the way to the future. But it didn’t turn out that way, did it? Giant bags of gas that can immolate men in a second. It doesn’t bear thinking about how they died. How they still die. Watching the envelope split asunder and faced with the choice – let the fire consume you or jump to your death. But there you are. He died, and I decided to offer my services to the Kaiser, to the Imperial She Wolves. Hersch might be a callous bastard but he knows how to train a unit of women. Fifty of us began. Thirty-two survived. That’s really what we are trained for. To survive. And survive I will. By whatever means necessary. You seem like a nice young man. I am so glad you helped me. Money, very generous. Some schnapps, most welcome. And a hiking map from the local Wanderclub, which has helped no end, and a compass. I’m not stupid, though. I can’t just stroll up to the border and announce my return, like a prodigal daughter. How suspicious would that be? Hersch would suspect I had made a deal with the British. Hersch taught us to suspect everyone. I don’t even trust myself now. So, I have to prove myself, I suppose. Give them proof of my credentials, that I am still loyal. But that’s not your concern. Not any longer.’
She took another gulp of the schnapps. The handsome young man opposite hadn’t said anything. He couldn’t. Not since she had walked up behind him, put a cushion over the top of his head and fired two shots into the fabric, the muzzle of the pistol pushed firmly into the stuffing. It hadn’t been a clean kill, he had thrashed about, although she was certain that was just a flurry of spinal reflexes. She had been able to place a third round into his heart to put a stop to that. There had been some noise from the discharges, despite the muffling, but nobody had come banging on the door of the house where he had invited her to take coffee while she decided how best to find her lost companions. Poor Stijn. Where would she be without such kind men to help her on her way?
After she had drained the schnapps, Ilse performed a fast but thorough search of the upstairs. She found an airing cupboard with clean sheets and towels she would use to stanch her little feminine problem, the one that had horrified Buller so much when she had smeared her face with it, feigning a bloody coughing fit. In a locked cupboard, easily forced, she found a vintage Beaumont-Vitali hunting rifle. It was a Dutch design, but with an Italian magazine system. Handsome, well-balanced, but with only open sights. She rummaged deeper in the cupboard and, among the waders and oilskins, found a pair of binoculars, which she slung around her neck. It was a few more moments before she discovered a box of the rifle’s obsolete cartridges – the 11.35 x 52R – without which the gun was simply a rather elegant club.
She took the booty back down to the kitchen, laid it on the table and rummaged in the larder. The excitement of her escape had left her feeling peckish. She selected a carton of eggs. She set about boiling three of them on the range, while singing a song she had heard at a prison concert: ‘“When I think about my dugout, Where I dare not stick my mug out, I’m glad I’ve got a bit of a Blighty one!”’
She liked the jaunty tune but not the sentiment. It was about a soldier glad he was wounded badly enough to be shipped home. What sort of message was that for the troops? Not one a singer could peddle in Germany, that was for certain. They would find themselves hanging like ripe fruit from a lamppost.
While the eggs boiled she checked Stijn’s other provisions in the larder. Fresh-ish bread, milk, cheese, bacon. More schnapps, a flagon of wine and a crate of beer.
Yes, she had all the supplies she needed while she decided her next move, certain that, one way or another, things had come full circle. Ilse – Miss Pillbody – had begun this part of her life’s journey out on the mudflats of Essex, and made an uncharacteristic mistake in not executing Holmes and Watson, trusting instead for nature to take its course and drown them in the incoming tide. But the pair had cheated death and had punished her for her slackness.
She removed the eggs from the water and placed them in the pretty china eggcups she had seen on the dresser. As she cracked the tops of the shells, she vowed to herself she wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice. This time bullets, not the waves, would do the job.