Chapter 33

 

They’d walked in silence along the Mall and Horse Guards’ Parade at a fast pace. Bill Brown tried to look around him and take in his surroundings without provoking Inspector Greene’s irritation for dawdling. The building was as grand as you’d expect from a war office of what was an empire, albeit one on its last legs. It was the kind of place, high ceilinged and wood panelled that filled Brown with a sort of joy, which was pretty ridiculous, considering…but, which also made him feel a bit like an insignificant insect. He told himself to stop being stupid and bring himself back to the matter in hand. The uniformed and very military–looking man in front of them was so exactly like the type to be working in a place like this that Brown had to make an effort not to stare.

He was also paying attention to what his boss was saying, being far too used to Inspector Greene and far too wary of him to drift too far away. It was clear that Greene had to work hard to convince the man of the urgency and the gravity of the case. This was sensitive material and he seemed defensive but Major Stewart was such an austere man that it was easy to imagine something and attribute it to him. Maybe he wasn’t defensive at all, Brown thought. Maybe he was just irritated by Inspector Greene’s insistence on seeing Giles Etherington’s complete war record. Brown had the feeling that there were those in the higher ranks of the military who would think themselves well above the foot-plodding police, even one with the rank of inspector. Major Stewart was one such, Brown was sure. He looked at them over the top of his reading glasses. He had a fine-boned face and close-cropped hair that could have been blond or grey. His physique was spare and he was the kind of man who would pride himself on his fitness.

He sat behind a large polished desk, which Brown recognised as rosewood with a leather inlay. He had a file in front of him and he rested a protective palm on it.

“This is highly classified information, Inspector. I’m not happy sharing it with you and it certainly can’t leave this office. However, I do recognise where my duty lies and if you think the man’s murder is somehow connected with this unhappy incident, then I accept your need to see the details.”

Brown felt the distancing from the events of 1916 in the way Major Stewart referred to an unfortunate incident–that was a very understated way to put it. A man had been shot, executed and people on his own side, in the war, had taken that decision. That was a lot of things, but an “unfortunate incident” wouldn’t have been how Brown would have described it.

There was an uneasy silence punctuated by Greene’s heavy breathing and the occasional noise of paper being turned. Brown felt the urge to cough and swallowed hard to prevent it.

He felt the strong urge to see the words written on the document and at the same time dreaded the thought of doing so.

“This is the story, or the main points of it…” Major Stewart moved his chair back and held the file at a distance as though he was short sighted. Brown was sure that the man knew the contents without reading them, again.

“Giles Etherington was involved in two court martials while based in France in 1916. The first was more serious. A young lad…and I mean young, just turned eighteen, clearly enlisted before he was of age…never the same after the second battle of Ypres, according to his comrades, crying, fits of shaking, the gas you know…nerves clearly shot to pieces; made a couple of attempts to be sent back home, including a botched attempt to shoot himself in the leg…”

Bill Brown’s stomach dropped.

Stewart continued, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Then, he went away, ran away, I should say on the eve of a battle. He was found in a barn on a nearby farm. This whole event was made infinitely worse by the fact that his battalion had suffered heavy losses and morale was poor. It was a crucial stage in the war, at a time when Britain was facing its toughest test–when the scale of how outnumbered we were, was becoming apparent. It was crucial that no rumblings of discontent should go unchecked. It’s a tight place to be, men; when the good of the group is at stake and everything that had been sacrificed up to now could be as for nothing.”

Bill Brown had heard this argument before and to his mind it stank. If it were true, then it really meant that the life of the individual soldier was worthless and that was surely rubbish not to mention anything he had learned either at his mother’s knee of at Chapel on a Saturday. But, anyway, he would have to keep a tight lid on thoughts like that now.

“Giles Etherington was a wonderful soldier and his men, on the whole liked him and definitely respected him. He couldn’t be seen as weak, so if one person could be held to have signed the death warrant, then yes, it was him,”

There seemed no more to say; except, of course, to ask about the man, or, really, the boy, who had been executed.

“He was a Yorkshire lad, of course. His name was Jack Peters and his family come from about four miles outside Ellbeck. They’re small farmers or smallholders.”

 

Brown and Greene sat in a café and for a change, Bill Brown’s appetite had fled. However, probably thinking of the journey ahead, the inspector ordered, without consulting his sergeant, a couple of meals of meat pie and mash.

Brown shook his head and really for once not holding his tongue and watching his step, burst out, “It must be terrible for them, the family, sir, really terrible.”

Inspector Greene nodded. “A double loss, their son and then there’s the shame as well.”

Brown opened his mouth.

“Don’t bother saying it, lad. I know what you’re thinking but no point in denying it; can’t have been too good for them when it was Armistice Day and bonfires were being lit, eh?”

He pushed his chair back from the table.

“And it gives someone a bloody good motive for murder,” he said.

As they sat on the train returning to Ellbeck, Brown wondered about that. It can’t have escaped the inspector that a fair bit of time had passed for anyone to be now looking for revenge. But, there must be a connection. He had thought the murder had its roots in Yorkshire; the inspector believed it had something to do with Giles Etherington’s politics. Maybe, in a strange way, they were both half right.