The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sherlock Holmes and the Great War E-Book

Simon Guerrier

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

In a new gripping and immersive adventure Sherlock Holmes investigates collusion and conspiracy in the Belgian trenches of World War OneDecember 1917. An important visitor arrives at a field hospital not far from the front, who makes sharp deductions about the way the ward is run based on small details that he sees. Sherlock Holmes is apparently only present for a tour, but asks searching questions about a young officer who apparently died in the hospital, but whose records have mysteriously vanished. As Holmes digs deeper, details emerge pertaining to a cover-up that stretches from the trenches to the top of the War Office, and conspiracy on both the British and enemy fronts.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Available Now from Titan Books: The Further Adventures of Sherlock Holmes Series

Title Page

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Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Acknowledgements

About the Author

AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKSTHE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES SERIES:

THE GRIMSWELL CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE DEVIL’S PROMISE

David Stuart Davies

THE ALBINO’S TREASURE

Stuart Douglas

MURDER AT SORROW’S CROWN

Steven Savile & Robert Greenberger

THE WHITE WORM

Sam Siciliano

THE RIPPER LEGACY

David Stuart Davies

THE COUNTERFEIT DETECTIVE

Stuart Douglas

THE MOONSTONE’S CURSE

Sam Siciliano

THE HAUNTING OF TORRE ABBEY

Carole Buggé

THE IMPROBABLE PRISONER

Stuart Douglas

THE DEVIL AND THE FOUR

Sam Siciliano

THE INSTRUMENT OF DEATH

David Stuart Davies

THE MARTIAN MENACE

Eric Brown

THE CRUSADER’S CURSE

Stuart Douglas

THE VENERABLE TIGER

Sam Siciliano

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THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES: THE GREAT WAR

Print edition ISBN: 9781789096941

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789096972

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: November 2021

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2021 Simon Guerrier.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior writtenpermission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form ofbinding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similarcondition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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In memoriam, THG.

Prologue

Archivist’s Note

The following manuscript has been held among the JHW papers since at least 24 June 1921. A handwritten addendum of that date thought to have been made by Watson himself advises that it is “NEVER for publication”.

However, one hundred years having elapsed, the executive board take the unanimous view that there is no longer any public interest in this testimony remaining secret. For more on its author, see files JHW 4112-17 and also her service record held at Kew.

Chapter One

By the first week of December 1917, I thought myself quite inured to the horrors of war. The men in our care had been variously torn up by bullets, shells and barbed wire, and there were often problems of infection, as well as from exposure to that perishing cold. In short, the demands on us in the hospital a few miles from Rebecq were constant and wide-ranging. I had been well schooled in the myriad ways that men might suffer.

Be assured, Dr Watson; I had not grown indifferent to the soldiers on our ward. As I am sure you must know from your own battlefield experience, one learns to roll up one’s sleeves and pitch in. As a lowly VAD – a volunteer – I undertook tasks as dictated by the qualified staff of the Medical Corps. We worked long and challenging shifts in a fug of carbolic. I mopped, I scrubbed, I fetched and carried. Patients and equipment often had to be transported, and I pride myself that I mastered those recalcitrant wheeled beds. There was always something to be done – and I found it was always best to keep busy. No use to dwell, as others might, on what we could not alter.

That December was particularly harsh, with the conflict sure to drag on into yet another year. The weather was no less relentless, veering from gale to thunderstorm, which kept us largely trapped indoors. We did our best to keep chipper for the sake of the men.

Looking back, I realise how jittery we were, on the hop with nerves and edging towards crisis. There was never any respite. The persistent boom of artillery just two miles east would rattle the beds and equipment, and jog us as we handed out tea. One didn’t hear the guns so much as feel them in one’s bones and teeth. That and the work and just holding oneself together… Well, it was all rather exhausting. Days and nights bled together, and I almost sleepwalked through my duties – until that particular night.

I’d endured a twelve-hour shift and then, in the evening, stayed on to help Jill Sullivan, a kind-hearted RAMC nurse who had got behind with the medicines. She knew I could handle injections – and, unlike most of the qualified nurses, didn’t resent me for it. I was glad to be useful, but by the end of all that it was well past nine and I was ready for some dinner and my crib. However, as I headed off the ward, Dulcie O’Brien caught up with me.

“Matron wants to see you, Gus,” she said with cruel relish. “What can you have done?”

I couldn’t think of anything, which didn’t make me feel much better as I headed to the office.

Until hostilities started, our hospital had been a grand old country estate, all typically French faded grandeur. The army had taken it over, converting the kitchen and stables for use as operating theatres and knocking through the ground-floor galleries to form our enormous ward. It would never have done to lug injured servicemen up the grand staircase so the spacious rooms on the first floor became offices and accommodation. (The nurses got billeted two floors above that, in what had once been servants’ quarters, and us orderlies had beds along the furthest wall, where there was the draught.)

I left the bustle of the ward, crossed the echoing marble of the magnificent entrance hall, and made my way up the stairs. The pretty cornflower wallpaper had begun to peel, discoloured with oblongs where huge paintings had once hung. I ascended into a whole other world: the lowing of wounded men giving way to the staccato clack of typewriters, even at such a late hour. Bulky metal filing cabinets filled the landing at the top of the stairs, enclosing the desks of the secretaries. One of these formidable maiden-aunt types knew I was expected and ushered me through into what had once been the library, the books now all cleared from the shelves and the space partitioned into narrow stalls that each contained a telephone. Beyond this was what had once been a boudoir. Now, an engraved metal plate declared it the domain of “Sister Gloria” – who we referred to as Matron.

I dusted down my apron, straightened my cap, knocked, and went straight in, as was the form in those days when we couldn’t afford to waste time. The small, square room was wreathed in cigarette smoke, curling against the huge chart that filled the nearest wall. This chart was divided into narrow columns and rows, delineating the hours of all staff from consultants to cleaners. I always found it utterly captivating, having long had a passion for maps and timetables, but knew from experience that people found this alarming – an embarrassment to my class and my family. Thus, I made a determined effort to ignore the chart and focus on the diminutive figure enthroned behind her desk.

Matron was a tiny, wiry woman whose age I could never have guessed. A terrifying, compact mass of authority, we used to say she was higher than God. Her deeply lined, expressive face was framed by a spotless coif headpiece. She never looked less than immaculate in the pale grey tunic of the Order of St Citha. Even the cigarette was poised elegantly in her hand.

“Augusta,” she tutted. “You should be off-duty.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. Did I really face reprimand for putting in a few extra hours? “Yes, Matron,” I said.

“Well, I have need of you now.”

I realised I had just lost even my paltry allocation of sleep. “Of course, Matron,” I said.

She peered up at me, and I thought my tone might have betrayed my real feelings. It would not have been the first time I landed myself in trouble that way. I endeavoured to look suitably penitent.

“You will look after our guest,” commanded Matron.

Until that moment, I had not been aware of anyone else in the room. The tall, gaunt man had been standing by the window the whole time, so perfectly still that I’d completely overlooked him. He was old, perhaps in his late sixties, silver hair slicked back from an expansive forehead. There was something familiar about this willowy, old figure, as if a character from Dickens had been rendered in flesh.

“G-good evening, sir,” I said, annoyed to be so shaken. He said nothing but his dark, intelligent eyes picked over me. It was chillingly unnerving, like being watched by a spider. I turned back to Matron, who regarded the man sourly.

“You will show him the ward, answer his questions, and render all service,” she instructed me. “Let him see how we meet the challenges of the work here. We have nothing to hide. And we welcome any suggestions on how we might improve.”

This last part she said quite acidly but the man did not respond.

“It’s late,” she told me crossly, as if this were somehow all my fault. “You had best get on.”

“Yes, Matron. If you’d care to come this way, sir.” The man bowed almost mockingly at Matron and followed me out.

We frequently had visitors, of course – men from the Home Office and its various satellites, bigwigs from the army, sometimes even relatives of the wounded men. The official lot would trail round the ward with their clipboards, trying to spot our lapses of protocol. The important thing, Matron drilled into all of us, was that we demonstrated our ability, and left the dignitaries with the sense that a great deal more might be possible with only a little more resource.

Even so, it was highly unusual to have a visitor call so late at night and without any warning. Also, I could not think of a single occasion when a visitor had been put in the charge of a lowly VAD such as myself, rather than a senior nurse or even one of the doctors. It was all very irregular and would only give the nurses another reason to accuse me of not knowing my place. I rather relished the prospect of annoying them as I led the old man down the grand staircase.

At that hour, things on the ward were relatively quiet and subdued, which was the worst luck, I thought. We spent our working hours battling to achieve such orderly calm, but it hardly conveyed an impression of hard graft.

“You’ll have to remove your jacket,” I told the man as we stopped at the main desk. There were sanitary reasons, but this was also an old trick I had seen the nurses use to establish authority. Some visitors objected, but the old man gamely slipped off his suit jacket and was already rolling up his shirtsleeves before I had the chance to say so. I took the jacket from him to hang up on one of the hooks, and noted something odd. Though I am hardly an expert on gentleman’s tailoring, I could tell immediately that it was an item of quality and tastefully cut. Yet one sleeve was rough against my bare hand, the fabric discoloured by an old stain. As a VAD, I knew the damage that can be done to clothing – and the people inside – by certain volatile chemicals. I had, however, never met anyone who would suffer such a thing and then continue to wear the same suit, no matter how well made.

Had he bought a damaged garment cheaply? No – I couldn’t believe that. Like my brothers and their friends, he exuded that easy self-confidence only money can provide.

Recovering myself, I headed to the sink. The man joined me and watched the manner in which I thoroughly scrubbed my hands. As I reached for the towel, he repeated the procedure himself, without needing to be prompted. His fingers were long and rather graceful, but with that unnerving, spider-like quality. I glanced round and saw some nurses watching from the desk. They, too, had never known a visitor – a man – wash his hands so diligently without being directed to do so. He had still not said a word.

“Can we help you?” asked Dulcie O’Brien, stalking over and entirely blanking me.

“Matron asked me to show this visitor the ward,” I told her. Dulcie sighed at our guest, as if this were completely unthinkable.

“Someone properly qualified should show you round,” she said.

“Is there such a man on duty?” asked the visitor, mildly.

Dulcie’s smiled faltered. “Not just now, sir, but one of the nurses…”

“I’m sure one girl is as good as another,” he sighed.

Dulcie now turned to me as if, in his rude way, the visitor had accepted her offer. Had she been a little nicer, I would have gladly surrendered him into her care. As it was, I thought she could go to hell. This man might be hatefully chauvinist, but he was also mine.

“Matron instructed me specifically,” I said. “You could take it up with her.”

Dulcie glared at me. “Oh, I will,” she said.

I would surely pay for it later, but it was a thrill to watch Dulcie skulk back to the desk where the other sour-faced nurses waited. Under their withering gaze, I led the visitor on to the ward proper, heading down the aisle between the lines of beds.

“There are thirty-two beds on each side,” I told him. “Equally spaced to maximise the number we can accommodate, while allowing us space to get around each patient and administer to their needs. It’s also important to maintain some distance to stop the spread of infection.”

He didn’t seem to be listening. Many visitors had the same reaction, a visceral shock on seeing what we dealt with. There were the missing limbs, the damage to men’s faces, the smell you got from trench foot. It was all the more uncanny at that late hour, the men sleeping but hardly at peace. They muttered and twitched in their beds.

I ought to have led the visitor through to the side corridor where he might compose himself. There were private rooms there, reserved for the officers or the most horrifically wounded, but it was also quiet and out of the way. Most visitors needed only a short pause to rally themselves; it was simply that our work took some getting used to.

But the old man didn’t seem in the least bit appalled. His features were taut, his lips thin, his eyes glittering with interest as he took in every detail. He looked with fascination on one patient, Sergeant Oberman, who’d lost a leg and most of one arm. Oberman glared back at him, rightly indignant at being treated as an exhibit.

“We do our best for them,” I said as I led the visitor away.

Behind us, Laurence Oberman blew a raspberry. “That en’t even true.”

The visitor turned back with interest but I caught his arm. “Pay it no heed,” I told him. “The wounded are often irascible.”

“It is one thing to feel aggrieved at one’s own ill fortune,” said the man, “but that is not what he claimed.” Lightly, he extracted his arm from me and went over to Oberman. “What,” he said, “is not true?”

If he’d had any sense, Oberman would have apologised, but cornered like this he decided to stick to his guns. “She said they do their best for us, din’t she? But really all they do is what’s best for the machine. They patch us up so they can send us back to the trenches. ’Alf of me’s gone and yet they’re on about finding me something so’s I can still be useful!” He tried to sit up, overbalanced and almost fell out of bed.

“Now, Sergeant Oberman,” I chided, hurrying over before he could do himself a mischief. “It’s after lights-out and you need to recuperate.” A man missing a leg and most of his arm is still surprisingly heavy, and Oberman resisted my efforts to help. I got an arm under his shoulder and braced my body against his to stop him falling out of bed, but with the sheets rucked up behind him, I couldn’t move him back. We were left prone, in an awkward stalemate.

Then the visitor was on the other side of the bed and curtly tugged the under-sheet out from beneath Oberman, the action tipping the balance so that he fell away from where I held him and rolled back across the bed. The old man neatly stopped him with just the tips of his fingers on the young man’s shoulder and hip. I tucked in the blanket and we had Oberman securely back in bed – as quick and smooth as a conjuring trick.

“Obliged, thank ye,” said Oberman, quiet now from embarrassment, and settled back as if asleep. The old man looked keen to ask more questions, but I ushered him away,

“The thing is, Oberman would go back to the trenches in an instant if he could,” I said, keeping my voice low to rein in my anger. “We keep him here and we care for him, and we get all his resentment as thanks. We really don’t just patch them up and churn them out again like some blessed factory!”

The man brooded for a moment. “What makes you think he is so keen to return to the front?”

“I know, it’s insanity, but I think he feels so wretched as he is.”

“And he is thinking of his friends out there,” said the visitor. “They signed up together, didn’t they? Right at the start of the war.”

“I gather there are only three of them left,” I said. And then it hit me. “However did you know?”

The visitor glanced back at Oberman, now lying quietly in his bed. “I observed,” said the man.

I looked from him to Oberman but could discern nothing of note. The visitor saw me struggling – and failing – to see, and he sighed.

“To reach the rank of sergeant,” he said, “Oberman must have been in the army for some time. Yet he retains the dialect and accent of his native Wiltshire. That would have been drummed out of him in officer training, where they like things to be uniform. Therefore he did not attend officer training of the old sort, but was promoted on merit while here. Indeed, his accent has withstood time spent among men from all the regions of the kingdom, and all the classes, too. That is suggestive of his having a core around him, of men of his own sort and from the same area. One has read of the pals who signed up together. And then your remark that he would gladly return to the front, despite what he has clearly already been through.”

He rattled through this explanation speedily enough, though it was not of the least consequence. But when he finished, he seemed most put out that I did not applaud.

“This brave man’s story should not be used as the basis for some amusing parlour trick, Mr Sherlock Holmes,” I told him plainly.

Chapter Two

Oh yes, I knew Sherlock Holmes all right. He had seemed familiar that first moment I saw him, and then there had been that show of contemptible chauvinism. Yet it was only now, in showing off his powers, that I placed exactly who he was. The great detective. The famous misogynist. A man to whom violent crime was as amusing as a crossword.

Naturally, this was not the response that Holmes expected, or indeed was used to. I delighted in seeing him lose that insufferable smile. He was older than the familiar portrait used in The Strand, of course. In the flesh, Holmes is less heroic in aspect, more gaunt than angular, less arresting to the eye. He was – or he had the capacity to be – rather unremarkable, a man not worthy of a second glance. I suppose that fits: such facility must be of great value in his line of work.

His dark brows furrowed. “I usually have a good memory for faces,” he said, irritated that he could not remember me. “I take it we have met before.”

“No,” I told him. “Never.”

“Then you take against my judgement in one or other case. You feel I should have allowed some particular criminal to abscond, or there are those whom I did not detain that you know should have gone to the gallows.” He flapped a hand dismissively, for he had no time for the opinions of the hoi polloi.

“Such matters are not a game,” I told him. “That is what offends me – not a particular case but your attitude as a whole.”

He studied me for a moment, picking over the details I presented. Without make-up – which staff were not permitted to wear – I felt rather exposed, and was ever more self-conscious as he scrutinised the way I tied my hair beneath my cap, and the brooch partially hidden by my apron. Yet whatever he deduced from these clues, he only smiled. Of course, I wanted to know his conclusions but I would rather have died than ask him. This was all a divertissement to him and I refused to play along.

Instead, I swept past him to continue the tour of the ward. Holmes came after me but had little interest in the arrangement of beds by relative ailment.

“You really are offended,” he said. “We have never met and yet your antipathy could not be clearer. That is a disappointment, as I thought…” He trailed off.

Now I really was astonished. “You thought we might be friends!” Then I realised why, and could barely hide my fury. “Because my name amused you! Another of your games.”

“Nurse Watson—” he began.

“You are wrong there, Mr Holmes,” I told him. “I am just a VAD.”

He clearly did not like to be corrected. “Miss Watson,” he said impatiently. “Since you know my reputation, you must surely know that my friend Dr Watson is the very best of men.”

“Must I?” I responded coldly. Holmes seemed hurt by this.

“He is at least a better man than me. My spirits rose upon seeing your name on the board in Sister Gloria’s office. I am not by custom one for good omens, but in these dark days one must take what small comfort one can. Therefore, I suggested to Sister Gloria that there was some familial connection between you and my friend.”

“You lied,” I said. “There isn’t one.”

“Not by blood, perhaps,” persisted Holmes. “But I can see you share something of his temperament. His military and medical background, too.”

I whipped round at him, angrily. “You don’t know the first thing about me! I am not a soldier, and I am not a nurse, just some silly girl who thought she might escape the tedium of home and instead ended up mopping floors. Orderlies are very much not on the medical staff – as you will find the nurses only too glad to tell you.”

Yet that insufferable, awful man shook his head. “The brooch is the giveaway, of course,” said Holmes. “Women’s Volunteer Reserve. A most singular organisation, established by a pair of radical Suffragettes keen to prove that women are the equal of men, and so their recruits were drilled just as ordinary soldiers, trained as mechanics and whatever else. By some margin, the WVR offered the most interesting engagements to any woman seeking to enrol for war work. Yet this radical outfit also did not start with much money, so recruits had to supply their own uniforms and kit. That, of course, limited their intake to the wealthier classes. I expect that must have led to quite an education for all parties – the well-to-do in with the radicals!”

“We already campaigned for the vote,” I said. “Besides, the reserve was more practical than that. They taught us to shoot, and drive, and how to mend an engine. Though none of that’s done me any good out here – my training might even have been a hindrance for being so unconventional. Matron has rather old-fashioned views about that sort of thing. I thought I’d be nursing or even driving an ambulance, saving men from the thick of the fighting and learning skills I could use after the war. There’s barely been any of that.”

“You’re still doing a valuable and much-needed job,” said Holmes.

“Are you offering to help?” I was angry with him, and impatient to be rid of him, but he only smiled.

“If I am able, then yes. I am here to observe the important work you do here and, where I can, make some suggestions for improvement. Any small advance would be of value to the war effort and, more importantly, lessen the suffering of the men.” He studied me for a moment. “You don’t believe me,” he said. “Perhaps you’d care to explain.”

Cursing myself for this inability to hide my true feelings, I decided there was little to lose by telling him exactly what I thought. “We have hosted plenty of visitors before,” I told him, “and they have all faced the same problem. We are not a typical hospital. The shape of the building means we have had to adapt certain procedures. That has the consequence that any observations you might make here, any suggestions for improvement, cannot be more generally applied. There are model hospitals further down the line that would better suit inspection of that kind. But you, Mr Holmes, have come here.”

“I could have been to these other hospitals first,” he said.

“With all this rain and mud? Your suit and shoes are much too clean. Then there’s the time of your arrival. Why be here so late, unless you travelled with the post van from the dock. That suggests you came directly from your ship.”

Now his nostrils flared. “I came in an aeroplane. A most singular experience; I rather recommend it. But on all other points you are correct. Very good, Miss Watson. Very good indeed.”

“Then you are here, at our particular hospital, on a case. Has there perhaps been a murder?”

This I said with heavy irony because it seemed quite ridiculous, given the ongoing slaughter. Yet Holmes stroked a finger over his lips, considering what he might divulge. His eyes darted left and right to ensure we were not overheard.

“Not quite, but it is a matter of some singular interest – and of a sensitive nature, given the war. You were on duty on the night of the first of November.”

I almost laughed. “That feels like an age ago, Mr Holmes. I would have to check.”

He smiled that thin-lipped smile. “The staff rota is perfectly simple. One need merely read the arrangement for the present week and then count in reverse.”

It took me a moment to understand the implication. “That’s what you did in Matron’s office. It is why you asked for me – not just the coincidence of my name.”

He nodded. “It felt auspicious. You were on duty on the night of the first of November, when a young officer died here. I should be obliged if you could recall the details.”

I stared at him in astonishment. “You think I’m a witness,” I said.

“That remains to be seen. But you have already demonstrated some skill in observation, so I should be grateful for your memories of that evening and any insight you might share.”

“I’ve already told you, it might as well have been another age. One shift is very much like another.” I stiffened. “A lot of young officers have died.”

Holmes snorted, frustrated by this response. “Nothing remarkable stands out in the memory?”

“What was the young man’s name?”

To my surprise, Holmes walked smartly away from me and headed out of the ward, not even sparing a glance to the nurses at the desk. They stared in astonishment, wondering what on earth I might have said – since they knew my ability to say exactly the wrong thing. To escape their scorn and questions, I hurried after Holmes, my face hot with annoyance.

He made for the coat stand, but left his jacket hanging and merely pulled from the pocket a bulging pocket book, from which he plucked a photograph. The oval image showed a bright-eyed, handsome young man in uniform.

“Captain Philip Ogle-Thompson,” said Holmes. “Average height, a physique from playing rugby, which also left him without his upper left canine. You can’t see that in the picture, but I’m told the missing tooth gave him an engaging, raffish look. The sort of fellow who might make an impression on a young lady.”

Holding the photograph in my hands, I willed myself to draw some small scrap of memory, anything at all. But I’d meant what I had told him: a lot of young officers died, and they soon blended one with another.

“I could show this to the nurses,” I suggested. “They often have more direct contact with the men.” Holmes seemed torn, uncertain that he should share the nature of his enquiry any more widely, but also keen for information. Reluctantly, he consented, and I left him by the coat rack while I went to the main desk.

I was not exactly made welcome. Dulcie O’Brien was no longer with them, but they smarted from the way Holmes had spoken to her before. It was, of course, somehow my fault.

Jill Sullivan saved me, reminding them that I should be in bed and had only been caught by Matron because I’d helped Jill after the end of my shift. The other nurses didn’t like that, and one said I shouldn’t do nursing work anyway. But they contented themselves to look at the photograph, if only to tell me that they couldn’t help. Jill, again, was kind. “Tell his dad of course we remember, and that he was very brave.”

I did not want to correct her and explain who Holmes really was, so I patted her arm and said this would be of great comfort to our visitor. Returning to Holmes, I said rather loudly, “Of course we remember Captain Ogle-Thompson. A very brave boy, an inspiration to some of the other men who were here at the time.” Holmes, to his credit, played along with this, bowing his head in the manner of a grateful but grieving father.

“Thank you,” he told me softly. “There is nothing more to be done if you cannot remember. You may deliver me back to Sister Gloria.”

That was like ice through me. He would surely convey to Matron that I had failed to provide what he wanted, and thus confirm her prejudice against me. Entirely out of pride, I wanted to prove myself to this insufferable man – and an idea suddenly struck me.

“We’ll just see,” I said loudly, so Jill and the other nurses would hear, “which doctor attended him, so you know who to thank.”

Holmes beamed at me, delighted, and then remembered his role. Meekly, mournfully, he followed me to the bank of filing cabinets at the end of the ward. A number of thick, leather-bound ledgers were arranged on top, and I quickly found the relevant volume. The leather cracked as I opened the front page, and dashed through the pages to the end of October. I ran my finger down the long list of names, pausing at each red X, which indicated death. There was no Ogle-Thompson.

Holmes leaned eagerly forward to scrutinise the list. “He died on the first of November,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied archly. “And if he was ever on the ward, it would have been before he died. So we check the preceding entries.”

Holmes flashed a smile – he enjoyed either being challenged or my lack of patience. We turned again to the book. “No Ogle, no Thompson, and nothing that might be a misheard or misspelled version. Might we skip a little further back, in case he was on the ward for some time?”

We checked all of October, and September – which meant looking in the previous volume. Then Holmes looked through the lists for November, just to be doubly sure.

“Nothing,” I concluded. “I’m afraid he can’t have been here.”

Holmes considered, then took out his pocket book and withdrew a folded piece of paper, which proved to be a handwritten letter – but from whom I could not tell, because he concealed much of it with his hand. All he allowed me to see was a sentence towards the end, in clear and elegant fountain pen:

Philip died at peace, on the ward of the hospital onRue St Julienne, a credit to his battalion.

I read it over more than once just to be quite sure.

“It’s not an official account of his death,” I concluded. “I don’t suppose you can tell me who wrote it.”

Holmes gave the briefest shake of his head with an apologetic smile. I studied the sentence again.

“Why say this if it isn’t what happened?” I said.