The Dardanelles Conspiracy by Alan Bardos (best ereader for pc TXT) 📗

‘Then how did my wife get a letter from a rather lyrical Welsh Corporal offering up prayers for your salvation and speedy return to the warm embrace of the battalion?’

‘Oh God,’ Johnny said remembering the confusion on the night he tried to warn the Germans. He’d had the letter from his uncle and Lady Smyth together and must have given the wrong one to Williams.

‘Your choice is a simple one Swift, your court martial has merely been misplaced, not quashed. Now I can’t force you to do this job, but if you agree to help, I can have you assigned to special duties. If you survive and manage to complete your assignment, I’ll see what I can do for you. If you choose not to do this for your country, you will be returned to your unit for court martial and execution.’

In two strides Johnny was at the door and back in the bedlam of the corridor. His way was barred by two large orderlies and the doctor with the comb-over. A small cardboard French flag prominently pinned to his waistcoat added to his general air of self-importance.

Sir George came up behind Johnny. ‘Alternatively, I could have you committed here, the best hotel in town. In a ward for the cases they have no idea what to do with, shell shock I believe they’re calling it. No one will know where you are, as there is no formal record.’

‘You can’t do that, there’s nothing wrong with me,’ Johnny said, trying to control his shaking. The noise of the men down the corridor was already wearing on his nerves.

‘Really? What say you, Jean-Pascal?’ Sir George asked the doctor.

‘From my preliminary observations, the patient is clearly unstable.’ The doctor spoke with bored disdain. One patient was much the same as the other to him.

‘Perhaps you would care to conduct an examination before you jump to a hasty diagnosis, you quack.’ Johnny said. The doctor signalled to one of the orderlies who grinned at Johnny and punched him in the stomach.

Johnny struggled to get his wind back, looking out of the window onto a grimy courtyard of little windows and staring faces. ‘OK, so you have me at a disadvantage, Sir George. I can’t possibly stay in this awful place.’

‘I’m afraid that you are going to have to – well, for tonight anyway, safely under lock and key.’ Sir George said and shock the doctor’s hand. ‘Thank you so much for your assistance, Jean-Pascal.’

‘Think nothing of it. You must come to dinner tonight.’

‘Regrettably, I have a rendezvous with madame la guillotine.’

‘Ah, I see. Her new apartment is quite something.’ The doctor patted his cardboard flag. ‘I assume everything is satisfactory and our arrangement will proceed as agreed.’

‘Yes, I will be making a sizeable donation to your patriotic fund,’ Sir George smiled stiffly.

‘This way.’ The orderly punched Johnny again and thankfully pulled him away from the screams, down a flight of creaky wooden stairs. When they got to the bottom, Johnny was dragged through a narrow stone corridor and pushed into a whitewashed cell, with a round arched ceiling.

‘Wait, brandy – cognac,’ he shouted at the orderly and tossed him all the coins in his pocket. The orderly looked unimpressed and Johnny threw him his wallet, before the door was slammed in his face.

The realisation that his uncle had gone hit Johnny with the metallic crash of the door. They’d never exchange stories now. The silly old duffer had died just when Johnny needed him the most. It was just as well he reflected that he’d given Williams the wrong address or he’d have been in front of a firing squad and in the ground by now.

Chapter 7

‘Lady Smyth, one is gratified to find you in good health,’ Sir George Smyth greeted his wife in as cold and offhand manner as he could muster. It didn’t pay for her to know the depth of his feelings. This was the first time they had seen each other since the outbreak of hostilities some five months previously and, judging by the reports he’d received, his absence had suited her rather too well.

‘I am equally gratified to see that our time apart has not translated into a nauseating display of affection,’ Lady Smyth replied with equal formality. Sir George marvelled at how Libby’s tone could convey such understated indifference.

She had perfected the art of conversation into an exquisite blend of mockery and sarcasm that he was left quite breathless. It demonstrated a refined breeding that far outstripped his own rather grubby title, purchased by his great-grandfather along with a modest pile in Hampshire from profits made in the First Opium War.

‘You have seen fit to abandon our marital home,’ Sir George said, glancing around her chic boudoir, decorated in an oriental black and gold lacquered panelling, overlaid with brightly coloured birds.

He was moderately annoyed to find that she’d taken an apartment on the Rue Bonaparte. It was presumably to remind him that he hadn’t yet lived up to his potential.

‘Yes, I thought you might find the address appropriate.’

She gave him a taunting smile and moved towards the drinks cabinet her satirical demeanour changing in the blink of an eye to demure. ‘Would you care for one?’

‘Yes, why not?’ Sir George desperately needed something to take the edge of his disquiet. He didn’t care for the décor. It gave the place a dark and sinister atmosphere like a Shanghai madam’s opium den and reminded him of his ignoble linage. He imagined it made Lady Smyth feel like an eighteenth-century Venetian noblewoman, along with the strategic placing of a painting, that at first glance could have been a window overlooking the Grand Canal. Venice had long been a city that fascinated her since he’d been fool enough to take her there for a rather fraught honeymoon, fending off