Chapter Four

London, November 1917

“T he thing is,” said May Capper, “the world doesn’t want to know the truth.”

Josef had been home from the front for two weeks and sat now in the cramped offices of the Daily Clarion with a selection of his photographs spread out on the desk before him. He pushed one towards her. “You can’t mean that you won’t publish any of these.”

May sat back with a sigh. She was a young woman, older than him but not yet thirty, and spoke with a strong Manchester accent. Her lips pursed as she quoted the Defence of the Realm Act to him. “ No person shall by word of mouth or in writing spread reports likely to cause disaffection or alarm among any of His Majesty’s forces or among the civilian population .”

“Since when do you give two hoots for DORA?”

May had no qualms about breaking the law; she’d been imprisoned several times for disorderly conduct and assaulting the police during Suffragette protests. She’d even been on hunger strike.

“It’s not that I’m afraid to publish them, Joe.” With one hand she indicated the photographs, some of his most urgent and harrowing work. “My God, they’re desperately important. But if we publish any of these, the police will be round here before you can say Jack Robinson. The government are just looking for an excuse to shut us down. And what good will that do?”

“At least people will have seen the truth. That was the point, wasn’t it? That’s why I spent ten bloody months in that…that nightmare.” His gaze roved over the images he’d captured, shying away from the memories they invoked—still too real, too visceral to bear unless through the filter of his camera lens. “What the hell was it all for if we don’t publish? I might as well have gone to prison with the others.”

“We have to walk a line, Joe. Say enough to inform people, but not so much that we give the censors reason to prosecute.” She met his gaze across the table, her own softening. “But it’s not just that.” With her fingertips she moved the pictures around on the desk, examining each in turn. One, the boy lying among the dead at the dressing station, she drew closer, examining the lad’s deathly face and the eerie gleam in his eyes. “This is some mother’s son, Joe. Do we have the right to use his image to shock? I’m not sure.”

“We do if it shakes people up enough to end the slaughter. We’d be saving countless other sons.” He pulled the picture back towards himself. An error in developing the photograph had left a slight double shadow over the boy’s face, as if his ghost already watched from behind those startlingly open eyes. Behind him, the dead blurred, indistinct mounds in the early dawn light. And suddenly, Josef could taste the cigarette he’d been smoking that morning, feel the clammy air on his skin, smell the stench of the putrid wound on the boy’s arm. His stomach roiled, and he looked away, back to May’s face. “If we hide the truth, then we’re complicit.”

“The countess wouldn’t thank us for getting shut down.”

The countess. Muriel Sackville, fervent campaigner for women’s suffrage and the Labour Party, was the money behind the Clarion . Without her largesse it would have folded at the start of the war, when the public appetite switched from the Clarion’s traditional socialist campaigning to the richer, more jingoistic diet provided by the Daily Mail , and other such rags. Although Josef didn’t much like the idea of an aristocratic patroness, the countess’s money kept him in work, and he wasn’t the sort to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not even a posh one. He supposed toffs could develop a social conscience as well as anyone else.

Even if most of them turned out to be secretive, sneaky bastards.

Not that he was thinking about any particular toff, you understand.

“What you’ve seen and suffered won’t be for nothing,” May said. “One day, your pictures will be a vital record. People will know the bloody truth of this imperialist war. But for now… Do you have any images that are less shocking?”

Josef folded his arms over his chest. “Like what? Good old British Tommies playing footie behind the lines? No, I don’t. I left that crap to the ‘accredited reporters’ and the propaganda machine.” Angry, he pushed himself to his feet and paced to the other end of the office. “I thought we wanted the truth, May.”

Through the grimy window, he looked down into the street, damp and foggy this November morning. The poor sods would be freezing their asses off at the front, and he was meant to be helping them, exposing the truth to the complacent world back home so that the people would rise up and demand an end to the slaughter. That had been the deal, the bargain he’d struck with himself when he’d taken non-combat work instead of going to gaol as a proud conscientious objector. But now… A knot tightened in his throat, a ball of guilt and horror and sudden hopelessness. God, but this war would go on forever, grinding up men into mince while everyone at home got blind drunk on patriotic zeal.

How could he stand it? How could he bear to do nothing when he knew what was happening over the channel? When he had the evidence but couldn’t—?

“Joe.” May’s hand landed on his shoulder, but he didn’t turn around because he could feel his churning anger and didn’t want to lash out. She squeezed. “All right, listen. What about a pamphlet? We print it anonymously, distribute it by hand. Leave copies on the tube, hand it out in the street…”

He turned cautiously. “A pamphlet?”

“Choose, say, six of your most hard-hitting photographs and we’ll put it together.” She framed the headline with her hands, as if seeing it written in the air. “ War: The Hidden Horror . We’ll keep it between us. Six photographs and some words to go with them.”

“It should be the front page of the Clarion , May.”

“I know, but it can’t be. Ending the war isn’t the only thing we’re fighting for, Joe. And we can’t impale ourselves on that one issue.”

He rubbed his hands through his hair, still bitterly disappointed. But he trusted May, he liked May, and deep down he knew she was right. After everything he’d witnessed at the front, ending the war overshadowed all other issues in his mind. But for May, for the countess, and for many others who worked for the Daily Clarion , the struggle was wider: universal suffrage and education, workers’ rights, the advance of international socialism. They were fighting for a future where men and women everywhere lived with dignity and respect, and ending this imperialist war was only part of their fight. “A pamphlet is better than nothing,” he conceded, and softened his ungrateful response with a smile. “But I want to write it too.”

“Joe…”

He held up a hand to stop her. “I know I don’t write as well as you, but it has to be my words. It has to be someone who was there.”

Her lips pursed, but after a moment, she said, “All right. But the editor gets the last word, and no arguing.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“Good. Now off with you. I’ve work to do. As do you, by the way. I need a picture of this evening’s menu at the Ritz for a piece we’re running about food shortages. Think you can manage it?”

“I dare say I can charm my way into the kitchens.” He smiled, but it felt wan as he gathered his photographs from the table and slipped them back inside their envelope. “I’ll bring a print over tomorrow.”

May stopped him before he left, grasping his arm. “Bring one of your less-shocking pictures with you, too. We’ll run a piece about conditions at the front.”

“And the casualty figures. They’re lying about that, May. And they’re lying about the new weapons, too. The gas and… I don’t even know what. Something worse, maybe.” Something that left hideous, rotting wounds that he could have photographed further if Winchester hadn’t pinched his bloody camera. Which, he suspected, had been the point of the theft. Too bad for the captain that Josef had already dropped off his film with M. Verbeke, because the picture of that boy had been every bit as powerful as he’d hoped.

He thought about it as he stepped out into the foggy evening. Truth be told, he thought about it a lot. For all the death he’d witnessed, that nameless boy’s suffering had been the most intimate. And the most shocking.

Winchester’s involvement only made it worse.

Perhaps that was why, as he turned up his collar and headed down Carmelite Street towards the Embankment, he thought he caught the scent of decay in the air. Not for the first time, either, since his return to London. Not ordinary decay, you understand, but the specific putrid rot of those vile wounds he’d seen in Flanders. Today, the stench seemed to linger in the fog. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand as he walked along the narrow pavement, dodging around people as they loomed out of the murk.

The fog was even thicker down by the river, the mournful hoots of invisible ships only adding to the strange sense of dislocation. When Josef was a boy, his father had told him the tale of a docker who’d disappeared one foggy night down at the Port of London. Nobody knew what became of him until, when the fog cleared, the desperate scratches of his fingernails had been found on the side of the dock where he’d struggled to climb out of the icy river before he drowned. Apocryphal or not, the story had terrified Josef. He’d hated the fog ever since.

It was almost six o’clock by the time he reached the Ritz, its golden light beaming into the night as if wealth and privilege could beat back the dark. Maybe it could; it seemed like money could perform miracles. Why else would those who had it fight so hard to keep it all for themselves? Through the windows of the Ritz, Josef glimpsed the men and women within as if visiting an exhibit: The British Upper Class at Play. Colourful, exotic creatures in their tank, separated by glass from the cold, dank London streets. Separated by an even greater chasm from the struggles and fears of people like himself. And from the men dying at their behest in the salient.

Absently, he rubbed his nose. Was he imagining that bloody stink? Maybe it was the river. Eager to be out of the weather, he headed for the staff entrance at the back of the hotel and wheedled his way into the kitchens. He and the ma?tre d’ , Floréal Bisset, were old friends. And by friends he meant ‘friends’.

“Josef,” Floréal gushed, kissing him on both cheeks in the continental fashion. “What a pleasure. I did not know you were back from the front.” Floréal had a thick French accent which Josef was sure he actively preserved; he’d worked in England for at least thirty years, after all, but still sounded like he’d just stepped off the boat. “How are you?” Hands resting on Josef’s shoulders, Floréal studied him, and Josef felt warmed by the genuine concern in his friend’s face. A little more lined than before, a little more strained. But so were they all; it had been a hard few years. “You look thin,” Floréal said. Then he smiled, his eyes crinkling. “ Mais toujours aussi beau .”

Josef squeezed his arm. “It’s good see you too, Florrie. I’m afraid I’m here to beg a favour.”

“Ah.” Floréal’s enthusiasm dimmed. “Go on.”

Josef explained what May wanted, pulling his camera—his new camera, thank you very much Captain bloody Winchester—from his satchel. “It won’t take a moment, and obviously, your name won’t be mentioned in the piece.”

Floréal rolled his eyes. “I see you’re still fighting the ‘imperialist elite’.”

“I see you’re still serving them.”

Floréal’s shrug was very French. “But every day I dine like a king, and you are very thin, so… Mince , Josef! Come on, I will fetch your menu. And something to eat, too. Put some meat back on your bones, mon poulet .”

And so Josef not only got his photograph of the extravagant and frankly excessive menu, but he got to sample a dish of sole and lobster drowned in a creamy white wine sauce. A substantial meal on its own, and undoubtedly the best one he’d eaten since his supper with Winchester, but just one course for those who dined at the Ritz. His hackles rose at the sight of all the cream sloshing about the kitchen when food shortages meant that ordinary men and women struggled to buy a pint of milk.

That was the point of the article May was writing, but when he thought of the tins of Maconochie stew being cracked open at the front by soldiers fighting and dying in a war propagated and prolonged by the men who feasted here… Well, his blood boiled.

Which was when Floréal booted him out to cool down.

“Come back later, eh?” His gaze lingered in that specific, knowing way. “It’s been too long, my friend.”

“It has,” Josef said, reaching into his coat pocket for his fags. Truth was, he’d not been much in the mood for that kind of thing since he got back. Too much else on his mind, he supposed. He lit up and offered Floréal an apologetic smile. “Thanks for dinner.”

“ De rien . And stay out of trouble, eh?”

Josef smiled and sketched a short bow as he began to walk away. “I’ll do my best.”

Unfortunately, his best lasted only a few minutes.

With the fog still thick, it was slow going along Piccadilly as he headed for the tube—sod walking home in this muck. He’d just reached the station when he heard a commotion up ahead. Nothing unusual about that in London, especially in the fog, so he paid no attention at first as he stopped outside the entrance to Dover Street and ferreted in his pocket for change.

The sudden shrill blast of a police whistle made him jump. And piqued his curiosity. He hesitated, eyeing the warmth and light of the Underground on one side and the foggy darkness on the other. As usual, his curiosity won the argument. Taking a bracing drag on his gasper, he went to investigate. As he walked toward the sounds of alarm, he couldn’t see much except that someone was waving a light about—a hand torch, by the look of the steady electric beam. The police whistle blew again from up ahead, followed by the pounding of running feet as an officer sped past him.

Josef quickened his pace until the lumpy shapes in the fog resolved themselves into a small crowd of people, their low murmurs of consternation muted by the dank air. One of them—the police officer, probably—wielded the electric torch. Josef could see its beam flashing through the fog. He hurried forward but stumbled to a halt when his nose filled with that dreadfully familiar stench of rot.

This time he knew he hadn’t imagined it because he could see two ladies holding their handkerchiefs over their noses and mouths. Josef’s heart kicked with a sudden sense of dread. “Excuse me,” he said, shouldering his way through the small crowd. They let him pass, eager to draw back.

And he understood why when he saw the dead man sprawled on the pavement.

A tramp, by the looks of his ragged clothing. Josef had seen more dead men than he could count, so it wasn’t the old man’s deathly stillness that troubled him, or his rictus of horror, peg-toothed gums bared. He’d seen far worse. No, what had Josef recoiling in shock was the putrid black wound on the man’s arm and shoulder. He reached immediately for his camera and crouched down, then cursed the lack of light. Impossible to photograph anything in these conditions.

“Stay back, sir.” The policeman stood on the other side of the body, keeping his distance like the rest of the crowd. “We’re fetching an ambulance.”

“Bit late for that,” Josef muttered. More loudly, he said, “What happened?”

From behind him, a woman said, “Looks like something took a bite out of him.”

“Maybe there’s an animal on the loose?” said another. “A wolf or something, escaped from the zoo.”

“There are no wolves loose in London, madam,” said the unimaginative constable.

But wolves or not, the woman was right. The flesh did look as if it had been eaten away. Torn out. Which was unlikely, of course, but Josef’s eyes saw what they saw. And God almighty, the stink! He tucked his mouth and nose into the crook of his elbow. “I’ve seen this before.”

“Now, now,” the policeman protested. “There’s nothing to say this is anything like the other one.”

Josef’s head jerked up. “What other one?”

After a pause, the constable said, “Move back from the body, sir.”

“Are you saying you’ve seen a wound like this before? In London—?”

“Excuse me, officer,” interrupted a cultured voice. “Is there some kind of trouble?”

At which point Josef’s thoughts scattered entirely because, to his complete astonishment, he recognised that voice. And sure enough, Captain Winchester appeared out of the mist behind the constable, flanked by two other men who, like him, were dressed in impeccable evening wear. One of them was the tall, Indian officer who’d been with Winchester in Flanders. The other Josef didn’t recognise.

Still crouching by the body, Josef absolutely stared. No chance this was a coincidence. Not a single one.

“Nothing to trouble yourself with, sir.” The policeman touched the brim of his helmet with the instinctive deference Josef loathed. “The ambulance is on the way.” As if to prove him correct, the ding-ding-ding of the bell crept along the street behind them. “Poor wretch succumbed to the cold most likely.”

The cold my arse , Josef thought. Did the cold chew a rotting hole in his arm?

Winchester’s gaze was fixed on the body, so intent that he didn’t appear to have noticed Josef. All to the good. “Very sad,” Winchester said coolly, but he was looking at the wounds—bites?—on the body’s arm with avid interest.

Now was not the time for Josef to speak to Winchester, not in front of all these people. Besides, dressed up to the nines as he was, the captain was clearly more of a toff than Josef had realised back in Poperinge. Any kind of familiarity between them would raise questions difficult to answer and potentially dangerous to them both; it wasn’t the done thing among men of their sort to subject a lover to the risk of exposure. Even when said lover was a lying thief.

And so, Josef kept his head down, hiding his face beneath the peak of his cap.

“Seen your fill, you ghoul?” said one of Winchester’s friends, a shorter slight chap with a top hat so tall it looked like he was overcompensating. “Come on. If we don’t leave now, they’ll give away our table.”

“Mind your backs!” called a woman’s voice, accompanied by the chug of a motor. The LCC ambulance had arrived, the driver leaning out of the window as she parked at the side of the street. The policeman began to move the small crowd aside, and Josef used the general shuffling around to hide himself as he stood up and mingled with the watchers. He kept his eye on Winchester, though. Well, he was hard to miss in his glistening topper and long, elegant overcoat.

Dashing , Josef’s mind supplied unhelpfully.

The ambulance women took charge immediately, bustling about, assessing the casualty. Well, corpse. Josef found himself watching them with professional interest and admiration. The entire London ambulance service was staffed by women these days, much to May’s delight, and from what he could see, they knew their stuff.

“Poor old boy,” one of the women said, crouching next to the man’s feet. She was a full-figured woman with a crown of red hair peeking out from beneath her hat. “Alright, Lottie. On three, now.” She took the man’s feet, her colleague took his shoulders, and together they hefted the corpse onto the stretcher. Then she fetched a blanket to cover his body and face.

The war dead were accorded much less dignity, Josef reflected. Except that Winchester had covered the face of the dead boy; it had been the first thing Josef had liked about the man.

“Give us a little space to work, please, sir.” The ambulance woman was talking to Winchester, hustling him back a step or two as she lifted the stretcher.

“I say,” said the man in the tall top hat. “Hardly appropriate work for ladies.”

“Oh, don’t be so Victorian, Percy,” Winchester replied, his gaze still fixed on the blanket-covered body.

“All right then, that’s your lot, ladies and gents,” said the policeman once the women had loaded the body into the back of their ambulance.

The crowd began to disperse, but Josef hung back, glad now for the fog, and watched as Winchester and his friends set off along Piccadilly towards the Ritz. Odd that Winchester just happened to be passing when this body had been found.

Odd to the point of incredulity.

Before the mist swallowed them whole, Josef set off after them. He kept his distance, lurking as far as the concealing fog would allow. But when they’d left the policeman and the rest of the onlookers behind, he risked calling out, “Captain Winchester.”

Winchester’s steps faltered, but he didn’t stop. Neither did either of his friends.

“Winchester!” Josef called, louder this time. Too loud not to be heard, but still Winchester didn’t react. “Hey, I’m talking to you, mister!”

After a few more steps, Winchester slowed, paused, and then turned around. He regarded Josef with such blank incomprehension that for a moment Josef wondered whether he’d somehow been mistaken. “Are you addressing me, sir?”

A man could injure himself on the sharp edges of that cut-glass accent.

“You know I am. That body—”

“I say.” The short man—Percy?—stepped forward like an aggressive little spaniel. “Who the devil are you?”

Josef spared him a disparaging glance. “My name’s Shepel. Captain Winchester and I—” he glanced at Alex, “—served together. In Flanders.”

Percy gave a haughty look down the length of his narrow nose. “I don’t know who the devil you think you’re talking to, man, but there’s nobody here of that name. You have the honour of addressing Lord Rafe Beaumont.” When Josef didn’t react, he added, “Brother of the Duke of Chester.”

Well, well. Josef met Winchester’s gaze. “Funny. You look the very spit of the captain.”

Winchester’s expression remained entirely expressionless, save for a slight tightening around his eyes. Perhaps he feared Josef was about to expose the sordid truth of their liaison. “An honest mistake, I’m sure,” he said, and touched the brim of his top hat.

“Good evening, my lord .”

Winchester didn’t answer, giving only the scantest nod acceptable.

Percy turned and began to walk away, the Indian gentleman taking a longer look at Josef before following. Winchester brought up the rear, swinging his cane with an angry swish. Josef watched the fog swallow each one in turn, chilled by more than the dank night.

Stupidly, he felt disappointed.

If he’d imagined meeting Winchester again in London—and, alright, perhaps he had imagined it once or twice—their meeting had involved considerably more warmth and fewer clothes than this chilly encounter. Certainly not a cold dismissal. Or the discovery that the man went by more than one name. But Josef supposed that was no surprise if, as he already suspected, Winchester worked for the Intelligence Corps.

He was mulling over that, and what it might mean that Winchester had shown up at the scene of tonight’s discovery, when the man himself returned. Half lost in the fog, he was little more than a dark shape in the shifting shadows as he said, “It’s a wretched night to be out, Mr Shepel. If I were you, I’d stay safely by the fire. The forecast is shocking.”

With that strange meteorological advice delivered, Winchester turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Josef alone on the street. Alone but fired up, every journalistic instinct alight, as though he’d plugged himself into an electrical socket.

Something fishy was going on. Winchester—or ‘Lord Beaumont’—was in it up to his nutmegs. And Josef was going to find out what the hell ‘it’ was.

It never occurred to him that he might come to wish he didn’t know.