Chapter Six

“L ook him up in Who’s Who ,” May suggested when Josef popped into the Clarion the next morning with his print of the Ritz menu. “If his title’s real, he’ll be in there.”

“The title might be real but that doesn’t mean he’s not a phony,” Josef pointed out, but it was a good suggestion. Who’s Who was at least a place to start.

May looked up from studying the photograph. “This is excellent, Joe. We’ll run it in the Saturday edition. Leslie’s eating there tonight, so he’ll write up something excoriating.” She shook her head over the menu. “There are women struggling to buy milk for their children, and these men feast like kings.”

He’d developed the picture last night in his room at the Cohens’. It was cheaper, and safer, to develop his own photographs, and he’d been happy with the way this one had come out. Happier still that his shot of the dead man’s wound had been clear enough to see details, even if it was slightly marred by the same double exposure that afflicted the picture of the dying boy in Flanders. He intended to compare them later, although at the distance he’d taken that shot, the wound was difficult to make out. There might be something in it, however. Some connection.

Something he could use to challenge Winchester.

If he ever found the lying sod.

“I’m heading over to the library,” he decided, standing. “They keep a copy of Who’s Who . ”

He’d often wondered about that. How many people needed to reference Who’s Who on such a regular basis it was worth keeping a copy in the public library? But perhaps there were plenty of aristocrats running about under assumed names, stealing other people’s personal possessions. He wouldn’t put it past them; historically speaking, theft had always been the favoured pastime of the ruling class.

Overnight, the fog had thickened into a viscous smog, and Josef was coughing by the time he reached the library on Charles Street. He’d promised Mr C that he’d help in the shop that afternoon, so he didn’t have long for his research. Luckily, it didn’t take long to find the Duke of Chester’s brother: Lord Ralph (although Percy had pronounced it ‘Rafe’) Alexander Twisleton Beaumont. Twisleton! The entry told him that the family’s principal residence was Beaumont House in Cheshire, that his lordship had been educated at Harrow and then Cambridge, that he worked as a private secretary in the War Office, and that he was a member of all sorts of toffee-nosed clubs with stupid names like the Savage Club and the Winconian Society.

There was no mention of his military service as a captain in the RAMC, nor any suggestion that he was a trained medical doctor.

Frankly, Josef doubted the man he knew as Captain Winchester was the same man as the chinless aristocrat described in Who’s Who . Winchester had seemed too… human. Nevertheless, Josef wrote down the names and addresses of the various clubs as a place to start looking. If nothing else, he’d be able to confirm that the man posing as Beaumont was a fake.

Turning up his coat collar against the cold, he plunged back into the fog and headed home. Well, not home home, which was the two overcrowded rooms on Goulston Street he’d shared with his parents and six siblings, but to a small and gloriously private room above Cohen’s Ironmonge r on Leyden Street. Mr and Mrs Cohen had taken him in six years ago, after the general strike in the Port of London. Josef, a union official, had lost his position as a warehouseman when the strike collapsed, and his father had thrown him out; he’d refused to harbour a ‘radical’ under his roof. So, in exchange for room and board, he’d helped the Cohens in their shop, spending his evenings writing furious pieces for any of the union or syndicalist newspapers who’d let him, before finding paid work at the Clarion . These days, he still helped in the shop when he could, even though he paid the Cohens a decent rent. They were getting older now and found the heavy work of lugging around pots and pans, coal scuttles, and tin baths difficult. But he suspected the real reason they kept him on was because having a younger man in the shop made them feel safer.

Especially after the war had started.

Normally, Josef would have saved himself tuppence and walked home but given the fog he forked out for the tube instead. Blackfriars Station was quiet in the middle of the day, with scarcely anyone on the platform as he waited for the train. The cold made his nose run, and when he blew it, his handkerchief came away sooty. Bloody smog. He scrubbed at his nose with his coat sleeve and suddenly caught that dreadful stink in the air again. Dropping his arm, he wondered whether it had somehow clung to his coat but, no, he could still smell it. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, the hair rose on the back of his neck. Moving closer to the edge of the platform, he peered down onto the track. Movement caught his eye, over to the right toward the tunnel entrance, and he recoiled at the sight of a huge brown rat scurrying beneath the elevated rails.

He watched it snuffling around as the air began to stir with the oncoming rush of a train. It came rattling through the tunnel towards him, pushing the air ahead of it—warm air from the deep tunnels. Thick with the same stench. Gagging, Josef put his hand to his mouth. And froze.

Something watched him from the dark of the tunnel, a gleam of eerie blue eyes.

Josef jolted in horror, oppressed by a sudden, paralysing dread. Then, suddenly, there was nothing but the yellow glare of the train’s lantern as it burst out of the tunnel, brakes hissing and squealing as it slowed and stopped at the station.

Heart pounding, Josef made his way to the third-class carriage and sank shakily onto an empty seat. A young woman dozed at the far end of the compartment, her head on the window and hat askew, and two men in uniform stood at the other end of the carriage in deep conversation. One of them glanced at him, clearly taking in the sight of a young man of fighting age not in uniform, and ostentatiously turned his back. He heard “yellow belly” thrown out, intentionally loud.

“Conchie coward,” agreed the other soldier.

Josef bristled, face heating, but he didn’t respond; he was too shaken for a scrap. Besides, what did he care what they thought of him? Once your own father had disowned you, spitting insults into your face in front of your neighbours—‘ You fucking coward! You’re a bloody disgrace to your family! ’—the words of strangers lost their power.

Well, mostly.

As the train moved out, the stench dispersed, and Josef’s horror subsided. He told himself he’d been imagining things because he could not have seen eyes in the tunnel. That was impossible. If he had, whoever they’d belonged to would have been pulverised by the train. But the devil of it was that he’d seen that eerie blue flash of eyes before—the night he’d spent in Poperinge with Winchester. He’d seen them in the dark street outside the hotel, and they’d been watching him then, too.

His throat contracted, and he coughed because it was too dry to swallow.

Stupid. He was letting his imagination run away with him, that was all. As a rationalist and an atheist, Josef didn’t believe in anything that couldn’t be explained by cold, hard reason. But maybe his nerves had been damaged worse than he’d realised by ten months wading through the bloody carnage of war? He wouldn’t be the first man to start seeing things; that was for sure. Plenty of poor sods had their minds more injured than their bodies at the front, and he knew damn well those men weren’t malingerers or cowards. No, the horror of it could damage a man’s mind. He’d seen it happen.

The idea that it had happened to him, that his mind was playing tricks on him, was … genuinely frightening.

But was his nose playing tricks, too? Because that stink had been real enough.

He curled his fingers around the edge of his seat, focussing on the roughness of the rattan beneath his palms, and told himself to think straight. Whatever was going on here had a rational explanation, and the only hair-raising thing about it would turn out to be that the government had invented yet another appalling method of mass slaughter.

Still, he couldn’t shake a deep sense of unease that clung on until he’d left the Underground and emerged into the biting chill of the foggy afternoon. It was a five-minute walk from Aldgate East to Leyden Street, and Josef did it in three—despite the weather. He just wanted to get away from the tube and out of the dank day.

Working his way through the crowded market at Petticoat Lane calmed him down, though; the cheerful press of strangers and the familiar noise and bustle of the market were comforting. And by the time he saw the window of Cohen’s Ironmongers glowing with yellow electric light, he’d calmed down enough to smile as he opened the side door of the shop. “I’m back!” he called, shucking his coat and hanging it on the coat hook. The shop was warm, the air thick with the acrid scent of iron polish, and the kettle whistling for the Cohens’ afternoon cuppa. Josef relaxed, taking a deep breath as he unwound his scarf and hung it over the hook with his coat and cap. A cup of strong tea was what he needed, and for that he’d come to the right place.

Mr Cohen, smart in his immaculate overalls, bustled about the shop ensuring that everything was ‘just so’. The shop was his pride and joy, and a cleaner, tidier, more correct place of business you’d struggle to find. Had they been blessed with a son, this would have been his legacy, but there were no Cohen children—no son had marched off to war; no daughter waited at home for her brother or husband to return. Josef often wondered whether the Cohens, in suffering one grief, had been spared another, deeper pain. Either way, they were alone, and Josef had become the beneficiary of all their parental affection.

“Joe!” Mr Cohen smiled broadly as Josef ducked in from the back of the shop. “There you are.”

Since he’d been back from the front, they greeted him like this every day—as if still surprised he’d returned in one piece. He knew they’d missed him, even though he’d written as often as possible and sent them money for the rent to ensure that his room was still his when he returned. At least, that’s what he’d told them. Truth was, he knew they relied on his three shillings a week, and he didn’t want them having to find someone else to take the room. Who knew what kind of chancer they might take in?

“Just in time for tea,” Mr Cohen said. “And you look like you need it, Joe. The fog’s like soup out there today.”

“More like pease pudding,” Josef grumbled, chafing his hands together to rub feeling back into his fingertips. “How’s business today?”

Mr Cohen’s smile wilted as he gestured around the empty shop. “Between the weather and the air raids, nobody’s out.”

“Paper says the fog should clear by the weekend.” Josef tied on his apron and stepped behind the polished wooden counter, dropping his satchel onto the floor next to the high stool. “No zeppelin forecast, I’m afraid.”

“Balloons,” Mr Cohen said, with a disbelieving shake of his head. “Who’d have thought they’d drop bombs from hot air balloons? It’s fantastical, like something Mr Wells would have written.”

Josef smiled but didn’t comment. Seemed to him that there was nothing mankind could invent that they wouldn’t turn into a weapon of war sooner or later. “Go and have your tea, sir,” he said. “I’ll watch the shop.”

“You should have yours first. You look chilled.”

“Don’t worry about me—I’m alright. Besides, I prefer my tea stewed.”

Mr Cohen made a face. “That’s true. All right, lad, if you’re sure. Call me if…” He glanced around the empty shop and sighed. “Never mind.”

As he listened to Mr Cohen’s footsteps climbing the stairs, Josef hopped up onto the stool and pulled his satchel onto his lap, keen to start work on the pamphlet May had promised to publish. Retrieving his notebook, he settled himself with pencil poised and stared at the blank paper.

Where to even start?

Unfortunately, he wasn’t as good with words as he was with pictures: he preferred his photographs to speak for him. But this had to be written, and he had to write it himself, while his memories were crisp and his anger sharp. He couldn’t give it over to May or one of her other scribblers to write up second-hand. There was so much he wanted to say, though. It was hard to know where to begin.

Well. Why not begin with the boy?

Josef pulled the disturbing image from the envelope in his bag and propped it up against a jar of nails on the counter, gazing at that ghostly face and the pale eyes staring right into the lens of the camera. At the time, when he’d taken the picture, he hadn’t noticed that the boy’s eyes were open. The distance had been too great, perhaps, or he’d been too focused on framing the shot. But as soon as he’d seen the photograph, he’d realised how that eerie gaze drew you in and became the rending heart of the image.

He wanted it seen. It had to be seen. The boy—all the men who’d suffered and died—deserved to be seen, and Josef would do everything in his power to make that happen. Starting with writing the pamphlet.

Sometime later, he was roused from deep concentration by the jangle of a bell as the shop door opened. Startled, Josef looked up to find a gentleman standing in the doorway.

Captain Winchester, no less.

No uniform, though. He was dressed in civvies: a well-made dark suit with an elegant overcoat and a black Homburg, which he lifted in greeting as he closed the door behind him.

Well, well, well.

Josef set down his pencil and sat up straighter. Neither man spoke.

Winchester glanced around the shop, a quick thorough inspection as befitted an agent of the Intelligence Corps. Then his eyes settled back on Josef, just as intent as he remembered, their deep blue as dark as a night sky. An attractive combination with the sleek black hair that had slid like heavy silk through Josef’s fingers.

Irritated with himself for noticing such things, Josef said, “Can I help you, Captain Winchester? Or should I call you ‘your lordship’ today?”

After a beat, Winchester said, “Certainly not. The correct form of address is ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Ralph Beaumont’. But I’d rather you called me Alex.”

“So many names to choose from,” Josef said. “Must be hard to keep them all straight in your head.”

Winchester—Alex—gave a flat smile. If Josef hadn’t known better, he’d have called it rueful. “I owe you an apology.”

“I’ll say you do.”

“It was…difficult to acknowledge you as I’d have liked yesterday evening.” He hesitated. “But I was glad to see you returned safely.”

Josef raised his eyebrows. “Well, that was bloody rude, but I don’t expect politeness from your sort.”

“My sort being the blood-soaked bourgeoisie, I suppose.”

“Nah. You’re one of the old, landed toffs still clinging onto power.”

“I see.”

Leaning forward on his elbows, Josef said, “You stole my camera.”

Another pause. Alex hadn’t moved from his position by the door, and Josef couldn’t help but notice he looked less self-possessed than usual. Despite his dapper appearance, he had the air of a cat on hot tiles. “I did,” he agreed. “And for your own good. They’re forbidden at the front, as you well know. I’d have hated to see you shot as a spy.”

“A spy?” Josef laughed, then lowered his voice. He didn’t want Mr Cohen to hear them and come back downstairs. “You don’t think I’m a spy.”

“No. I think you’re a photographic journalist who contributes to that socialist rag, the Daily Clarion , which is vehemently anti-war. And that would probably have been enough to get you shot had you been found in the line with your Box Brownie.”

“It was an Autographic Vest Pocket Kodak. And it cost me a pound and ten shillings.”

“It might have cost you your life, had you kept it.”

“Bollocks.” Slipping off the stool, Josef came around to the front of the counter. He wished he wasn’t wearing his apron—didn’t like how it put him in the subservient position—but he’d be buggered if he was going to untie it. “I was taking pictures of things you wanted to hide, wasn’t I? That’s why you nicked it.”

Alex’s face was studiously neutral. “I don’t know what you were—”

“Come off it. It had something to do with that boy who clicked it at the dressing station. And with whatever caused his wounds.” He held up a hand when Alex opened his mouth. “Don’t even think of denying it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” He crossed the shop to the counter, setting down his hat and pulling off his gloves one finger at a time. Josef made himself look away from that little striptease. “I understand you were at St. Thomas’s Hospital yesterday evening.”

Startled, he said, “Are you following me?”

“Only a little.” Alex smiled, again without humour. “You happened to run into a friend of mine—Lady Charlotte.”

Lottie, the ambulance driver. “Bloody hell, are you lot everywhere?”

“Hardly.” Setting his gloves in his hat, he turned to face Josef. “Let’s chalk that up to serendipity, shall we? But the point is that you need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

Josef spread his hands. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re poking your nose into matters that don’t concern you.”

“And why don’t they concern me? I’ve as much right as the next man to know if the government’s unleashed killer rats or—”

“Killer rats ?” This time, when Alex’s lips twitched, it was with genuine amusement.

Josef felt his cheeks heat. “Not my theory,” he said stiffly. “But if it’s some kind of gas or…or infection—”

“No.” Alex waved him silent. “It’s not… I’m not…” He struggled inwardly, glancing up at the ceiling as if pleading for strength. “I don’t work for the government.”

“Riiiiiight.” Josef folded his arms. “’Course you don’t.”

“I don’t.”

“According to Who’s Who , ‘Lord Beaumont’ works for the War Office.”

His eyebrows rose. “You…looked me up in Who’s Who ?”

“Dunno. You tell me. Are you Lord Beaumont, or are you Captain Winchester? Or someone else entirely?”

Silence.

“If you don’t work for the War Office, then what were you doing in the salient?” Josef took a step closer. “Are you really with the RAMC? Are you even a doctor? What caused the wounds on that boy, and why is it killing men in London? Who’s the man you—?”

Alex seized him abruptly by both shoulders. “Stop.” His expression was cool, but his eyes flashed, his grip fierce. Josef felt his skin prickle all the way up the back of his neck, little electric jolts of awareness. “All right. You win. Yes, I work for the War Office. We're investigating a new...” His gaze flicked away and back. “...a new infection. It’s broken out among the men.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of infection?”

“A deadly one.”

Josef frowned. “How come I never heard anything about it at the front?”

“ Because we’re trying not to cause panic.” He took a deep breath and, more calmly, said, “Listen to me, Josef. This thing you’re poking about in is dangerous.”

“This ‘infection’?”

“It could get you killed.”

“It’s already getting people killed.”

Alex’s grip eased, but he didn’t let go. Josef wished he were less aware of the warm weight of his hands. “We’re handling it.”

“How?”

“You don’t need to know that.”

“Yes, I do. I have a bloody right to know that.” Irritated, he shrugged out of Alex’s grip. “The people have a right to know what their government is doing—here at home, in the war, and across the whole bloody Empire. You can’t keep us in the dark no more. I won’t let you.”

Alex’s jaw bunched, and he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

Snatching up his hat and gloves, Alex snapped, “I was trying to protect you.”

“You were trying to silence me.”

“Funnily enough, in this instance, they amount to the same thing.” He looked like he was about to leave, yet he remained standing by the counter—taut, aristocratic, and troubled. His gaze touched Josef’s and held. And held. And held . Josef’s heart started pounding against his ribs as if he’d been running or fighting. Or something else entirely. In a softer voice Alex said, “For what it’s worth, I very much enjoyed our time together in Poperinge. I think back on it often, and with fondness.”

So did Josef, which only irritated him further. He said, “You mean the time you seduced me and stole my camera?”

“I didn’t…” He closed his eyes with a sweep of dark lashes and sighed. “Well, it was what it was, I suppose.”

And what it was was bloody confusing.

Saying no more, Alex donned his Homburg and strode to the door. At the last moment, before he opened it, he turned back around. “If you value your life, Shepel, stay away from this business. No good can come of your involvement. And plenty of ill.”

Without waiting for a response, he pulled open the door with a sharp jangle of bells and disappeared into the skulking fog.