The Wood Beyond

‘Well, yes. But so what? Do you have a name for the chap in your pics?’ asked Pascoe.

‘Yes. Names for nearly all of them. One of my predecessors was very thorough back in the twenties. Double-checked with survivors. That’s why I came.’

‘Because this is definitely Corporal Clark?’

‘Sergeant at the end. And not Clark. Here. Look.’

He produced a sheet of paper on which someone had patiently traced one of the groups in outline with numbers instead of faces. Below was a key.

Pascoe checked the number of his lookalike. Twenty-two. Then he dropped his gaze to the key.

He was glad he wasn’t standing. Even sitting he felt the chair lurch beneath his behind and saw the air shimmer like the onset of migraine. He blinked it clear and reread the entry.

No 22. Pascoe Peter (Corporal).

‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ he said steadily.

‘No joke,’ said Studholme regarding him closely and with concern.

‘Then what? Can’t be right. My grandmother was Ada Clark who became a Pascoe by marriage, so how could this be her father? Hang on though. Didn’t you say there was a Pascoe in the Wyfies at Third Wipers? Surely this is just a mix up of names?’

‘That was Private Stephen Pascoe. He got wounded not killed. This Corporal Peter, later sergeant, is someone else.’

Ellie came back in.

‘I think she’ll go to sleep now but don’t let her play you up. I’d better be on my way. Peter, you OK?’

He forced a smile.

‘Yes. Fine. I’ll check in a little while. Enjoy yourself.’

‘I’ll try. Major Studholme, nice to meet you. Sorry I’ve got to dash. ‘Bye.’

She was gone. She was good at exits thought Pascoe with the envy of one who usually made an awkward bow.

Studholme was standing up.

‘I’d better be on my way too,’ he said. ‘Bad form, being late.’

Pascoe didn’t rise but studied the other from his chair. With Dalziel breathing down your neck for all those years, one thing you practised till it became instinctive was the art of detailed observation. He let his gaze drift down Studholme’s clothing from his collar to his toecaps. He was beginning to feel something which if not anger, had a deal of anger in it.

‘Late for what?’ he asked. ‘If I had to make a guess, major, I’d say you weren’t going anywhere. All that about having dinner with friends in this neck of the woods is a load of baloney, isn’t it?’

Studholme brushed his forefinger across his moustache and said in a voice which had more of interest than indignation in it, ‘And on what would you base such an unmannerly speculation?’

‘You haven’t changed from when I saw you this morning. Same shirt, same tie, same jacket, same trousers. You haven’t even given your shoes a rub. Oh you look tidy enough, don’t misunderstand me, but I’m certain a man like you wouldn’t go to dine with friends without changing your shirt at least.’

‘Man like me? Little presumptuous on such short acquaintance, isn’t it?’

Again mildly curious rather than outraged.

‘You’ve known me exactly the same length of time,’ said Pascoe who could play this game till the cows came home and went out again. ‘Yet you feel you know me well enough to decide that whatever it really was that you came here to say might be best left unsaid. How’s that for presumption?’

‘Pretty extreme,’ the major admitted with the hint of a smile. ‘All right. May have been wrong. Still can’t be sure.’

‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Pascoe. ‘Like another drink?’

Studholme shook his head.

‘Thanks but I’ll wait till I get home and can treat myself to a real nightcap. No offence, excellent orange juice.’

He sat down again, easing his right leg straight out in front of him. Did he have a prosthesis or just some muscle damage? wondered Pascoe. He felt a sympathetic twinge in his own leg damaged when he’d been trapped down Burrthorpe Main. Theoretically he’d made a complete recovery from that traumatic experience. His mind had other ideas.

He said, ‘So what’s the big mystery, major?’

Studholme said, ‘Tell me first of all. Your grandmother, why do you think she wanted her ashes scattered at regimental HQ?’

It was honesty time.

‘Not as a mark of respect, that’s for certain,’ said Pascoe. ‘She hated all things military, and the Wyfies in particular. If I had to guess, I’d say it was the nearest she could get to spitting in somebody’s face.’

‘Any idea why she felt so strongly?’

‘She lost her father in the war.’

‘Millions did.’

‘We all find our own way of dealing with things.’

‘Indeed,’ said the major frowning. ‘Though this was extreme.’

‘But you think you know why.’

‘Not absolutely certain—’

‘I think you are,’ interrupted Pascoe. ‘Perhaps not when you arrived, but now … yet you were going to go without saying anything. Why?’

‘Because of your face when you saw the name on that list. You looked like a man looking at his own tomb. I felt, perhaps it would be better …’