Written in the margin was a tiny word: ‘weeded’. There was
literally nothing to be seen. Frowning, he copied it, along with a few
subsequent pages. He was trying to guess why Kate Seymour had come to examine
this material when the telephone rang.
‘The
map is ready’
They laid it on the table
overlooking the lake and the weeping willow.
Ypres
occupied a central position, roughly ten kilometres from Poperinghe. The
Salient had been drawn in red, curling to the right, round the city, and then
turning back again. Three small stickers — blue, yellow and green — had been
added, labelled respectively M, F and D.
‘I’ve
marked the positions of Moore, Flanagan and Doyle on the night of the
twenty-sixth August,’ said Martin, his finger tapping each letter. ‘You’ll see
that Doyle was beside the other two, separated by a brigade boundary. His unit
was due to move forward in support.’
Anselm
looked at F and D. They were bunched together on the map, whereas on the ground
they’d been world’s apart. Somehow they’d met up.
‘Where
was the Regimental Aid Post for the Northumberland Light Infantry?’ Anselm
misted his glasses and polished them on his scapular.
‘Here,
in the reserve trenches,’ said Martin, pointing behind M and F.
‘If
someone left the Salient for Étaples on the coast,’ continued Anselm, ‘what
route would he take … to get there and back again within a day or so?’
Martin
didn’t answer that question for a long while. This was a fresh angle. He took
off his jacket and threw it on the chair. After tweaking each cuff he tapped a
confluence of lines south of Poperinghe. ‘There was a railway depot here … at
Abeele … that’s one route. This was quite a busy area.’ He stubbed the map,
louder than before. ‘There was an airfield … and a number of Casualty
Clearing Stations.’
‘What
were they?’
‘Field
Hospitals,’ replied Martin, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
A look
of gathering comprehension sharpened his smooth face.
‘Serious
casualties were moved from a Regimental Aid Post to an Advanced Dressing
Station and then to a Casualty Clearing Station.
At the
time of a battle the system all but collapsed. It was mayhem.’
He
glanced sideways. ‘But it was a sure route away from the front.’
‘Where’s
Elverdinghe?’ asked Anselm, checking the coast around Étaples.
Martin
pointed elsewhere, to a village not far from Ypres … not that far from the
reserve trenches of the Northumberland Light Infantry.
Well,
well. You came back, thought Anselm, with an intake
of breath. You went to the coast, but you came back. You were arrested a
couple of miles from the front.
‘Can I
just rehearse the evidence?’ enquired Anselm, wrinkling his face. He needed to
hear his own voice, to thresh his impressions, to spit out the husks.
There
was a Gilbertine quality to Martin, the man who lived deep inside himself He
spoke mainly when it was necessary, and now he gave no reply.
Anselm
wasn’t going to dwell on the trial’s flaws, and God knows there were many: from
inadmissible evidence to an abject failure by the Prosecution to call the
relevant witnesses (Father Maguire, Lieutenant Tindall, the stretcher—bearers —
those who’d spoken to Flanagan and had been the last to see him). No, Anselm
wouldn’t focus on these defects because none of them mattered. Flanagan, defending
himself, had admitted everything and questioned no one. Anselm’s energy lay
rather with the undisputed facts.
‘What
bothers me is the shape of the evidence without reference to the Étaples
material,’ began Anselm, nudging his glasses. ‘It’s neat. Too neat for a
partial record of what actually happened. There should be ragged edges. Tears
that show some facts are missing. There aren’t any Save, perhaps, the field
dressings which are not accounted for and the phenomenon of wine in a barn.’
‘The
wine?’
‘Yes,
it’s too good to be true.’ He wafted away the
literally nothing to be seen. Frowning, he copied it, along with a few
subsequent pages. He was trying to guess why Kate Seymour had come to examine
this material when the telephone rang.
‘The
map is ready’
They laid it on the table
overlooking the lake and the weeping willow.
Ypres
occupied a central position, roughly ten kilometres from Poperinghe. The
Salient had been drawn in red, curling to the right, round the city, and then
turning back again. Three small stickers — blue, yellow and green — had been
added, labelled respectively M, F and D.
‘I’ve
marked the positions of Moore, Flanagan and Doyle on the night of the
twenty-sixth August,’ said Martin, his finger tapping each letter. ‘You’ll see
that Doyle was beside the other two, separated by a brigade boundary. His unit
was due to move forward in support.’
Anselm
looked at F and D. They were bunched together on the map, whereas on the ground
they’d been world’s apart. Somehow they’d met up.
‘Where
was the Regimental Aid Post for the Northumberland Light Infantry?’ Anselm
misted his glasses and polished them on his scapular.
‘Here,
in the reserve trenches,’ said Martin, pointing behind M and F.
‘If
someone left the Salient for Étaples on the coast,’ continued Anselm, ‘what
route would he take … to get there and back again within a day or so?’
Martin
didn’t answer that question for a long while. This was a fresh angle. He took
off his jacket and threw it on the chair. After tweaking each cuff he tapped a
confluence of lines south of Poperinghe. ‘There was a railway depot here … at
Abeele … that’s one route. This was quite a busy area.’ He stubbed the map,
louder than before. ‘There was an airfield … and a number of Casualty
Clearing Stations.’
‘What
were they?’
‘Field
Hospitals,’ replied Martin, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
A look
of gathering comprehension sharpened his smooth face.
‘Serious
casualties were moved from a Regimental Aid Post to an Advanced Dressing
Station and then to a Casualty Clearing Station.
At the
time of a battle the system all but collapsed. It was mayhem.’
He
glanced sideways. ‘But it was a sure route away from the front.’
‘Where’s
Elverdinghe?’ asked Anselm, checking the coast around Étaples.
Martin
pointed elsewhere, to a village not far from Ypres … not that far from the
reserve trenches of the Northumberland Light Infantry.
Well,
well. You came back, thought Anselm, with an intake
of breath. You went to the coast, but you came back. You were arrested a
couple of miles from the front.
‘Can I
just rehearse the evidence?’ enquired Anselm, wrinkling his face. He needed to
hear his own voice, to thresh his impressions, to spit out the husks.
There
was a Gilbertine quality to Martin, the man who lived deep inside himself He
spoke mainly when it was necessary, and now he gave no reply.
Anselm
wasn’t going to dwell on the trial’s flaws, and God knows there were many: from
inadmissible evidence to an abject failure by the Prosecution to call the
relevant witnesses (Father Maguire, Lieutenant Tindall, the stretcher—bearers —
those who’d spoken to Flanagan and had been the last to see him). No, Anselm
wouldn’t focus on these defects because none of them mattered. Flanagan, defending
himself, had admitted everything and questioned no one. Anselm’s energy lay
rather with the undisputed facts.
‘What
bothers me is the shape of the evidence without reference to the Étaples
material,’ began Anselm, nudging his glasses. ‘It’s neat. Too neat for a
partial record of what actually happened. There should be ragged edges. Tears
that show some facts are missing. There aren’t any Save, perhaps, the field
dressings which are not accounted for and the phenomenon of wine in a barn.’
‘The
wine?’
‘Yes,
it’s too good to be true.’ He wafted away the
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