‘What makes you think that, I wonder? You’re right, though.

Bernard had a terrible time, and he came back a very different man. Not broken, you understand, but with a combination of resentment and guilt which ran deeper than the grief we all felt to some extent.’ She lit another cigarette but lodged it almost immediately in the ashtray, where it burned steadily down, forgotten.

‘He’d been in the war in South Africa and distinguished himself there, so, although he was really too old to fight in France, they begged him to go over and lead the war underground. Lots of older men did the same – they needed the youngsters to do all the digging, but they only had a week’s basic training or something 167

ridiculous before they were sent out to that God-forsaken landscape and then expected to do battle with earth and water and charges going off all over the place. People like Bernard, who were experienced and could lead by example, were worth their weight in gold. I know that there was no such thing as an easy war for anyone – you look the right age to vouch for that – but it always seemed to me that tunnelling was a different level of hell. There’s something peculiarly unnatural about never seeing daylight. But he was marvellous with those boys, at least at first; he looked after them, taught them how to keep their nerve and anticipate the enemy’s next move, and believe me – there was nobody better than my husband at doing that. And they learned quickly – they had to; the slightest noise down there could cost lives and if you gave way to panic, that was it – you lost the confidence of your colleagues and your usefulness was over.’

‘And is that what happened to Bernard?’

‘No, not at all, although I don’t know how he kept it together.

He had to spend hours alone in cramped positions, straining every sinew to hear enemy noise. Apparently, sound travels further through solid ground and water than it does through air and it was his job to interpret what he heard, to plot the direction of the tunnels and judge the distances for the charges. There must have been enormous pressure on him, psychologically I mean, knowing how much depended on his decisions and how close he was to the enemy. It would have been easy to let your imagination run away with you in a situation like that.’

Penrose waited, not wanting to hurry her. When she didn’t speak for some time, he said, ‘It’s not surprising that he developed claustrophobia. Surely nobody could leave that behind and come away unscathed?’

‘I don’t know. He was a strong man, in some ways incredibly so, and I think he’d have been fine if it hadn’t been for one particular incident. It was in the spring of 1916 – some of the tunnels ran a third of a mile or so under enemy territory by then, so you can imagine how important the ventilation was. They’d judge it by a candle – forgive me if I’m telling you things you already know –

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and if it stayed alight, even if it was only the feeblest of blue flames, it was judged safe to work. With the longest tunnels, there’d be an infantryman above ground working those big blacksmith’s bellows, pumping air to the face along lines of stove piping. It was real teamwork, and a huge act of faith for the men underground.’

She got up and poured herself a whisky and soda from a decanter next to the flowers, then picked up a second glass and looked at him questioningly. He shook his head, reluctant to accept anything that would make him more tired than he was already, and she resumed her story. ‘One day, Bernard was down there with two others, young engineers who were placing charges according to his instructions. They’d nearly finished when they noticed that the air was beginning to deteriorate and it was getting harder to breathe. Obviously they couldn’t just call up to see what was happening with the bellows – it was too far and anyway, only sign language was permitted below ground – so Bernard ordered them back up immediately. Fortunately, because their senses were so attuned to the slightest change, they’d noticed in time to make it back to safety, but one of them refused to go.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’d nearly finished laying the charge and was determined to get it done. Bernard knew the boy had misjudged how long he could stay down there safely and he tried to drag him away, but he wasn’t strong enough to do it on his own – the third man had followed orders immediately and left – and he knew it would be dangerous to make a noise by struggling because it would alert the enemy to their position. He had no choice but to go back and get the bellows working again, and try to save him that way. When he reached the surface, he found his colleague and a few other soldiers wrestling with the piping; apparently the infantryman had been working the bellows constantly, so they realised there must be a blockage somewhere in the system. Of course, Bernard knew there wasn’t a chance in hell of locating it before the man below suffocated, so he turned and went back down.’

Penrose was silent, trying to imagine the courage it must have 169

taken for anyone to respond like that, to descend to what must have seemed like certain death. The mental picture of Aubrey’s contorted face and outstretched hand, already fixed distressingly in his mind, took on a new horror.

‘Needless to say, it was hopeless. The air in the tunnel was all but extinguished and Bernard only got a hundred yards or so in before he was gasping for breath and losing consciousness. He was on his knees, still trying to move forward, when the man he’d sent back caught up with him and dragged him out. It’s a miracle that either of them got out alive.’

‘And the boy?’ Penrose asked, although he knew there could only be one outcome.

‘When they got the air circulating again, they found him about a hundred yards from the face, obviously on his way back. What a terrible death it must have been – all that blackness and nothing to breathe, and the sheer terror of being down there alone and knowing you’re doomed. He was face down, Bernard said, with his mouth full of soil. They may as well have buried him alive.’ She shuddered, and added with a wry bitterness, ‘The charge was perfectly laid, however. They used it that evening and I gather it was rather successful.’

‘It’s impossible for anyone who wasn’t there to understand how that must have affected him and I’m sorry if this sounds naive –

but I don’t quite see why he felt that to be a sin for which he had to be punished. Guilty for not being able to help, perhaps – but not responsible. It was an accident, surely? What more could he have done?’

‘Yes, it was an accident, but the boy who died wasn’t just anyone: he was Bernard’s nephew, Arthur, his sister’s only child, and Bernard had made a promise to look after him. That in itself is ridiculous, of course – you can’t make promises in war, it doesn’t work that way – but he made it all the same and never forgave himself for being unable to keep it, even though his sister certainly never laid the blame at his door.’

For Penrose, a piece of the jigsaw fell at last into place. He had no idea how it got him any closer to finding Aubrey’s killer, but 170

somehow he knew it was important. ‘Do you happen to have a photograph of her?’ he asked.

‘Of Nora? Yes, of course. I’ve got one of her with Arthur, taken not long before his death. Do you want to see it?’

‘Yes please, if you don’t mind.’ She was gone only a couple of minutes and, when she returned, handed him a small photograph in a plain gold frame. The boy in the picture was, he guessed, little more than twenty, and he smiled broadly out from behind the glass, handsome in his new uniform and with a warmth in his eyes which would have made him attractive even if the rest of his features had been less appealing. He had his arm round his mother, who looked up at him proudly but with an apprehension which had been justified all too soon. Her face was in profile and she was older here than when Penrose had last seen her, but it was unmistakably the same woman whose picture looked down from the bookshelf in Aubrey’s office, the woman to whom he imagined the bayonet and flower had been pointing. Without really knowing why, he asked: ‘The irises – here and in Bernard’s office – are they connected at all to his sister?’