The Dead Can Wait by Robert Ryan Page A

upon. You can’t put a time limit on this sort of thing,’ Watson said.
    Churchill waved his cigar. ‘I can. We have to. There is a timetable. Five days, work recommences regardless. At gunpoint, if need be. And, Watson, I am not concerned about this mute’s sensibilities. You understand? Get him to speak of that day any way you can.
    ‘And the dead men? Will I have access to them?’ asked Watson.
    ‘The dead can wait,’ growled Churchill. ‘At least until you have made the living talk.’
    ‘In some cases the dead can tell us more than the living.’
    ‘I’m sure you can poke and prod the bodies to your heart’s content if you think it’ll help. Personally, I think we need our survivor’s testimony. You know Suffolk?’
    ‘Not well.’
    ‘We’ve requisitioned an estate; the work is being done there. Close to the RFC airfield at Thetford. We’ll fly you up—’
    Watson’s stomach felt like it had been pushed off a cliff. ‘I prefer not to fly.’
    ‘Understandable’ said Churchill, well aware that Watson’s wife had died in an aeronautical accident, although he himself was a great believer in heavier-than-air machines, even if he had proven a less than capable pilot. ‘But, as I say, time is of the essence. There will be a chap called Swinton to brief you.’
    ‘Ernest Swinton? The writer?’ Watson knew his work from before the conflict – dashing jingoistic adventures – and his war journalism.
    Churchill nodded. ‘Of course you’d know him. Fellow scribbler. Yes, that Swinton. He’s the colonel in charge of the installation.’
    Watson took another gulp of vermouth and then, more to kill time than anything else, strolled across to try the brandy. ‘Do I have any choice in this matter?’
    Churchill smiled. It wasn’t comforting in any way. ‘None.’
    ‘And you won’t tell me the nature of this weapon?’
    ‘Not until you reach the site. You’ll be briefed there.’
    ‘But you know our methods.’ The collective noun was cheeky, but Churchill must appreciate how Holmes liked to tease out every detail of a case, more often than not in the drawing room of 221B Baker Street, before racing off. ‘Some background, surely, is in order?’
    ‘Not until you are at the location,’ Churchill said stubbornly. ‘Unless you want to risk spending several months with your old friend on a speck in the North Sea waiting for the Scourge to become public knowledge.’
    Watson felt another prick of anger. But Churchill had slipped up – at least he knew roughly where Holmes was now. But where in the North Sea? It was a vast expanse.
    ‘And of course,’ Churchill said slyly, ‘your friend isn’t getting any younger or fitter.’
    A red mist descended on Watson at the implications of what Churchill was saying. ‘I’d like to assure you, sir, that if anything befalls Holmes—’ Watson stopped.
    Churchill saw puzzlement and alarm flash across Watson’s face. ‘What is it?’ the MP asked.
    Watson walked quickly to the window and undid the latch, pulling up the lower half of the sash. ‘It sounded like gunshots.’

TWELVE
     
    There was but a cuticle of moon when Bradley Ross approached the ramshackle cottage of Jimmy Oxborrow, the part-time smithy and poacher who had boasted he could get into the estate. He trod carefully, knowing it would be easy to turn an ankle in the darkness. There were no lights showing, no smell of woodsmoke, but one of the looser-lipped lads had sworn Jimmy was living in there. Beer was delivered in pails, apparently, and the odd chicken by well-wishers, and all vanished. Oxborrow was in there. But something had scared him enough so he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
    Ross had to stop to relieve himself. He had drunk several pints of beer at The Plough, just to be sociable. It was thin, flat and warm. Horrible, but necessary. It wasn’t till the third pint of that piss that his new friends had relaxed in his company and chatted as if he was one of