Blackstone and the Great War by Sally Spencer Read Free Book Online Page A

their crimes as coldly and unemotionally as if they were slicing a loaf of bread. Some walk away from their crime sickened by what they’ve done, and some have never felt happier. The only rule of thumb in a murder investigation is that there is no rule of thumb.’
    â€˜But we’ve already agreed that it was a particularly violent attack,’ Carstairs protested. ‘And if the killer wasn’t enraged, why did he continue long after it must have been obvious to him that Fortesque was already dead?’
    â€˜Maybe he wanted to give the impression of being enraged, even though he wasn’t,’ Blackstone said. ‘Or perhaps he actually was in a fury. At the moment, we’ve no way of knowing.’ He looked around the room again. ‘Have you found the murder weapon yet?’
    â€˜No, we haven’t,’ Carstairs said.
    â€˜Do you know if Captain Huxton’s men even bothered to look for it?’ Blackstone wondered.
    â€˜No, I don’t know, as a matter of fact,’ Carstairs admitted. ‘What I do know is that if I’d been in his place, I wouldn’t have wasted my men’s time on such a pointless exercise.’
    â€˜Pointless?’ Blackstone repeated quizzically.
    Carstairs sighed. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in a trench – in the middle of a bloody war,’ he said. ‘There’s any number of things lying around that the killer could have used. There are hammers, there are shovels – he might even have used the butt of his rifle. Of course, you could look for something that had a bloodstain on it, but given that a German shell fell in this trench two days before the murder – blowing up three men in the process – you’d be very lucky to find something that wasn’t bloodstained.’
    â€˜You said he might have used his rifle butt,’ Blackstone mused.
    â€˜And so he might.’
    Because it was an enlisted man who killed Fortesque, wasn’t it, Blackstone thought. It just had to be an enlisted man.
    â€˜Who has access to this dugout?’ he asked.
    â€˜The officer who is on duty, his servant, a visiting officer, a sergeant making a report  . . .’ Carstairs paused. ‘That’s about it.’
    â€˜Do enlisted men ever enter the dugout?’
    â€˜Of course not! The dugout is the officer’s sanctum.’
    â€˜Is it possible that Lieutenant Fortesque might have summoned one of the enlisted men?’
    Carstairs shook his head, almost pityingly. ‘I don’t know how things worked in your day, Sergeant, but in my army, an officer does not address the men directly, but instead communicates with them through an NCO.’
    Thus avoiding the unpleasant necessity of breathing the same air as a member of the working class, Blackstone thought.
    He’d been right in the assumption he’d made in the command dugout – the army hadn’t changed at all.
    â€˜An officer doesn’t address the men directly, yet, according to your theory, one of the enlisted men did enter this bunker,’ he said to the captain.
    Carstairs laughed at the detective’s obvious stupidity.
    â€˜It would be a serious breach of regulations for a common soldier to enter the dugout without permission,’ he agreed, ‘but given that he had his mind set on a cowardly murder, he was probably more than willing to wave such minor considerations aside.’
    â€˜So the killer checks there’s no one watching, bursts into the dugout, and kills the lieutenant,’ Blackstone said.
    â€˜Exactly!’ Carstairs agreed.
    â€˜Then why was the blow which killed Fortesque delivered to the side of his head?’ Blackstone asked.
    A frown filled Carstairs’ face. ‘I’m not following you.’
    â€˜Didn’t you say that Fortesque was sitting in his chair, facing the door?’
    â€˜Yes, I did,’ Carstairs agreed, puzzled. ‘What