The High Sheriff

by Henry Wade

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Sir Robert D'Arcy, High Sheriff of Brackenshire, harbours a painful memory of what he considers his shameful surrender to the Germans in 1916. Gradually he realises nothing is known of the incident and his confidence returns, and he gains in honour and responsibility in the county. Then, out of the blue, a man appears who threatens to reveal the incident - or to keep it hidden, at a price. D'Arcy resists this new enemy, but is handicapped by his own view of his position, his past deed, his family pride. A tragedy occurs, and the Brackenshire police investigate, but are themselves hampered by reluctance to muddy distinguished waters. How is the ageing Chief Constable to face the problem?

Release date: June 14, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 311

Sample

“In the Forward Zone of our defence, thinly held by twenty battalions on the whole front of nearly forty miles, eight or nine battalions entirely
sacrificed themselves and disappeared, but not before they had inflicted very heavy losses on the Germans, and had already begun to wear out many of the enemy divisions. If there had been no
fog the German losses would in all probability have been doubled.”

Gough. The Fifth Army.

“RATIONS are up, sir.”

Company-Sergeant-Major Fellows stood in the muddy trench, his left hand holding back the blanket that masked the entrance to the Company Commander’s dug-out. ‘Dug-out’ was a
courtesy title only, for the tiny chamber was no more than an alcove in the parapet of the trench, its top protected against light missiles by a few balks of timber and a layer of sandbags. So low
was it that, to make his report, Sergeant-Major Fellows had to stoop uncomfortably, and he was no giant.

Captain D’Arcy looked up from the ‘return’ that he was making, and nodded.

“Thanks, Sergeant-Major. Come in and rest a minute.”

The only seat in the dug-out was the bed, a wooden frame on which wire-netting had been stretched and this covered with sandbags and a couple of blankets. The table was a neat affair, about two
feet high, constructed by the R.E. with strict regard to the proportions of the dug-out.

With some diffidence, Sergeant-Major Fellows lowered himself on to the bed beside his captain.

“There’s whisky on the shelf on your left, and a mug.”

Fellows reached for the bottle, held the mug towards D’Arcy.

“You, sir?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had some. Help yourself.”

Sergeant-Major Fellows saw that the bottle was half empty; his quick eye had noticed an empty bottle on the floor but no full one. The company had still twenty-four hours to do in the line; he
himself would soon be back in the transport lines where whisky was not unobtainable; he poured only a splash into the mug and raised it.

“Good health, sir.”

“Thanks; it’s a healthy life.”

The Sergeant-Major’s stupendous gulp was a masterpiece of deception, which was duly appreciated by his captain.

“Sorry to say we lost two men coming up, sir; Laycock and Butler; direct hit from a whizz-bang.”

Captain D’Arcy’s pale face had shown a momentary twist of discomfort.

“You mean . . . shrapnel?”

“Yes, sir. Seemed to burst right on them. Lucky in a way; if it had burst higher it might have got more of us.”

“I’m sorry about Laycock; he was a good chap. Who’s Butler? I don’t know him.”

“Only came up from the base yesterday, sir; fifteen of them, very young mostly. Seemed a nice lad, Butler, but nervous as a cat. Poor devil.”

Captain D’Arcy gave a short laugh.

“Is he?” he said. “He’s out of it . . . and the show just starting. Any news behind, Sergeant-Major?”

“The usual rumours, sir. They seem to think Jerry’ll come over any day now. Lot of movement behind the lines. The Air Force have spotted camouflaged shelters enough to hide thousands
and thousands of men, miles deep. The Quarter heard there was a whole Army Corps massing against our bit of line alone.”

Again D’Arcy gave his short, mirthless laugh.

“Thanks; that’s very comforting.”

Sergeant-Major Fellows hastened to amend his error.

“Divisional Headquarters are quite confident we’ll beat ’em off, sir.”

“They would be . . . back in Achincourt. They’d sing a different tune if they were up here, night after night, waiting . . . waiting.”

There was a note of hysteria in the voice, a flush on his captain’s cheek, which Fellows did not like. He knew well the strain of waiting and wished that he was in his usual place with the
company, but in anticipation of the attack he had been ordered to remain in the transport lines during this tour of duty. Still, for his own part, Fellows thought the scare of a German push was
being over-done; there wasn’t a great lot of shelling, nothing like what the British had put over before their pushes on the Somme or at Third Ypres.

“Been very noisy, sir?”

“No, that’s just what’s so . . . that rather gets on one’s nerves. It’s so damned quiet. What’s their game? They’ve hardly shelled us at all; nothing
more than normal, anyway. What have they got up their sleeves? Is it some devilish new gas? They must have got something. They know they can’t get through us, even here where we’re so
weak, unless they blow us to hell first . . . or something. What about the back areas? Has there been much shelling there?”

“Not on our sector, sir. They say there’s been a lot of gas-shells put into Delcamps on the 99th Division front and the same at Lachvillers, south of us. But they seem to be leaving
us alone.”

Captain D’Arcy sat still, staring at the yellow flame of his solitary candle. His subordinate watched the flicker in his eyes, noted the tiny twitch at the drawn-down corner of his mouth.
The silence drew on till it became uncomfortable, a silence broken only by the mechanical tat-tat-tat of a German machine-gun, the distant solitary ‘crump’ of a shell.

With a jerk, D’Arcy pulled himself back to consciousness of his surroundings, began to disentangle his long legs from those of the little table.

“I must go round the posts,” he said. “You get along down, Sergeant-Major, and have a good sleep. Take care of yourself.”

He placed his hand for a moment on his subordinate’s arm and the latter, to hide his embarrassment, said gruffly:

“I’m afraid that shell spoilt some of the rations, sir; a sack of biscuits and some groceries. I’d got a bit extra; I hope you won’t be short.”

Captain D’Arcy struggled out into the trench and stretched his cramped back.

“We shan’t be short,” he said. “We’ve lost four men ourselves. They don’t worry us much, but when they do they’re damned accurate.”

As if to illustrate his words there came the sudden rush of a heavy body through the air, a shattering roar, a blinding flash. . . .

The two men slowly rose from the bottom of the trench where they had instinctively flung themselves at the first threatening rush of sound. The minenwerfer bomb had fallen about two yards beyond
the trench; even there it had blown in a large part of the parados, filling the trench with earth and broken revetment material, sandbags. . . .

“All right, sir?” asked C.S.M. Fellows, anxiously.

Captain D’Arcy did not answer directly but called to his runner.

“Baylis? Where the hell are you? Come along, man, I’m going round the posts.”

The runner had scrambled out from another ‘dug-out’ a little way long the trench. He dived back for his rifle and helmet.

“Better rest a moment, hadn’t you, sir? That was pretty close.”

Fellows himself felt shaken by the force and shock of the explosion. He knew well what its effect must be upon the officer, whose nervous system was already strained to a dangerous degree.
Captain D’Arcy paid no attention but walked off down the trench, his steps at first shaky and uncertain but gradually coming under control. The Company-Sergeant-Major watched him with an
anxious eye; it would not, he thought, take a great deal more to put the captain over the edge. The trouble was that he had been out too long; he ought to have been sent home for a rest, as many
good men had been sent. He was a good officer, brave enough in action, but in the line, under shell-fire, his nerve was getting shaky; it would be a terrible pity, bad for himself and bad for the
company, if it suddenly went altogether. With this push coming on. . . .

Sergeant-Major Fellows shook his head and started off to collect his carrying party.

The British line on this part of the front was organized in two zones, the Forward Zone and the Battle Zone, the idea being that whilst the garrison of the Forward Zone should
keep an eye on the enemy and check any minor thrust, it could not be expected to withstand a major attack following on massed artillery preparation; this would be the task of the garrison of the
Battle Zone, whose trenches were sited strictly for defence, beyond the reach of the enemy’s normal artillery positions, and well equipped with deep dug-outs and concrete machine-gun
emplacements.

That, at least, was the principle; the practice fell far short of it. The line here had only been taken over a few months ago from the French, who had made little attempt to prepare it for
serious defence. Labour for improving it was scarce and the troops available, whether for defence or for work, were either inexperienced or exhausted by the heavy fighting of the past summer and
autumn. What work could be done by way of improvement was concentrated upon the Battle Zone—which accounted for the lack of deep dug-outs in the Forward area.

The 9th/33rd London Fusiliers, of which Captain Robert D’Arcy, Brackenshire Yeomanry, attached, commanded a company, held a sector of the Forward Zone, three companies in the line and one
in reserve. Each company in the line occupied a quadrilateral strong-point with two and a half platoons, and had in front of this six posts of a section each. These latter represented the
sentry-groups of an outpost line and were sited on the forward slope of the Bartières ridge; the strong-points, on the other hand, were on the reverse slope, from one to two hundred yards
behind the crest, and so were hidden from direct observation. They were at least half a mile apart but were so sited as to give one another supporting fire. With the troops available it was
impossible to hold a continuous line, but it was hoped that these strong-points, prepared for all-round defence, would break up and delay the enemy’s attack long enough to allow for the
effective manning of the Battle Zone.

Apart from its infantry garrison each strong-point had a section of machine-guns; emplacements for these were sited just off the rear face of the strong-point, to fire to each flank, the short
frontal field of fire being entrusted to the company’s Lewis guns. The reserve company, with which were Battalion Headquarters, was to be used to counterattack and recapture any strong-point
which might fall into the hands of the enemy.

This defence scheme, under the circumstances, was probably the best that could be devised, but it was strange to the troops of this English Division, which had always been accustomed to a
continuous front-line system, however sketchy.

This very strangeness added to the state of nervous tension in which Robert D’Arcy and his brother officers awaited the great German offensive which was known to be imminent. D’Arcy
had two subalterns with him, one, Chambers, a boy of eighteen, the other, Durward, a man in the late forties; neither had more than a month’s service in France. The rifle strength of his
company in the line was one hundred and seventeen, of which thirty-five were in the section-posts and eighty-two in the strong-point. ‘B’ Company was on his right, and on his left, he
knew, was a battalion of the Cumberlands, of the 99th Division.

The day after his narrow escape from the ‘Minnie’—the 20th March, according to D’Arcy’s diary, and the last of his company’s turn in the
line—passed quietly enough. A slight drizzle began in the afternoon, the first rain that had fallen for many weeks, and visibility was poor, but as there was no enemy activity this did not
greatly worry the Fusiliers; what the Artillery F.O.O’s thought about it was another matter.

Soon after dusk had fallen the Battalion Commander, Colonel Mannering, arrived at ‘C’ Company’s redoubt and inserted his massive form into D’Arcy’s tiny dug-out.
After a few words on the inevitable subject of the weather and an enquiry about the day’s casualties he said, in the casual voice with which an Englishman cloaks anxiety:

“Division seem to think they’ll come over to-morrow morning early. They’ve cancelled our relief for that reason—don’t want to run the risk of a double lot of troops
in the Forward Zone being caught by the barrage. A bit hard on you and your men, Robert, but they swear if it doesn’t come to-morrow they’ll relieve us without fail to-morrow
night.”

The Company Commander felt his heart sink into the pit of his stomach. He had counted on getting his men out before the attack came. Now they were to be sacrificed . . . out of their turn. It
wasn’t fair. . . .

Colonel Mannering’s calm voice drawled on:

“Personally, I’ve every hope you’ll have a real good shoot. They’ve got no observation on you here; there’s been very little registering; their barrage can’t
be accurate. . . .”

Not accurate! Good God!

“. . . They’ll never force a frontal attack against these redoubts. They’ll try and filter through between and then you’ll catch ’em in flank; our artillery barrage
comes down on the gaps too; you’ve only got to put up your S.O.S. lights. But don’t put ’em up till you’re sure the infantry are coming over. Counter-battery will go on to
the German guns as soon as they open, irrespective of S.O.S.”

Not till we’re sure . . . not till we’ve all been blotted out by the German barrage . . . guns trench mortars. . . .

“You’ve got your full allotment of ammunition? bombs? reserve rations? . . . we may not be able to get more up to you for a day or so when it starts. What about wire . . . pretty
good? Well, I’ll just walk round the redoubt with you. Then you’d better turn in and get a good sleep. They’re not likely to come over much before dawn, but we may all be a bit
short of sleep for some time after that.”

Sleep! With this hanging over one!

“Come along, then.”

Colonel Mannering ducked and lurched out of the dug-out, straightened himself, stalked off down the trench, followed by Robert D’Arcy and their two runners. As he passed from bay to bay
the Commanding Officer had a quiet word with the sentry on the fire-step, the N.C.O. directing a working party, the subaltern going his rounds. Nothing about the coming attack, no heroics, just a
few calm words to show that their Commanding Officer was there, was keeping an eye on things, was not rattled. Wonderful what a sense of confidence men in peril can gain from those few quiet words
from their leader.

Before leaving the redoubt to visit ‘B’ Company, Colonel Mannering drew his Company Commander out of earshot.

“Wonderful fellows,” he said. “Cheerful as if they were waiting for the Cup-tie teams to come out. If you keep them like that you’ll be all right. They’ll look to
you, Robert, when the time comes, and I know you won’t fail them.”

Colonel Mannering looked steadily at his companion, then, rare gesture, held out his hand.

“Good night. Good luck to you.”

Back in his dug-out Robert D’Arcy stretched himself upon his narrow bed, blew out the candle and shut his eyes. The C.O.’s advice was sound enough—sleep! But
how was it possible with this nightmare hanging over one?

The men were all right. ‘Wonderful fellows,’ Mannering had called them. So they were. But they were blessed with an astonishing lack of imagination. When a shell burst near them they
swore, thanked God, perhaps, that it hadn’t hit them, and gave no thought to the next one that might be already on its way. With an officer it was different. Responsibility sharpened his
imagination; he must always be thinking of the future—a future full of danger, with death or maiming as its almost certain end.

D’Arcy pulled his thoughts up with a jerk. He must not let them run on those lines. He believed himself to be no coward. He had been out for more than three years, half of them
with an infantry battalion in the line. He had been over the top often enough and with no more fuss than the next man; frightened as hell, of course—who wasn’t?—but managing not
to show it. But these last few months had been different. He hadn’t felt well. His inside was all wrong. Probably the long-drawn horror of Paschendaele had sapped both his strength and his
‘morale.’ Whatever it was, his nerves were not what they were; of that he was himself only too well aware and he was beginning to be afraid that others might have noticed it. And now
this waiting . . . it was the first time he and most of his comrades had waited for a great attack to fall upon them. He could sympathise now with what the Germans had been through on the Somme, on
the Messines ridge, in front of Ypres. Now the tables were turned . . . the waiting was now for him and for his men, waiting for the unknown. The very quiet of the night was the more unnerving,
only the rat-tat-tat of an occasional machine-gun, the crump of shells falling far back. What did it mean? Surely the Germans could not be coming over without prolonged artillery preparation? Or
was it to be gas? Not cloud gas because the wind was wrong, but gas shells perhaps, or. . . .

In spite of himself, in spite of the tumult of his thoughts, bodily fatigue gradually wore down the resistance of his mind. His thoughts grew blurred. He slept.

Only for an instant—or so it seemed. The hand of his runner shaking him called him back to hateful consciousness.

“Four o’clock, sir. Quiet as anything. Bit thick, though. Brought you a cup of tea, sir.”

D’Arcy dragged himself up into a sitting position, shook himself, swallowed a mouthful of the scalding tea. It burnt his throat . . . but a shiver ran through his body as his mind awoke to
full consciousness of what was before him. Any time now. . . .

When he emerged into the night the company was already beginning to ‘stand to.’ Silently the men took their positions on the fire-steps, their faces tense, an occasional gaping yawn
the only sign of nervousness. During the night a thick mist had gradually collected, lying in the darkness like a heavy shroud that could almost be felt. The officers, staring forward, frowned.
Unless this lifted soon it would be difficult to see even when the sun rose. There could be no wind at all and if there was gas shelling the foul stuff would lie about interminably. Still, there was
no sign of shelling of any sort, except at a considerable distance where some big stuff was being put into a dump or on a crossroad.

Time dragged on, the tension gradually relaxing as nothing happened. Robert D’Arcy looked at his watch; it showed 4.50. He walked round to the back of the redoubt to have a word with the
machine-gunners. They were worried about the fog which might mask their flanking fire; they were looking forward to their shoot, even though there was not one inch of concrete over their heads.

It was getting lighter now, though the sun would not rise for another hour; the wire was visible; good thick wire, fortunately; the French had concentrated upon that.

Five o’clock. Surely if they were coming the bombardment must have begun before now. G.H.Q. Intelligence must be wrong again. A sense of relief began to steal over D’Arcy. If nothing
happened to-day they would be relieved to-night for certain. Of course, if the attack came later they would have to play their part, somewhere in the Battle Zone; that was different to lying here,
waiting to be smashed by the first downpour of shells.

5.10 a.m. How slowly time went. . . .

R-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-P

A harsh, rending roar tore across the horizon. Beyond the low ridge the sky burst into a flash of light.

Wh-i-sh-sh-sh-sh-SH-SH-SH-SH.

A rush of wind screamed through the air, and the horror was upon them.

CRASH—CRASH—CRUMP—crash—CRUMP—CRRRUMP.

All around, the roar of bursting shells and minenwerfer bombs dazed and staggered the terrified mortals upon whom they fell. Columns of earth sprang high in the air, sandbags, timber, limbs,
whole bodies. The scream of a shattered man rose even above the uproar.

D’Arcy found himself clutching the parapet beside his dug-out, his face pressed tight against a pile of sandbags, his teeth tearing at the canvas, gnawing the gritty soil that burst from
them, his fingers clutching madly, trying to drive into the resisting earth.

A hand on his shoulder shook him to consciousness. His runner was brandishing a Véry-light pistol.

“Shall I put up the S.O.S. signal, sir?” he screamed.

D’Arcy clutched at his consciousness, forced himself back to realization of his position, his responsibility. He had had orders about this, some time . . . long ago.

“No,” he shouted, “not till the infantry come over.” . . .