Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [50]
“If I wanted England beaten quickly,” he went on, concentrating with desperate intensity, “what would I do? Attack our weakest point . . .”
“Break through at Ypres?” Her voice was a whisper. “With more gas? Drive for the coast . . .”
“No,” he looked at her, shaking his head. “Too costly. We are weak, but we’re far from beaten. The use of gas didn’t work. The men are more resolved than ever to fight to the last yard. It’s a dirty war. They’ll never surrender now.”
“What then?”
“Attrition, but swiftly. Without reinforcements we can’t last long. If I were in the man’s place, I would attack morale at home, cripple Kitchener’s ‘new army’ before it begins. Dry up recruitment.”
“How?”
“That’s the question. If we can find out how, we might stop him.” His face tightened. “I need to speak to Eldon again.”
“What can you say?” Now she was frightened he would betray them, unintentionally. Yet what could he say that the Peacemaker did not already know?
He smiled ruefully. “I have no idea,” he confessed. “I . . .”
Before he could finish his sentence there was a sharp knock on the door and as soon as he answered, Hadrian came in.
“Is Colonel Fyfe here already?” Cullingford asked unhappily.
Hadrian was acutely unhappy. He was as immaculately tidy as always, but his face looked crumpled and he jerked his tunic down absentmindedly.
“No, sir, Captain Reavley, the chaplain from the second division. He says it’s urgent, sir. I . . . I think you should see him.”
A little of the color ebbed from Cullingford’s face.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Hadrian said with intense gentleness filling his eyes, and confusion, as if several emotions twisted inside him at once.
Unconsciously Cullingford straightened his shoulders. “Ask him to come in.”
“Would you like me to leave, sir?” Judith asked. She desperately wanted to stay. Whatever it was, she would learn of it sooner or later, why not now? Or was privacy kinder?
There was no time for him to answer. The door opened again and Joseph came in. He was thinner than the last time she had seen him, his face gaunt under the high cheekbones. He must have been aware of her, but he gave no sign, facing Cullingford squarely.
“Captain Reavley,” Cullingford acknowledged. “What is it?”
“I’m extremely sorry, sir,” Joseph said levelly. “But I have to tell you that Mr. Eldon Prentice, a war correspondent with the London Times, was killed in no-man’s-land the day before yesterday. Colonel Fyfe asked me to tell you personally, since we believe he was closely related to you, rather than inform you in dispatches. He was buried with the other soldiers who fell that night, but if you believe his family would prefer his body to be shipped home, it could still be arranged.”
Cullingford frowned. “The day before yesterday, you said?”
“Yes, sir. He was found in no-man’s-land. I brought him back myself. I hoped that I would be able to tell you why he was there, and what happened to him, but I’m afraid I don’t know yet.”
“Yet? You expect to?” Cullingford was still confused, stunned by shock. He had heard of or seen the deaths of thousands of men, an average of a score a day, but it was still different when it was someone of your own family. The fact that one did not especially like the individual was irrelevant. It was blood that stirred the loss, the emptiness in the pit of the stomach, nothing to do with affection.
“I intend to, sir,” Joseph said calmly. “It was extraordinary for a newspaper correspondent to be in the forward trenches at all, he should never have been in no-man’s-land.”
“No,” Cullingford agreed. “It was a breach of discipline, but his, Captain, not the army’s. If the army writes to his mother, I would be grateful if you did not make an issue of that. He was . . .” He stopped. He had been about to ask for emotional privilege, and he despised it in others. It was unprofessional. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “There is no need to ship his body home, any more than any other man’s. Flanders clay is an honorable