Chapter 3 – Hastings
The blasted wound I had received at Gallipoli in 1916 had actually resulted in two good strokes of fortune. I ended up actually meeting one of my boyhood heroes, the Doctor John Watson himself, he of literary fame, the famous assistant to the celebrated detective Sherlock Holmes. We swapped stories of various military campaigns at my bedside. It really was amazing, how different this dreadful modern war was to those wars of only 30 years ago.
He told me a very funny story about the old red coats the Army had them wear in the old days and said that whilst we wouldn't last 5 minutes in the trenches of France like that, at least the blood wouldn't show.
The second stroke of luck came a month or two later, when I was reunited with my Belgian friend Hercule Poirot, who had fled his native land and was given accommodation in a charming country village not 5 miles inland from the South Coast, near the seaside resort of Walmington-on-Sea. I have written accounts of the Styles St. Mary adventure elsewhere, of course, but I felt it best to give you all some background.
It was getting into the spring of 1917 and the United States had just declared war on Germany, finally entering into the war after three years of fence-sitting.
After the bloody and desperate exploits of Arras, I was granted a fortnight's leave in England. I was on my way to the village of Styles St Mary to visit my boyhood friend John Cavendish and of course, my Belgian friend Monsieur Poirot who, I had last heard, was still residing in the refugee cottages granted to him and his 7 countrymen by the late Mrs Emily Inglethorpe, Cavendish's late stepmother.
My train was half an hour if not three-quarters of an hour late, due to heavy war traffic on the lines these days, moving shells and those newfangled tank contraptions from around the country to the South Coast.
At the sleepy little station of Styles St Mary, I found nobody to meet me. A railway porter, a thin man with a long nose, piercing eyes and dark hair approached me. "Lieutenant Hastings?"
"I am Captain Hastings." I said importantly.
"Beg pardon, sir. I has instructions for you."
"Instructions?"
"The gennelman give me a bob." He said a little churlishly. I handed him a half-crown. "Yer a gent. The gennelman said that he was no longer in Styles but 'ad taken up rooms in Foxbury. Next station up the line. Someone will meet you there, 'e said."
I thank him and re-boarded the train, suitcase in hand, wondering what was going on.
At Foxbury 12 minutes later, I got out in a rather larger station. You could tell it was a more important station than Styles due to the number of platforms which were sheltered from the light rain by metal awnings. There was a slight delay due to a perfect idiot of a porter mixing up my luggage with somebody else's and a dreadful row broke out.
When it was made clear that I was not Mrs Emily Allsop of 3, Chidwick Downs, Putney, and reunited with my own bags, I made my way out of the station into a paved forecourt where numerous motor cars stood waiting, including one dark green motor that resembled a taxicab and its driver stood with a sign with my name on it. He was of average height, dressed in a shabby tweed overcoat and flat cap, and was smoking a skinny cigarette. He struck me at once as a most disagreeable cove. His chin was blue with stubble and his breath positively reeked of onions, stale tobacco and whiskey.
"I am Captain Hastings," I said, tipping my cap to the man, who touched his forelock.
"Good. Been waitin' here for an hour an a 'alf." he grunted.
"My train was held up. War traffic on the line."
"Don't talk to ter me about traffic." he grunted and threw his cigarette on the ground, grinding it into the cobbles with the heel of his boot.
There was something about his eyes I couldn't quite place. During my sojourn last year in the hospital, I had a run-in with one of those terribly clever X-Ray machines that could look inside you and see what state your bones are in. The way this chap looked at you, it was rather like that. I suppose when one picks up all sorts in a cab for a living, one learns how to size a cove up at a glance.
He opened the door and I climbed into a cab that smelled of mothballs and leather polish.
After a rather drab tour of what seemed a very depressing market town through the increasing rain, we pulled up outside an inn, The White Hart.
"I was told to bring you 'ere. Fare's been paid in advance by the geezer inside."
Upon entering the inn, I found a rather dreary lobby with peeling wallpaper and a thin, plump-lipped woman with dowdy clothes greeted me with a haughty expression.
"'Elp yer?"
I told her my name and business.
"Leave yer bags there. Ellen will take 'em up in a moment." She rang the bell on the front desk and a pretty young girl wearing an attractive, tightly-fitted blouse and an apron over her skirts appeared. "Take Captain 'Astings to the parlour, then come back 'ere and take his bags up to Room 14."
The girl bobbed her skirts slightly at me and I inclined my head. "This way, sir." I followed her through the closed bar, filled with a forest of chair-legs from the upturned chairs on the tabletops. Her skirts caused little clouds of dust to swirls through the still air as she led the way. She led me into one of the small private parlours at the far end of the room. She knocked and an English voice bade her entrance. She opened the door, announced me, bobbed a curtsy to the occupant and left us.
I looked at the man sitting in an armchair by the glowing fire. He was a strongly-built man and had a finely waxed walrus moustache, but this was not Hercule Poirot. He was, like me, dressed in uniform and I saluted him at once. He returned it with good humour.
"Good of you to join me, Lieu- that is, Captain Hastings. Congratulations on your recent promotion."
"Thank you sir. It's a great honour, General-?"
He bade me sit and offered me a whiskey and soda, which I accepted, naturally. Fourth rule of military life: Never refuse a gift from a superior officer. "Hannay. General Sir Richard Hannay."
I'm ashamed to say that I rather choked on my drink.
"Good lord! General Hannay! I served under you at Loos a couple of years back. I can't recall receiving a direct order from you personally-"
"Wasn't a general then, of course. Was only a junior officer. But I've heard excellent stuff about you. Heard about your pluck at Arras a few weeks ago. Up to your neck in mud and bullets and yet shooting down a Boche plane to have it crash nose-first in a Boche trench, only armed with a service revolver – damned stirring stuff. Some lads in my HQ canteen are even referring to it as 'The Battle of Hastings.'"
I could only make a non-committal sort of noise and said that it was nothing really. And it really was nothing, not compared to Hannay. I was still in shock to be sitting here drinking whiskey in the same room as the man who brought down a nest of German spies just before the kick-off in 1914. I couldn't help staring at him. I must say, he looked a little older than I had expected, but then again, war does dashed odd things to people. You only have to look at photographs of the King before the war and now to see the toll it takes.
"I expect you're wondering why you're here." Hannay said, looking at me over the rim of his glass.
"To be frank, General, I'm a little at a loss. I'd been expecting to meet my friend Hercule Poirot, the detective at Styles. But the railway porter told me to come here."
"Quite so. Your Belgian pal has been...seconded for the time being."
"I see." I was surprised. "But with all due respect General Hannay, I don't understand. I'm sure that-"
"It doesn't take a decorated general to tell a lowly captain something so trivial?" Hannay smiled at me not unkindly. I must admit, he had another resemblance to my old friend, for when he smiled, he had the same Puckish twinkle in his eye. He was a decent enough cove, I felt.
"For one thing, Poirot's...shall we say, official disappearance, is not something to be made public to just anybody. Top-level decision." Hannay went on, draining his glass. "For another...you're being seconded too."