Page 18 of No Man's Land

Leaning forward on his elbows, Josef said, “You stole my camera.”

Another pause. Alex hadn’t moved from his position by the door, and Josef couldn’t help but notice he looked less self-possessed than usual. Despite his dapper appearance, he had the air of a cat on hot tiles. “I did,” he agreed. “And for your own good. They’re forbidden at the front, as you well know. I’d have hated to see you shot as a spy.”

“A spy?” Josef laughed, then lowered his voice. He didn’t want Mr Cohen to hear them and come back downstairs. “You don’t think I’m a spy.”

“No. I think you’re a photographic journalist who contributes to that socialist rag, theDaily Clarion, which is vehemently anti-war. And that would probably have been enough to get you shot had you been found in the line with your Box Brownie.”

“It was an Autographic Vest Pocket Kodak. And it cost me a pound and ten shillings.”

“It might have cost you your life, had you kept it.”

“Bollocks.” Slipping off the stool, Josef came around to the front of the counter. He wished he wasn’t wearing his apron—didn’t like how it put him in the subservient position—but he’d be buggered if he was going to untie it. “I was taking pictures of things you wanted to hide, wasn’t I? That’s why you nicked it.”

Alex’s face was studiously neutral. “I don’t know what you were—”

“Come off it. It had something to do with that boy who clicked it at the dressing station. And with whatever caused his wounds.” He held up a hand when Alex opened his mouth. “Don’t even think of denying it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” He crossed the shop to the counter, setting down his hat and pulling off his gloves one finger at a time. Josef made himself look away from that little striptease. “I understand you were at St. Thomas’s Hospital yesterday evening.”

Startled, he said, “Are you following me?”

“Only a little.” Alex smiled, again without humour. “You happened to run into a friend of mine—Lady Charlotte.”

Lottie, the ambulance driver. “Bloody hell, are you lot everywhere?”

“Hardly.” Setting his gloves in his hat, he turned to face Josef. “Let’s chalk that up to serendipity, shall we? But the point is that you need to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

Josef spread his hands. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re poking your nose into matters that don’t concern you.”

“And why don’t they concern me? I’ve as much right as the next man to know if the government’s unleashed killer rats or—”

“Killerrats?” This time, when Alex’s lips twitched, it was with genuine amusement.

Josef felt his cheeks heat. “Not my theory,” he said stiffly. “But if it’s some kind of gas or…or infection—”

“No.” Alex waved him silent. “It’s not… I’m not…” He struggled inwardly, glancing up at the ceiling as if pleading for strength. “I don’t work for the government.”

“Riiiiiight.” Josef folded his arms. “’Course you don’t.”

“I don’t.”

“According toWho’s Who, ‘Lord Beaumont’ works for the War Office.”

His eyebrows rose. “You…looked me up inWho’s Who?”

“Dunno. You tell me.Areyou Lord Beaumont, or are you Captain Winchester? Or someone else entirely?”

Silence.

“If you don’t work for the War Office, then what were you doing in the salient?” Josef took a step closer. “Are you really with the RAMC? Are you even a doctor? What caused the wounds on that boy, and why is it killing men in London? Who’s the man you—?”

Alex seized him abruptly by both shoulders. “Stop.” His expression was cool, but his eyes flashed, his grip fierce. Josef felt his skin prickle all the way up the back of his neck, little electric jolts of awareness. “All right. You win. Yes, I work for the War Office. We're investigating a new...” His gaze flicked away and back. “...a new infection. It’s broken out among the men.”

---