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  The official took the passport and peered at it curiously, then put it down without comment on top of Tom’s sketch pad. Tom realised with a sinking feeling that passports were a newfangled notion that had not yet become current in Serbia, but when he moved to pick it up the man quickly snatched it out of reach. Tom felt panic beginning to churn in his bowels.

  ‘I want to speak to someone who understands English,’ he said, as calmly and clearly as he could manage. ‘I don’t know why I have been brought here, but I’m a British citizen and I demand to see the British Consul.’

  The official looked at him without speaking for a moment, then he said something to the policemen who had brought Tom in and jerked his head towards a bench at the side of the room. One of the men took Tom’s arm and pulled him towards it.

  ‘I want my passport back!’ Tom demanded, and he could hear his own voice shaking.

  There was no response, other than another jerk of his arm. Defeated, he allowed himself to be led to the bench and sat down, comforting himself with the thought that perhaps the official had summoned an interpreter and was waiting for him to arrive. Minutes passed and stretched into an hour. The crowds round the desks changed but did not lessen. Eventually Tom got up and went back to the man who had taken his passport.

  ‘What is going on? Why am I here? What are we waiting for?’

  The man simply shrugged and jerked his head towards the bench. Tom contemplated walking out of the door, but a glance showed him that it was guarded by two policemen. He went back to the bench.

  After another hour a man in civilian clothes entered, spoke to the official and then came over to Tom.

  ‘You are English?’

  ‘Yes, I am. And I’ve been here for over two hours. Do you mind telling me what is going on?’

  The man gestured with his chin towards a door at the back of the room. ‘Come, please.’

  Reluctantly Tom followed him down a dusty corridor and into a room that was bare except for a wooden table and two chairs.

  ‘Sit, please.’

  Tom sat in the chair indicated and the other man seated himself on the opposite side of the table. Tom saw for the first time that he was holding the sketch pad.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘It’s a sketch pad. I’m an artist.’

  ‘Why are you drawing pictures of the city?’

  ‘Because I have never been here before. You have some fine buildings. I like to draw buildings and landscapes.’

  ‘Why this view?’

  ‘Because it makes a good picture. It’s very picturesque. You understand “picturesque”?’

  ‘Why are you here in Belgrade?’

  That brought Tom to a standstill. Did he explain about Leonora’s disappearance? Or did he stick to the story that he was a journalist? He decided that the former approach was just too complicated.

  ‘I’m a journalist. I am travelling with an American colleague, Maximillian Seinfelt. He works for the Baltimore Herald. We are staying at the Union Hotel. If you contact him he will vouch for me.’

  ‘A journalist? You have a press card?’

  ‘I … no. I am a freelance. I don’t work for any particular paper.’

  ‘I think you are lying. I think you are a spy. You are working for the Austrian government, preparing pictures of strategic locations for use in the event of any future hostilities.’

  ‘No! Why would the Austrian government want my pictures? You are fighting the Turks, not the Austrians. Anyway, I’m not Austrian. I’m British. This is all a terrible mistake. I demand to see the British Consul. I spoke to him this morning. Tell him Thomas Devenish is here and ask him to vouch for me.’

  The man looked at Tom for a long moment in silence. Then he said, ‘Turn out your pockets, please.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Turn out your pockets.’

  Tom took out his wallet and his small change, some pieces of charcoal and a pencil and the key to his hotel room. His interrogator collected them up. ‘Also your watch, please.’

  ‘Look, this is ridiculous! Why do you want my watch? How long are you going to keep me here?’ The man simply looked at him and Tom reluctantly parted with his wristwatch. The interrogator got up and moved to the door. Tom rose too.

  ‘Where are you going? What happens now?’

  His interrogator shook his head. ‘Wait,’ he said, and went out, closing the door.

  Tom made to follow him and discovered that the door was locked. He banged on it, overwhelmed by a rising tide of mingled panic and fury.

  ‘Let me out! You have no right to keep me here. I am a British citizen and I have done nothing wrong. Fetch me the British Consul!’

  He banged until his knuckles were sore and he was out of breath but there was no response. Finally he returned to his chair and sank down. Perhaps the man had gone for the consul, he told himself. Anyway, if Max returned to the hotel and found he was not there he would look for him. He would ask at the consulate. Eventually, they would locate him. He tried to console himself with these thoughts, but found little comfort in them.

  He had lost track of the time, but his stomach told him that it was well past lunchtime. Before long, the pangs of hunger were overlaid by a much more urgent need to go the lavatory. He went to the door and banged again and this time a sullen-looking policeman opened it.

  ‘Lavatory!’ Tom said. ‘Toilet! W.C? I need to piss!’ In the end he was reduced to miming and the policeman grunted something and led him down the corridor, where he opened the door to a malodorous lavatory that consisted of little more than a hole in the ground. When Tom had relieved himself, he tried to open some sort of conversation.

  ‘Am I going to be here much longer?’ He gestured to the bare space where his watch had been. There was no glimmer of understanding in the man’s eyes. ‘British Consul!’ Tom said, with emphasis. ‘When is he coming?’ In reply his arm was gripped and he was conducted back to the room and locked in again.

  There was a small window high up in the wall and through that Tom saw the last of the daylight fade. At the sound of the lock turning he jumped to his feet, expecting the consul, or at the very least Max. But it was only the gloomy looking policeman, carrying a tray on which were a tin dish of stew, a lump of bread and a glass of water. The meat in the stew was mainly gristle and fat but Tom devoured it and wiped up the gravy with the bread. He could not remember when he had been so hungry. He had just finished when the guard returned and indicated with a jerk of his head that Tom should follow him. With a leaping heart Tom went to the door but instead of taking him back to the main office the man led him along the corridor, deeper into the bowels of the building, until he opened a door and Tom found himself in what was obviously a cell, a room just big enough for a plank bed with a single blanket and, in the corner, another noisome hole to serve as a toilet. Tom turned to protest but before he could speak the guard slammed the door and he heard the lock turn.

  Tom sat on the bed and put his head in his hands. Only pride stopped him from sobbing like a child. He forced himself to think calmly. No British citizen could be allowed to disappear into a foreign prison without trial or explanation. But then the thought came to him that Serbia was at war, and in wartime prisoners were treated differently. They suspected him of spying. And what happened to spies in wartime? They were shot, weren’t they? But not without a trial, surely. Serbia was not England, but surely even here the law held sway. Why should he assume that Max would trouble himself to discover his whereabouts? They were casual acquaintances, no more. He would probably think that Tom had found his girlfriend and taken her home. Tom curled up on the bed with his knees up to his chest and pulled the single blanket over him. It occurred to him that he had felt like this once before – alone and abandoned. Then he remembered. It was on his first night at prep school.

  He thought he had not slept, but he was suddenly awoken by the sound of the door being unlocked. He sat up stiffly, rubbing his eyes, and realised that daylight was comin
g through the small, barred window. It was dawn – and they shot spies at dawn, didn’t they? As the door opened he began to tremble violently.

  In his terror he was scarcely able to recognise the figure who bounded through the door, hands outstretched.

  ‘My dear chap!’ exclaimed the consul. ‘I had no idea! Whatever has been going on?’

  ‘It’s you!’ Tom responded. He had been near to tears the night before, but now they almost overcame him. ‘I kept asking them to send for you, but I couldn’t make them understand.’

  ‘No one notified me,’ the consul said. ‘Typical of these petty bureaucrats. They enjoy the feeling of having power over someone and they like to make it last as long as possible. You can thank your American friend that we’ve found you so quickly. He wouldn’t rest until you were located, and he wouldn’t let me rest either. But what has happened? How did you end up here?’

  ‘They think I’m a spy,’ Tom said. The impulse to weep was transforming itself into a helpless giggle. ‘I ask you! Me, a spy!’

  ‘But what made them think that?’

  ‘I was drawing one of the bridges. Just sketching, you know. No ulterior motive.’

  ‘Of course not. But you must understand, this is a country at war. Pictures of landmarks like that could be of great use to an artillery commander.’

  Tom sobered up. ‘Yes, I see that now. It was foolish of me. I’m sorry I have given you so much trouble.’

  ‘My dear chap, it is I who should apologise. Depend upon it, I shall make the displeasure of His Majesty’s Government very plain to the people who have held you here. Now, come along. Let’s get you out of this hole. What you need is a hot bath, a change of clothes and a good breakfast.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything more wonderful,’ Tom agreed.

  In the outer office they found Max waiting. He greeted Tom with a hearty slap on the shoulder.

  ‘Good to see you, buddy. You had us worried for a bit there. I was thinking we might be pulling your body out of the Danube.’

  While Tom thanked him, the consul spoke to the police officer behind the desk and he produced Tom’s personal belongings and a form.

  ‘Just sign here, to say all your things have been returned,’ the consul said.

  ‘Can I have my sketch pad back, please?’ Tom asked.

  A look of something close to exasperation passed over the consul’s face, then he turned back to the policeman, who disappeared into an inner room. After a short wait he came back with Tom’s pad. Tom flipped through it and saw that all the sketches of Belgrade had disappeared. Well, that was fair enough, under the circumstances. He thanked the man and pocketed his belongings.

  Outside the police station Tom tried to express his thanks to the consul, but his words were waved aside.

  ‘What are your plans now?’ the consul asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Tom said hesitantly. ‘I’m waiting for a telegram from home. I hope it may say that my fiancée is now safely back there.’

  ‘I’m sure that will be the case.’ Tom could see the relief on the other man’s face. ‘If I were you, I’d head for home too. This isn’t a good place for foreigners at the moment.’

  What you mean is, you want to get rid of me before I get into any more scrapes, Tom thought, and surprised himself by adding, I’ll go when I’m ready, and not before.

  Back at the hotel a telegram was waiting. Its contents were terse and unhelpful. ‘No word from L. Keep looking. Ralph.’ Tom crumpled it in his fist and thought, Damn you, Ralph! Am I going to spend all my life sorting out your problems for you?

  Admittedly, this time it was not a problem of Ralph’s making but he was beginning to regret his involvement with the whole family.

  Tom bathed and changed and over breakfast he showed the telegram to Max.

  ‘OK,’ the American said. ‘So where do we look next?’

  ‘Search me,’ Tom said.

  ‘Look here.’ Max took a map out of his pocket and spread it on the table. ‘The fighting is spread over a pretty wide area. I’ve been getting the latest positions from my contacts here. The Serbian First Army, under Prince Aleksander, is down here to the south. They’ve driven the Turks out of Kumanovo and Prilep and they are currently attacking Bitola. The Third Army is here, in Kosovo. It looks as though their plan is to force their way through Albania to the Adriatic. So if your girls are looking for wounded soldiers to nurse, there will be plenty in either of those places. The other front is over here, to the east, around Adrianople and Chataldzha, almost to Constantinople. What I suggest is this: I’m heading down towards Kumanovo – if you want to tag along, we can make enquiries on the way, and if we draw a blank there we can go on down to Salonika. I’m told the railway is still operating between there and the Adrianople region, so we can head over there and see if we can pick up their tracks. What do you say?’

  ‘It’s very good of you to put up with me,’ Tom said. ‘I don’t want to cramp your style, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Look,’ Max laid a hand on his arm. ‘I can smell a good story here. OK, it may never get to be published, but I want to know what happens. And I reckon you could do with an old hand like me to help you.’

  ‘I certainly can,’ Tom agreed. ‘You’ve proved that already. If you’re happy for me to “tag along” as you put it, I’ll be more than grateful.’

  ‘OK, fine!’ Max sat back with a smile. ‘I’ve got a few more loose ends to follow up here in Belgrade. I reckon I need a couple of days for that. So if it’s OK with you we’ll head south the day after tomorrow. Just don’t go drawing any more pictures while you’re waiting!’

  Chapter 7

  Leo woke with a start from an uneasy sleep as the train jolted to a sudden stop. It was not the first abrupt halt, for no apparent reason. For a day and a night, the train had dragged itself up through bare, uninhabited mountains and down across river valleys that must have been, in better times, fertile oases. Now they had been transformed into a featureless landscape of mud and broken trees, whose contours disappeared into a lowering sky. From time to time they had passed through villages which had been reduced to rubble by the advancing forces. In some, a few shrouded figures picked through the blackened remains, but mostly they seemed devoid of life.

  ‘Where have all the people gone?’ Victoria asked at one point.

  ‘Fled into the mountains, perhaps,’ Leo said.

  ‘Poor souls! In this weather!’ Victoria murmured.

  Now, in the first light of dawn, Leo sat up, shivering. The major had very gallantly allowed them a compartment to themselves, so they had been able to stretch out on the seats. They had brought with them the down-filled sleeping bags that they had used in FANY camp and covered themselves with the car rugs as well, but the cold still penetrated. She peered out of the window and saw a flat, dun-coloured plain with no sign of a station. She yawned and was about to lie down again when the major tapped on the door of the compartment.

  ‘Forgive me, ladies, but this is as far as we can go. The Turks have cut the line ahead to prevent reinforcements reaching Chataldzha. We have to detrain here.’

  ‘Oh God! I can’t bear it!’ Victoria moaned, sitting up.

  ‘Cheer up.’ Leo responded. ‘At least we seem to have arrived somewhere.’

  Muzzy-headed from lack of sleep, they gathered their belongings and scrambled down onto the track, to be met by a blast of icy wind from the Rhodope Mountains to the north. All round them soldiers were descending and the howitzers and machine guns and horses and other paraphernalia of war were being off-loaded, but above, or rather below, the clatter and the shouting there was another sound, a low, continuous rumble that Leo felt through the soles of her feet. Seeking its origin she raised her head and caught Victoria’s arm.

  ‘Look!’

  There in the middle distance was a walled city, its domes and towers and minarets gilded by the rays of the just risen sun, like an illustration from a book of fairy tales. But the walls were surroun
ded by concentric circles of dark lines, one within another, and beyond them were the tents of a vast army encampment. It was from here that the noise came and, as they watched, the scene was obscured by a rolling pall of smoke.

  ‘Adrianople,’ said the major, who had followed them out of the train.

  ‘And that noise is gunfire?’ Victoria asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are the dark lines all round the city?’ Leo enquired.

  ‘Trenches, ours and theirs. Some times only a hundred yards apart, I’m told.’

  Between them and the city a group of horsemen could be seen cantering in their direction. The major shaded his eyes, then turned briefly to the two women. ‘Excuse me. That looks like the commander of the Bulgarian forces, coming to greet us. I’ll introduce you when I get a chance.’

  He moved away and Leo and Victoria watched as the horsemen drew rein beside him and dismounted. When greetings had been exchanged the major shouted an order and the troops from the train began to form up into a column. Then the major came towards them, with a small man in Bulgarian uniform.

  ‘This is General Dimitriev, the commandant of the Bulgarian forces here. General, may I present Miss Leonora Malham Brown and Miss Victoria Langford?’

  The General clicked his heels and saluted and said in excellent German, ‘Ladies, I am charmed to make your acquaintance, but I fear you have had a long and uncomfortable journey for no purpose. Major Dragitch tells me you are looking for some other English ladies who have bravely volunteered to nurse our soldiers. I have to tell you that I have no knowledge of any such ladies.’

  Leo and Victoria exchanged looks. This was a blow.

  ‘We think they are probably at Chataldzha,’ Victoria said. ‘Their purpose is to transport the wounded from the battlefield to the hospitals.’

  The general shook his head. ‘That is impossible. It is our policy not to allow any foreign nationals so close to the front lines. But I have a suggestion. We have our own Red Cross unit here. Perhaps you would be prepared to stay with us and help them. I am sure the nurses will be glad of extra hands.’