Chapter 2

When they arrived in Boulogne it was as it had been in Folkestone – thousands of troops being herded hither and thither, with shouting Sergeants and Military Police shoving and kicking any that were too slow. The troops were all being driven like cattle towards the rail head, and Brown sought out a small group of more senior officers who were standing aloof from the chaos. McGill trailed after him carrying Brown’s suitcases and his own holdall. “ I’m looking for  Major Heart of the Provost Marshal’s office, ”  announced Brown. One of the officers looked at him.  “You’ll be the detective from Scotland Yard” he said, contempt in his voice. “ I am. And this is my sergeant, Detective McGill.” The officer glanced at McGill, dismissing him instantly. “ SERGEANT!” A ram rod straight giant of a man materialised behind Brown. “ Sah!” “ Take these detectives to the Provost Marshall’s office.” McGill thought he made “detectives” sound like something horrible at the bottom of a cesspit. The giant saluted, then whirled round and marched off at an angle. Brown and McGill followed as he carved a way through the milling crowds, and out into the cold night. Outside he turned sharp right and headed for a building which looked like a small railway station. There were red-capped guards on the door, and the sergeant stamped to a halt in front of them. “ Two detectives for Major Heart!” So saying he swung round again with a clatter and scrape of hobnail boots and marched back the way he had come. One of the redcaps was already holding his hand out for Brown’s papers. “You’re the ones from the Yard then?” he said. 

Brown nodded. “I’ll tell Major ‘eart you’re ‘ere.” He turned towards the door. The other man never moved, though McGill could see his eyes were looking them up and down. The door opened again and an immaculately turned out Major, complete with waxed moustache and swagger stick, stood on the threshold. He proffered his hand. “I’m Heart, and you’ll be Brown. And this is..?” Brown took the hand and shook it. “This is my sergeant, McGill” “ You better come in. Have you eaten?” “ Not since lunchtime.” “Very good.SERGEANT!” “Yessir”  “ Cut along to the canteen and get a couple of sandwiches, then brew us up one when you get back” “Yessir” “ And don’t dawdle’” “ Yessir” Heart ushered them through an outer office where two extremely large redcaps where sitting either side of a wretch who looked half dead and half drowned as well. McGill looked at him. Heart saw the glance, and smiled crookedly. “ I wouldn’t worry about him, sergeant. He tried to desert and my lads had to restrain him.” McGill thought a mouse could have done it, but clearly the redcaps had had other ideas. “ What’ll happen to him?” asked Brown. Heart smiled again. “ Sadly flogging isn’t allowed anymore and we can’t charge him with cowardice in the face of the enemy as it happened here in Boulogne. He’ll get 90 days number one field punishment. And I daresay he’ll either attempt to escape again or attack one of my men, so he’ll get another beating – or two” McGill grimaced. “ Wellington had it right – they are the scum of the earth, “ said Heart as he sat down behind his desk. “ Shut the door sergeant.” McGill obeyed and sat on the chair farthest from the desk. “ Well now, you’ve read our reports?” “ We have, “ said Brown.” Looks as if you’ve done a very thorough job “ Heart smiled again “ so I’ll just have my sergeant 

speak to the people mentioned in the report, and that should wrap it up”. Heart’s smile broadened. He reached for some headed paper and began to write. “This is for my opposite number in Etaples, Major Wylie. You have to go through there to be cleared for the front. Strictly speaking Amiens is about 25 miles from where the real fighting is but it’s still in the reserve area. Once you’ve seen Wylie he’ll organise the transport to Amiens and hand you over to Colonel Berry and his aide, Major Watkins in Amiens. Anything else you need, they can arrange. I understand the General OC in the sector wants to see you. Wylie will tell you when you are wanted.” “ Thank you, “ said Brown. “ I’ll be going to Amiens, but I’ve arranged to see some friends round about. But McGill, here, will be doing whatever is needed.” Heart looked at McGill and raised his eyebrows. Brown caught the glance. “ He’s perfectly sound, and he has my instructions. As I said, we shan’t be taking too long, we’ll just confirm what is already known.” Heart seemed mollified, and addressed McGill. “ You know there are no leads of any description? God knows why HQ  are going on about this – it’s perfectly clear no one is ever going to be caught. We don’t even know who he was or what he was doing there. One body more or less isn’t going to make a blind bit of difference.” McGill nodded. With that attitude, there was little to say. There was a knock on the door, and a soldier appeared with a tray of doorstep sandwiches and three steaming mugs of tea. Heart passed them round, and helped himself to one of the sandwiches. “ In case you’re worried, this tea is perfectly ordinary. It doesn’t have any of the bromide in it we give to the troops.” McGill had no idea what Heart was talking about, but Brown just nodded, and grunted as he bit into the corned beef. Heart looked at his watch. “ You’ve about 20 minutes until the next train. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so to get to Etaples. But it’ll depend on the movements at that end how much longer it’ll take to get into the unloading area. Wylie has a couple of billets for 

you and he’ll pass you on as soon as there’s space. Here are your movement passes.” Brown reached across and took them. “ And don’t forget the number one rule of being out here. Keep your head down and sleep whenever you can – you never know when the next chance will be.” So saying he stood up and reached his hand across to Brown again.     “ SERGEANT!”  “ Sir!” “ Take these two to the next train and see they are settled, then report back here.” “Yessir” Brown shook Heart’s hand and turned to follow the sergeant. McGill picked up the bags and followed. He noticed Heart never even looked at him. It’s as well seeing there are sergeants, thought McGill. Nothing would ever get done otherwise. By the time the sergeant had pushed and shoved the two detectives onto a train, McGill’s senses were swamped with noise and the smell of rank bodies. He felt lots of eyes on them in their civvy clothes as everyone else was in uniform. The train ground slowly along the rails with dozens of trains going in the opposite direction, and at a bend, McGill looked out of the window to see trains following and in front of them. They stopped a couple of times for no apparent reason, then juddered into motion again. Nearly two hours later they were passing the sea on their right, and a wan ray of moonlight pierced the gloom. McGill was suddenly aware of a murmuring and rumbling about him, which grew louder. With a final, exhausted whistle the train pulled into a siding, and the shouting started. Carriage doors were flung open and obscenities shouted into compartments. Grumbling slack-eyed men gathered up their kit and part fell, part stumbled out into the chill, dank night. McGill and Brown had been in an officer’s carriage, and the door was opened by a redcap Major, who climbed into the compartment.  “ Inspector Brown?” Brown nodded. “I’m Brown” “ Major Wylie. Welcome to Etaples!” Brown and Wylie shook hands. “ Where’s your luggage?” Brown pointed to it on the string luggage racks. 

“ Corporal Aitket! Take charge of those suitcases!”  A smartly dressed corporal climbed into the compartment. None of the other officers who had shared the journey had moved a muscle. McGill darted glances at them. They were all afraid, not just of the redcaps but of the war. They sat where they were hoping a few extra minutes of safety might be had. Wylie and Brown dropped out of the carriage, followed by the corporal and McGill. Wylie turned to him. “ And who are you?” Bloody hell thought McGill, those bastards in Boulogne never even mentioned me. And Brown didn’t bother to either. “ I’m…” “ He’s my sergeant,” Brown cut in. Wylie eyed him. “ Ah. I see” He turned on his heels and marched off, swagger stick perfectly positioned under his oxter. The others followed. As in Folkestone and Boulogne, the noise was overpowering with shouts, the noise of trains and their whistles, and the noise of marching men. McGill, who had been stunned by the seething mass of men before, was even more overwhelmed. The brutality and endless swearing made him ask the corporal as they walked along –“ Is it always like this?” “ Twenty four hours a day mate. We takes the new boys in and trains them up. Then we sends them to the front, where they get shot. If they’re the lucky ones, they come back ‘ere to get patched up” McGill heard the bitterness in Aitket’s voice. “ It can’t be as bad as that, is it?” Aitket stopped abruptly and looked McGill full in the face. “ You don’t know the ‘alf of it. We’ve only just finished sortin’ a bloody mutiny ‘ere. ‘ad to shoot some poor sod just a couple of weeks ago. And there’s those as prefer going back to the front before they’re properly fit, rather than stay ‘ere” So saying he marched on, leaving McGill to catch up. They walked for about ten minutes, gradually leaving most of the noise behind, and finally came to barbed wire and sentries. Wylie simply touched his swagger stick to his cap when challenged and the sentries snapped to attention. Once inside the compound, McGill 

could make out a guardroom, and leading away behind it a series of what looked like beach huts. More sentries saluted as Wylie walked up the steps. Inside some redcaps were having cups of tea, but leapt to attention as the small group entered. “ Stand easy”, said Wylie as he crossed to a shut door, knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer. Inside, a tall, thin man was sitting with his feet on a desk, a curl of smoke drifting lazily up from the cigarette he held in his right hand. He was staring at the ceiling. “ These are the Scotland Yard detectives, sir” said Wylie, as he threw a dilatory salute. Makes us sound like pig shit thought McGill. The man behind the desk never moved, and the party stood awkwardly. Slowly the man’s right arm bent, and the cigarette came to his lips. He languidly sucked for a moment then moved his arm slowly back down again. He never took his eyes from the ceiling. “ You deal with it Wylie” “ Yes sir, of course sir” So saying Wylie indicated the others should retreat out into the main area. He shut the door, pointed towards another, and led the way into the room behind. He took off his cap and sat behind the desk. “ Corporal, have you organised sleeping quarters for our guests?” “Yessir.” “ Good. Show them where and what the drill is. We’ll meet in the morning say oh nine hundred -9o’clock?” This last was addressed to Brown, who nodded. Aitket ushered Brown and McGill out of the guard room again and towards the chalets. He stopped at the first one, opened the door, and put the cases inside. “ An orderly will bring you some ‘ot water at oh six thirty hours, breakfast is in the mess the other side of the guard room, and the latrines is out the back door.” So saying he saluted and backed out, indicating Brown should enter. With an inclination of his head, he made McGill follow him further down the line of huts. He repeated the process, and made to leave. McGill put a hand on his arm. “ Stay a minute, chum. Who was the bloke in that room?” Aitket glanced at McGill. 

“ That’s our CO, Colonel Shimpling. Got ‘iself bombed behind the lines at the Somme – never been the same since. ‘e were only a Major then, so they promoted ‘im and gave ‘im Wylie to keep things running smooth, like. Wylie keeps putting in for a transfer, ‘cos he knows ‘e’ll never get any further up the ladder where ‘e is. They ain’t ‘avin’ it though. Wylie’s stuck ‘ere and no mistake. Shimpling ent goin’ nowhere, neither. Makes ‘em both bloody minded” McGill dropped his hand and Aitket looked at him angrily. Then he lowered his eyes and turned away once more. “ Yea well, likely see yer tomorrow. Don’t forget, ‘ot water oh six thirty.” So saying he shut the door behind him, leaving McGill to ponder on how good men could never rise beyond their station. McGill looked around the dingy room. There was a camp bed, a dressing table with a wash bowl on it, a chair and a bedside table. A skimpy towel hung on the back of the chair. There was no fire or heater. A couple of blankets lay folded on the end of the bed and something he supposed was a pillow. Sighing, McGill decided to stay in his clothes. He lay down on the bed, took off his boots and pulled the blankets over himself. He started to say a quick prayer but fell asleep before he could finish. He awoke with a start at a loud rapping on the door and a bellow – “Hot water, Sir!” – made him realise he’d slept without a break all night through. It was the first decent night’s sleep he’d had in a month. He staggered over to the door and yanked it open. A cold blast of air reminded him he had no shoes on. There stood Aitket holding a steaming urn with a towel and a bar of soap. Drowsily, McGill took the items and Aitket stamped off. As he shaved and changed his shirt, McGill reflected on the sudden night’s sleep. It couldn’t be the change of air, he decided. It must be that he was more settled within himself. Instead of mounds of paperwork and being talked-down to by toffee-nosed inspectors who were always swanning off, he was effectively in charge of this investigation. Brown wasn’t going to be around, so McGill felt he was going to be able to conduct it the way he wanted to. For the first time in months he was looking forward to his day. He smiled at himself in the mirror, and thought things could be worse

McGill walked through the cold air back the way he had come in the early hours of the morning. Lights were blazing in the guard room and there were two new smartly turned out redcaps on the door. Their eyes followed him as he sauntered past, slightly exaggerating the casual stroll, something he was able and allowed to do but they were not. He grinned to himself, and thought for the second time that perhaps not being in the army wasn’t so bad after all.  Beyond the guardroom he found the mess, and joined the end of the queue, picking up an enamel plate as he shuffled nearer the food. There was no choice – it was a hunk of bread, fried eggs and bacon, with a steaming mug of tea. He looked round for a place to sit and saw Brown waving to him. He was at a table with a dozen soldiers, all redcaps, and was already smoking. He looked as if he had not slept. McGill sat down opposite him. “ Did you sleep?” asked Brown. “ Yes, sir, very well thank you.” “ Hmmpf! Never had a worse night – dreadful camp bed and freezing cold!” He paused. “ I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do until 9o’clock, so I’m going to take a turn around the camp.” So saying he rose and made for the door. McGill preferred his own company anyway, so that was no hardship. He’d take a turn himself after his breakfast. As he started tucking in, one of the sergeants further down the table spoke to him. “ You’re one of them Scotland Yard characters.” It was a flat statement, not a question. “ Yes I am” “ Think you’ll find out more than us, do you?” McGill paused the fork on it’s way to his mouth, then finished the action and started chewing. He said nothing for a moment or two. There was no point making enemies. “ I shouldn’t think so, no. From what I’ve seen so far it looks like somebody did a pretty thorough job”. There was a palpable lessening of tension round the table. McGill tore a bit of bread from his chunk, and dipped it into one of his eggs. Thorough job my arse, he thought. 

“ It certainly seems all very mysterious,” he added. The sergeant glanced across at one of the other redcaps, then back at McGill. “ We think it was some Frenchie who was trying to rob him when he was drunk. Maybe he came to and the Frenchie offed him.” McGill nodded.”Yes that could be it. Mind you, stealing a uniform isn’t exactly  worth being hanged for.” “Maybe he had money in it.”  McGill shook his head. “If that was the motive, he’d have simply taken the money. Why take the uniform ? Anyway, what makes everyone think he HAD a uniform?” The sergeant blinked. “ Stands to reason. Who else could it be but a soldier?” “ Well, it might even be a Frenchman,” said McGill innocently, forking a piece of bacon, and carefully using his knife to put a few dabs of egg yolk onto it.”… or a journalist..” The sergeant leant back in his chair.” Nah, can’t see it meself.” McGill shrugged.” Doesn’t hurt to keep an open mind though. At least until there are some positive facts to go on.” “ Ah, now that’s a point. There are no facts other than there being a strangled naked man in an empty house.” “ My point exactly,” said McGill as he finished his plate and took a swig of tea. “ We’ll have to see if any turn up. But you’d have to ask why no clothes. It can only be to hamper identification.” So saying, he downed the last of his tea, pushed back from the table, picked up his now empty plate, and headed for the serving area. He put his plate onto a pile of other dirty dishes, and looked back at the table. The sergeant was still looking at him. If I didn’t know better, McGill thought, I’d say he was a suspect. He made his way out of the mess and started walking back towards the entrance to the redcap’s compound. He spoke with one of the guards and said he was going for a short walk. The guard looked at him suspiciously, as if doing such a thing was tantamount to blasphemy, but nodded and waived him through. The one thing everybody seems to know, thought McGill, is who we are and what we are here for. No one had asked him for any form of 

identification at any point, yet simply allowed him to wander about. The antipathy was like a solid wall. He turned left out of the compound. To his right he could see wooden shacks with red crosses on them. To his left the train sidings were already heaving with jostling, pushing troops. On the other side of the tracks were more substantial buildings which he decided must be the HQ block, judging by the cars, guards and the odd red tab. He came to a cross roads. He could see the river and the bridge which led across to Le Touquet. That was out of bounds to most, apart from officers. To the left, the town of Etaples stretched along the river, exhausted by the continual beating it took from the tens of thousands of troops that used it to try to forget. McGill shuddered slightly. He was definitely going off the idea of being a fighting man. To his right he spied a number of white and blue figures flitting along. Nurses! He turned towards them. McGill had been sweet on a nurse once. Abigail. After his parents died and he settled in to his family house as master, he had wanted to bring her to be mistress. But McGill’s life always seemed to interfere with their plans and eventually Abigail told him she was engaged to another. He hadn’t tried hard enough, but he had tried with another girl. Abigail stuck in his mind though and he found himself comparing his new girl to her all the time. Now he felt that he was too set in his ways to ever find domestic happiness. As he walked towards them, their cheery chatter drifted across the open space. McGill stopped and listened. He hadn’t heard anything as carefree in years. In London, people walked around with their heads down and grave expressions on their faces. The whores he used to come across on his beat in the East End were cheerful enough, but with an underlying hard, exhausted sadness to them. Not cheery as these girls were. McGill couldn’t think why they seemed so happy. He started walking slowly towards them again. As he got closer, one or two glanced towards him, their eyes taking in his size and smooth complexion. As he drew level with the door of the hut, an older more substantial woman emerged. “ Yes? And what do YOU want?” McGill raised his hat. “ Good morning, Matron. I’m only stretching my legs after travelling yesterday.” 

“ Hmpf! Well keep away from my nurses. They’ve enough on their plates without being bothered by the likes of you!” As she turned to go back inside, McGill ventured “ They seem so carefree”. The Matron whirled back to him, hands on hips, face blazing. “ And what exactly makes you think that? Just because they are seemingly happy doesn’t mean they are!” “ No, I suppose not – sorry Matron. It’s just – you know – with all the wounded and so on, how do they manage to be cheery?” The Matron glared at him.  “ They have to be or they would cry. These girls have seen things no man ever should. Just you remember that, Mr. Smarmy pants, and leave them alone!” So saying she spun on her heels and went inside. McGill doffed his hat again to her back, and with a “ And a good day to you, too, Matron”, he continued his walk. The sky looked as if it had been punched leaving heavy bruises. McGill had always thought the weather in France would be better than in London, but looking at the clouds he felt sure there was little to choose between the two places. Well, between London and Northern France anyway. He’d heard the south of France where the toffs went in the winter was like a Shangri-La. Looking up, he sighed. This was more like living in Wales than Shangri- La. He and Brown had been sent there recently on a case. Miserable place and miserable people. No one would even talk to them, until McGill befriended the local trollop, another outsider. It was only through what she knew of the community that they’d been able to make an arrest. The skies had been grey and dark the whole time they were there. The sun hadn’t broken through until they had made it back past Bristol. McGill turned away from the river and nurses quarters, in towards where the hospitals lay. There were ambulances coming and going, ferrying wounded from the railway sidings. Bandaged soldiers limped about on crutches as cheery nurses chivvied them along. The conversations were all of “mates” who were no longer there, who’d copped it somewhere to the North East, blown up by a shell, chopped in two by a hail of machine gun fire, or hung up on the wire. There’s no heroism here, thought McGill, there’s only death or survival. 

The Perfect Tonic, during these strange times.

For anyone who might or might not have heard of Baggy Robinson, he is someone who throughout the islands community has gained quite a big fan base, especially through his simple and luscious styles of photography, of The Isles Of Scilly. 

At the moment the Islands are COVID Free. Safety should be first, and that does involve not breaking rules by driving to test your eyesight. Although the perfect tonic is here, some more glorious photographs from Baggy Robinson. 

 

A big thank you to Baggy Robinson. All Images are credited to Baggy Robinson. 

For anyone wanting to see, any of his fantastic photographs, then check out Baggy's Photos 

Introducing "Island Sessions 2020"

As some of you are aware, Thescillyindependent, will be re launching very soon. However fiveislandseye along with Thescillyindependent, are pleased to announce....... 

Island Sessions 2020

A unique series of concerts, live streamed via Thescillyindependent YouTube Channel. 

And here is a quick taster of what to expect. 

More details to follow.

Reputation - Chapter 1: By Douglas Mitchell.

Reputation: 

An Alan McGill mystery 

by Douglas Mitchell 

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. 

ISBN: 978-1-326-19544-1 

For Jane 

Chapter 1 

McGill was feeling the worse for wear. He’d had too many beers last night as he sought to break the cycle of his insomnia. But it had only ended with him getting up several times in the night, and feeling even more depressed. McGill hated his job. He was a detective at Scotland Yard having been a beat constable, none of whom were ever promoted. He was largely treated like a servant. Of course, strictly speaking, Scotland Yard was just one entrance to the building that housed the detectives in London, but the name had become synonymous with the detection of crime .McGill’s simple ways and craggy good looks sat ill with his suave and urbane superiors. He had a good nose for detection, though, and apart from his superior taking the credit, he did derive some satisfaction from breaking a case. He shaved with a shaky hand and dabbed the nicks between the tufts of hair he hadn’t managed to pare. Looking at himself in the mirror, he shook his head. That made him wince, briefly shutting his bloodshot eyes to try to dull the pain. He groaned. The face that looked back at him was handsome in a gentle, manly sort of way, and the usually piercing Celtic blue eyes looked dull and lifeless. The eyes contrasted sharply with his dark hair, supposedly a legacy of the sailors washed ashore in Scotland from the Spanish Armada. In the third year of the war, London was even more grey and depressing than usual. McGill had been transferred from his East End beat to Scotland Yard in early 1915, as the upper classes and university undergraduates got mown down in France. He had liked the East End. He’d lived there most of his life – still did in fact – and he had friends there amongst the thieves, pimps and whores who he saw as real people in need of help,unlike his masters who saw then as scum to be locked away and brutalised. McGill’s parents had come down from Scotland some years before the turn of the century, in Victoria’s reign. There was a distant cousin who had promised his father a job looking after horses, but, as the horse gave way to the motor car over the years, the business had 

suffered. Finally, the two cousins acknowledged that the way forward was smelly and dirty but offered better pay, and they had turned the old stables into a proper garage, looking after the increasingly numerous cars that were more and more replacing horses. McGill had hated the deference his father gave to the arrogant and haughty. It had paid off over time, though, as the business prospered and McGill’s father had bought the little terraced house where he now lived. His mother had been overjoyed and as house proud as any Duchess. Sadly she was only there a short time, dying in the cholera outbreak of 1910. There had been very few deaths in London from cholera that year, but McGill’s mother was one. His father never recovered properly and died within the year. By that time McGill had been in the police for nearly eleven years, patrolling the beat in the East End with his soft accent and gentle eyes, keeping law and order. The cousin had bought out the business from his father’s estate (probably to McGill’s detriment) but he wanted nothing to do with it. He had the house and a nice little nest egg. Now, with the war, there almost seemed to be a truce in crime as everyone did their best to help with the war effort. Of course, houses in the West End still got broken in to, and the pimps and prostitutes were doing a roaring trade with the soldiers back on leave. They were largely being left alone by tacit agreement. McGill really disliked the fact that, because he was 38, everywhere he went he was looked at as if he were a lesser mortal. All because the powers that be wouldn’t let him join up. Sometimes he thought he would just run away to the Front, but he knew he would simply be sent back. He’d never even get to France. The controls on the Channel crossings were fierce – in both directions. At least no one had sent him any white feathers yet. He dressed quickly, pocketing a clean white handkerchief. He shrugged himself into his heavy overcoat and donned his battered brown bowler. It was only November, but there was a distinct wintry feel to the air as he walked to catch the omnibus west. When he got into his cubbyhole of an office there was yet another pile of folders dumped on his desk. He tried to close the door quietly 

so that the inspector in the next room wouldn’t know he was in. As he stepped around the desk, the floor creaked. “MCGILL – IN HERE!”  Sighing, McGill stepped back and opened the connecting door. Inspector Brown looked at him balefully. “What have you got on?” “ Er well there’s a whole lot of paperwork just been put on my desk and…” “Forget that. Ever been abroad?” “ No Sir” “ Well you’re going now.” For a moment McGill’s heart leapt. Maybe they had decided to let him join up. His face must have betrayed him, for Brown immediately grunted. “ You’re going to the front right enough, but not to fight. There’s been a murder, and we’ve been asked to help the Military. Bunch of amateurs.” McGill didn’t know what to think. Normally he trailed along after Brown taking notes and running errands. It would just be the same in France. “ Yes, sir.” “ So cut off home and pack a bag – we leave from Victoria at 3.” McGill turned to go. “ Oh, and McGill…” “ Yes sir?” “ You’ve been made up to Sergeant. Now hurry along.” “ Thank you sir” “ And don’t go thinking it means anything. It just means we’ve no spare sergeants to send to France.” As he shut the door, McGill grunted to himself. It was only because so many had died that he was even in the detective branch. Neither Brown nor the Superintendent thought he was worth a Sergeant’s stripes. By 2:30 McGill was standing under the clock at Victoria Station, waiting for Brown. He had a battered holdall he had borrowed from a neighbour at his feet. There were hordes of soldiers moving to and fro, as well as smart and not so smart ladies. Quite a few glanced at McGill as he stood waiting, taking stock of his bulk and quiet 

confidence.A few minutes later, Brown appeared with a porter in tow carrying two large brown leather suitcases. He eyed McGill and his holdall. “ That all you’ve got? Hmm well I don’t suppose they’d let you in to a mess dinner anyway…” So saying he pointed out the relevant platform to the porter, and followed him. McGill picked up his bag, seething inside. What made Brown so special? He was only another policeman like himself, and not that good at his job either. In the nine months McGill had been with him, it was all McGill’s work that had led to any arrests. Not that Brown saw it that way of course. “ Don’t suppose you’ve ever been in First Class have you McGill? Just remember to keep your feet off the seats.” “ Yes Sir, I’ll try,” Brown looked at him sideways, but McGill’s face was immobile. “Hmmf” They settled into their seats, and shortly before the train was due to leave for Folkestone, four young officers got in beside them. One was a Captain, slightly older, and the others, all lieutenants, deferred to him. One of the Lieutenants had a livid scar on his cheek. McGill envied them their uniforms. But when he looked at their faces he saw the fear in their eyes, even as they joked and made light of where they were going. “ I don’t suppose you have any details of the crime, sir?” asked McGill. “ Not here,” said Brown, glancing sideways at the braying young men. “ On the boat” By the time they got to Folkestone it was already dark, and as they made their way through the huge sheds crammed with soldiers towards the quay, McGill wondered at the numbers. He’d lived in London all his life, but he’d never seen as many people crammed into one place. Military Police were shoving slow movers around and officers were bawling instructions. If this is what it’s like with no Hun shells landing, thought McGill, what’s it like at the front? He shuddered. Perhaps being a policeman wasn’t so bad. Brown had various passes and letters of introduction, and soon enough they were aboard what seemed to McGill to be an enormous ship. They made their way to an area where they could sit, which 

was reserved for officers. The troops sat on the floor, or stood about, and a haze of cigarette smoke hung lazily in the air. Brown took a cigarette out of his cigarette case and tapped the unfiltered end on it. He looked speculatively at McGill. He lit the cigarette and blew the first cloud of smoke upwards. “ Did you never smoke, McGill?” “ No sir – never started. My father smoked a pipe but I never had the urge.” “ More fool you. Where we’re going a bit of comfort won’t go amiss.” He dragged greedily on the cigarette, making it glow bright red. A bit of ash fell off as he took it out of his mouth. “ No sir, I suppose not.” Brown reached down into his attaché case and produced a sheaf of papers. He flung them at McGill, so that some fell to the floor. “ There you are – have a look at that lot.” Patiently McGill picked up the fallen pages. As the ship shuddered to the thrum of its accelerating engines and hooting sirens, McGill put the papers in order again and began to read. It appeared that a young man had been found dead in a house in Amiens. He had been naked and he had been strangled. The house was occupied by a group of young officers who all claimed they were on duty or on leave and had no idea who the young man was, or where he had appeared from. It was one of their number, Captain Percy Miller, who had found the body when he got back from five days leave on the night of Thursday 25th. October. He’d only noticed it because the body was in his bed and covered up, and when he had gone to wake the usurper, he’d found him dead. He’d sent for the Military Police, who took their time arriving, and in fact didn’t appear until the next morning. Miller was mightily annoyed (and probably a little drunk), so had turfed the body onto the floor to get into his bed. There were no clothes or uniform left anywhere, so there was no clue as to the young man’s identity. No one had seen him come into the house. No one had seen anyone leave. There was no sign of a struggle or a break in. There was more on the other people living in the house, but in essence that was it. McGill looked across at Brown. 

“ Pretty pickle eh McGill? The military only asked for our help to cover their own backsides, and when we don’t get anywhere they will be in the clear. I for one don’t intend to take this too seriously. I’ve already arranged to see some old friends but of course you won’t be coming along.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “A few days are all we need. You can go round and re-interview all the people mentioned, and once you’ve got statements from them we can say there are no leads and trot back to the Yard.” He yawned.” So I’m going to treat this as a paid holiday whilst you carry on with the job. And make sure you do it properly.” “Yes sir, of course sir. Only… “ “Yes?” “ Don’t you think we should at least try to find out who the victim was? At worst we could tell his family.” “For God’s sake McGill you must have seen the casualty lists? There are thousands dying and being wounded every day. What difference does it make? Anyway, the military haven’t been able to find out so what makes you think we can?” McGill looked down at the papers again. “ If I was his family, I’d want to know,” he said quietly. Brown sighed, and waved his hand. “ Oh, just do whatever you like. But make sure you don’t get us or the military into any bother – and make sure the statements tally with what is already there. Neither we nor the military want any loose ends.” McGill nodded. “ I’ll do my best sir” “ You’ll do better than that – you’ll do it!” 

Calming and Soothing. For anyone missing the islands.

The Lockdown has been eased ever so slightly. And I will imagine that a lot of people who like to visit The Isles of Scilly, are missing these unique islands. For anyone missing these islands, then some soothing images of the islands are below, for you to all enjoy.

*Credits to Baggy Robinson, for these stunning images. For anyone wanting to see Baggy's photographs, then take a look at his page. https://www.facebook.com/BaggysPhotos

Once again, thank you to Baggy Robinson, for these fantastic photographs. I am sure that this pandemic will be over sooner than a lot of people think. Viruses die out naturally and in effect, burn out. We should all be positive and ignore the news. Look at the positives.

And if you have any images you want to submit to fiveislandseye, then please email: newsdesk.scillynews@gmail.com *All images will be credited.

Update, regarding "Thescillyindependent"

Just a small update, regarding, Thescillyindependent. As you might have noticed, Thescillyindependent has had a slight change, in domain name and it is now the following.

"http://thescillyindependent.com/"

It will be a brand new, online communal news outlet, for The Isles Of Scilly, and will play a central hub and community for islanders, but for visitors and the relatives of islanders who live throughout the UK and abroad as well.

Thescillyindependent, is also wanting to hear from you. Are you an island resident, are you a visitor to the islands? if so then do get in touch at the following. newsdesk.scillynews@gmail.com. With podcasts and YouTube it is now easier to to interact with Thescillyindependent.

And, do write to Thescillyindependent as well, got a message for loved ones, relatives, then again, you can be part of Thescillyindependent.

What else is happening? Thescillyindependent Podcast, alongside with Thescillyindependent YouTube Channel. 

However, Thescillyindependent, will be going live over the next number of days...... As Editor and owner of Thescillyindependent, any updates, shall be posted on here.

Mystical, Celtic and New Age, How Poetry is an Art Form. A Review of "Utter" by David Redfield.

Think of Art, and what is the first thing that conjures with inside of your mind? A painting perhaps? Well the truth is that Art is a broad spectrum of things, from Music, Paintings, Photography and even more. If you were to conjure up a list of art forms it would be pretty endless. But art is also a communication and expression method.

I recently was sent a book, on Poetry, from an author called David Redfield, and for anyone familiar with The Isles of Scilly, he is a very well known figure, with his various poetry projects, that are inspired by these glorious islands.

His poetry collection within his book, "Utter" captivates the magic of these islands, using a unique method of writing, and writing is an art form. Look at examples of copywriting, from big brands and you will soon see that it is possible to use words and fonts as a method of artwork. Poetry is no different and as an art form, with festivals such as the Edinburgh Festival, Poetry plays a big part. Even to Literature festivals such as the Hay Festival. A much loved festival of books, readings and poetry, a truly unique experience within it's own rights.

Utter, is another collection of art, all be it within written form, and it is sheer magic is a prelude, not in music but in words to The Isles of Scilly. Utter Is a unique mixture of poetry that is Mystical, Celtic and New Age. It really is poetry that has been written in a calming and soothing way, it relaxes the mind and even via the reading of Utter, you are transferred to the islands. Even reading the book on the islands you end up on a beach, with the sound of the waves lapping against the shore of these magical islands.

The poetry within Utter, takes you on a journey around these mystical and stunning granite islands, and places the reader on an inter-island adventure in verse and within written words, sheer magic. The poetry reflects and encapsulates these islands perfectly, with the wide open heath lands and rugged beauty of each island. Including the mystical and magical island of St Agnes, with the fantastic poem, entitled "Spell at St. Warna's", which is a homage to the Celtic backbones of these five stunning islands.

Each poem, reflects the times gone by alongside with the ever changing and infamous Scillonian Landscapes, from past to future with the impacts of tourism to the wrecks that surround the islands, and the winter storms.

It really is a book for all seasons, and for each one of the islands. yet it is amazing how poetry, is an art form that we should be discovering more of.

Utter, though is a book of two halves. The first half, being dedicated to The Isles of Scilly, the place which has inspired David Redfield, On his various visits to the islands, a place which has captured his heart. The second half of his book, is observation based upon life and nature which really makes the poetry book, easy to read, and provides the reader with a way for pondering on the natural elements of life on the planet, such as life and the growth of mother earth.

One thing I have discovered whilst reading this book, is that it really is powerful, the way the poems are written is beautifully curated, and sing the song that a sky lark makes.

Pure magic, with Mystical, Celtic and New age feelings, of travel and self discovery, a complex poetry book, which is just truly magical, and I for one can recommend that for anyone on The Isles of Scilly, least not tourists who love the islands, that want to be transported to the islands. And yes it is also a fantastic poetry book, for Lockdown, an escape from reality and a journey of nature and the raw coastal atmosphere that the islands have.

And I urge anyone both on or off The Isles of Scilly, to go ahead and purchase this book, you really shall not be disappointed.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Utter-David-Redfield/dp/1526202727/ref=sr_1_3?dchild=1&qid=1589051230&refinements=p_27%3ADavid+Redfield&s=books&sr=1-3

Finally, David Redfield has been kind enough, to give an interview, about his Poetry and his love of the islands, including his latest project, The Lockdown Renga Project, for The Isles of Scilly, this is an exclusive interview, that is available to listen to, on Spotify, Google Podcasts, Pocket Casts. His interview, will also be on YouTube.

But if there is one thing, Poetry is one of those art forms, that connects us all together, which is something that we all need, to bind us together, through these strange times. And as an art form, poetry really needs to be discovered more, it is quite simply beauty within words.   

And a quick reminder, David is still looking for people to compete in his Lockdown Renga Project, more details can be found below.