The Pipe Smoker's Cut

By Glenn Muller

It is not the ghost that haunts, but the legacy that's left behind.
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To me he'll always be Jeremy 'the bastard' Asquith. From the time we met as roomies at Cambridge, the chap was a cad. He had the looks, the attitude, and the money - at least until he blew his monthly allowance on dice and cards and had to cadge a loan off me for pipe tobacco. If he calls you Old Bean, while shaking your hand, best count your fingers.
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The Great War put an end to our college days, and we next met in the trenches: me as a journo with a camera, he as a corporal with his ever-present pipe and a dark side that even The Somme couldn't mask. Our reunion was short-lived - I left the field hospital in time to stand at Asquith's grave while an army padre delivered a hasty service. I returned to Blighty with a small bag of personal effects for his family. A simple task, but I was soon to learn that bad things also come in small packages.
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Since then, I've run across Bolsheviks, treasure, and spies, as well as murder, revenge, and lies. I could be onto the scoop of my life. That is, if Asquith's legacy doesn't kill me first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glenn Muller
• Release date: Mar 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781777267377

Glenn Muller

Glenn Muller was born in New Jersey, USA, then spent his early years in England before emigrating to Canada where he would attain Canadian citizenship.After jobs in hotel administration, driver education, computer applications, and bookkeeping, Glenn started his own successful bookkeeping business. Writing, of course, he’s always done for love, not money. Though money is always politely accepted when offered.Chas Fenn, the protagonist in his debut novel, TORQUE, was inspired by the twelve years he spent as a driving instructor, and would appeal to fans of The Republic of Doyle. The sequel, JACKLIGHTER COPSE, was written in response to the demand for another book featuring Chas Fenn and Detective Inspector Evan Lareault. His other novel, BOOMERANG, was influenced by a life-long interest in Space exploration and would appeal to fans of Clive Cussler, Lynwood Barclay, and Michael Connelly.Although his genre is thrillers, Glenn natural sense of humour bubbles to the surface, prompting readers to describe his books as “fun-packed” and “just plain awesome”.

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The Pipe Smoker’s Cut

Glenn Muller

Copyright © 2024

Uncorked Ink Press

ISBN 978-1-7772673-7-7

0313240

Licence Notes

This book is licenced for your personal enjoyment only. Except for brief passages embodied in reviews or non-commercial uses, this book may not be reproduced in any form without prior written consent of the author. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase them a copy. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then please visit your favourite retailer and purchase a copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to ‘train’ generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to licence uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Licence Notes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Author’s Notes

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Books by the Author

The finest trick of the devil is to convince you that he does not exist.

Charles Baudelaire

A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.

Alfred Tennyson

Chapter 1

How could it not be romantic? A river punt, a picnic basket, a pleasant summer’s day. Warm air to bear the fragrance of wildflowers and the musical trills of birdsong as swallows swoop down from the sky to skim inches above the glassy plane.

Attired in my white linen suit, deck shoes, and straw boater hat I stood upon the rear deck and poled the waterway with practiced ease–the practice having come last week with varying results. Today, however, I gave confident nods to other couples on the Cam as we slid beneath the Bridge of Sighs and glided past Wren's Library and then King's College.

My companion, in her elegantly embroidered cream dress with the high neck and tight waist, slowly twirled her parasol and took in these sights whilst I barely glanced at anything but her. Her long lashes and pink lips. Her blue eyes and blonde locks. Her tiny perfect ears from which dangled tiny perfect pearls.

Beyond the famous landmarks the river traffic thinned. Along the bank numerous trees offered shade and a certain amount of privacy for our luncheon. Our wicker hamper held dainty egg and watercress sandwiches, grapes, biscuits, and pate de fois gras. All to be washed down with a chilled bottle of Chablis. Anticipating those and other delights to come, I poled toward a particularly large willow.

Quite chuffed with my newly-acquired punt-handling skill, I got the bright idea to anchor a few yards out beneath the overhanging limbs. That way, we could eat on the boat and avoid disembarking. I would simply plant the pole in the silty bottom and tie the punt's painter to it. The silt was more like clay and firmer than expected, so I leaned over to put more of my weight on the pole.

The extra effort sank the pole, but also pushed the punt away.

Hands on one, toes on the other, my position became untenable. Either I flopped into the water or made a desperate leap for the pole. I chose the latter and clung to it with knees up to keep my espadrilles dry. Having abandoned ship, I could only watch helplessly as the delectable Miss Amelia Hudderson-Tate began to float off with the current. Whilst one lace-gloved hand clutched the parasol, the other covered her mouth. No doubt to conceal her astonishment, or perhaps it was laughter.

Even at that point, with Miss Hudderson-Tate's discretion for surely refined ladies don’t gossip, I might have escaped with some semblance of dignity had not my closest collegiate chum, Jeremy Asquith, happened to drift by with a pretty lady-friend of his own.

Lanky and athletic, dark-eyed and dark-haired, his cultured speech and refined manners could charm the fur off a mink, the knickers off a deb, or five quid off a fellow student – ‘just 'til next Thursday when I get my packet'.

I’d once overheard him tell a damsel he was a nephew of Herbert Henry Asquith, our Prime Minister at the time. He gave me the wink and I stayed silent, aware that Herbert Henry had no brothers, and was from the northern county of Yorkshire, whereas Jeremy’s roots were nearer to London, in Wildhamshire. We’d roomed together since the beginning of term, so I knew how easily such tales rolled off Jeremy's tongue.

Therefore, I was hardly surprised when rather than rescue his roomie from a dip in the brine he simply removed his briar pipe and said, Could you point me in the direction of Oxford, old bean?

I tried to be blasé about the whole thing and vaguely pointed downstream with one hand, only to lose my grip with the other. I needn't paint the consequence, only that I splashed and squelched sheepishly to shore much to the amusement of the bastard Asquith and the two pretty mademoiselles.

Still, the setting had been idyllic, and so far-removed from the shell-cratered French cow pasture where I now lay bloodied and broken, that I attribute its recollection to the ungodly combination of morphine-sulphate and shock. Shock from the shrapnel gash on my forehead, blood from which had closed my left eye. Shock from my shattered left leg with bits of splintered shinbone poking through the flesh. And shock from seeing another soldier's innards splayed across my lap.

Desperate to quell the agony from my wounds, I'd rummaged until I found the dead man’s vial of painkiller which I injected along with my own. He no longer needed it, and near to the edge of oblivion I was almost past caring.

I heard a single gunshot. Had to be nearby since my eardrums rang dully from the shell blasts, but the sharp report had the finality of an execution. The next bullet could well be for me. With the drug rushing on I lay back and tried to conjure up a better memory, perhaps one of my mother in her garden, but the best I could do was wonder why I'd ever thought it wise to bring a Kodak camera to a gunfight.

Chapter 2

It became known as The Golden Summer, those few halcyon weeks of 1914 before the Great War scorched the last shreds of Victorian gentility along with much of Europe. Up until then, my myopic worldview encompassed little more than sport, amateur theatrics, booze-ups, and the pursuit of the elusive debutante. None of which had contributed to my first year of archaeological studies, the main reason I'd been let off the parental leash. Freshman years are renowned for being educational in a broader sense, and I soon found it easier to navigate the gaslit Cambridge streets, while paloothered, than to find my way to a lecture hall. A trend that would cause a fair bit of anxiety come exam time.

I could hardly blame my fraternity mates, a collection of mostly privileged young men whose future was virtually assured no matter how the school term went, for I often led the way through the tavern door. As much as I enjoyed sloshing ale and barber-shopping, 'Come, Josephine, in my flying machine', those base distractions would soon pale next to my new obsession. Photography.

Now it could be argued, and I did, that archaeologists had begun to supplement dig diaries with photographic records. And that might have worked except the focus of my passion seemed to be on anything but fossils and relics. Whenever the light was good, I'd point the lens of my old Goertz Ango camera at anything that would remain still, and when the light was poor, I'd be in a darkroom teasing images out of the exposed plates.

The upshot being that my self-taught knowledge of apertures and focal lengths was of little use when the test questions wanted answers like Mesolithic and Piltdown Man. So, while I won't suggest my professors decided to join the rank and file going to war, rather than refuse my tuition for another year, it does seem coincidental that we all left those hallowed halls at the same time.

Once I became of enlistment age it was expected, as a matter of course, that I heed the patriotic call. That I wasn’t British precluded me from Lord Kitchener's conscription, though it bears mentioning that mater's threat, to ship me back to Virginia sans allowance, also kept me from volunteering. Born under the Stars and Stripes, my parents and I had come to England when my father became a director of British American Tobacco, the name of which makes its business self-explanatory.

Just a babe when we left the States, I said my first words in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean aboard the SS Ivernia. My subsequent speech soon became infused with what one might snobbishly describe as an upper-crust London accent. So, it now followed that anyone I met in a fleeting day-to-day occurrence would take me for an entitled Englishman. One who had wrangled an exemption from active duty. The looks or comments that followed were often none too pleasant.

Back ‘home’ a half-century had passed since the American Civil War abolished slavery across that nation, yet the so-called Southern States retained their overt first-class and second-class distinction, mostly based on skin colour. My family history regarding this issue was somewhat complex. My paternal grandfather had been a major on the Confederate side. He died shortly after the cessation of hostilities, his wife pregnant with my father. When my parents, Preston Turcotte and Dahlia Culver, married in 1891 and thereafter jointly ran the family farm, emancipation was in full effect. Nonetheless, I firmly believe both were sympathetic to the Negro as they did name me Daniel Lincoln Turcotte.

I mention this because the ingrained British social division, between upper and lower classes, is much subtler and one my parents hardly took notice of. This meant my departure from the prestigious Cambridge halls would cause barely a ripple at the old homestead. That is, as long as I made something of myself within a reasonable time of leaving.

Rather than return to Wildhamshire, and relinquish some of my independence, I moved to London where an allowance afforded me a small apartment in the Horbury Mews. To deal with the ever-present patriotic vitriol against young men out of uniform I started wearing an old trench coat and faking a limp. When the cane proved cumbersome, I ultimately settled on an eye patch. More convenient when out shopping, and it left both hands, and the other eye, free for camera work.

Wary of appearing nepotistic, I declined a post with my father’s firm and took my portfolio to a London daily newspaper in need of an artistic eye and film-development skills. This was March of 1915 and I had acquired an Autographic Kodak camera, one that used the new film roll format. Much easier than messing around with a satchel full of plates. I accompanied journalists to boat christenings, weddings of nobs and celebrities, various disasters, presentations, and some of the more newsworthy crimes. For the latter, I would also freelance for local constabularies if their own shutterbug was unavailable.

Hard as I tried, my attempts to get pictures of German Zeppelins bombing London were unsuccessful. The best I could do was capture fire brigades dealing with the aftermath. The war abroad ground on with battles won and battles lost, the good news always tempered by the bad. Or at least by what one learned by reading between the lines. And though we all put on a brave face it was hard to foresee the end. I continued to image domestic British life, and won the odd award for it, until the summer of 1918 when the newspaper's generals decided to promote me to the front lines. Saint-Quentin, in Northern France, to be specific. More commonly known as The Somme.

By this time, I'd been dispatched to several veteran's hospitals, and spoken to enough returning, often badly damaged soldiers to have lost my ardour for meeting the enemy head-on. But the assignment promised adventure so, with the false sense of invincibility a camera lens imparts, I agreed to go.

I broached the subject with my father and received a non-committal ‘I see’, his way of deferring such matters to his wife. To pacify my mother, I said my job would be documenting scenes of liberated villages, well behind the action: how the residents were rebuilding their lives, that sort of thing. To maintain this illusion, for I knew she’d scan the paper, I'd have the editors credit such images to D. L. Turcotte, while other shots submitted from anywhere near the trenches would be attributed to a Donald Caverly, my new nom de guerre.

With little more than appropriate clothing, an extra camera, and a tin hat for protection, I was soon in France shooting stark accounts of the tragic life and violent death within that mud and blood-stained land. Heartbreaking were the hordes of families without homes, children without parents, and communities without hope.

The paper had also sent journalists, whom I rarely met. Since specifics would be redacted by war-office censors, the editors just married my pictures to whatever homogenized text was sent back by the scribblers. I considered myself fortunate to have arrived just as the Allies broke the deadly logjam of trench warfare. Battle lines now became fluid as attack was met by counterattack. Land was taken, lost, then re-taken as the Allied offensive gained momentum.

I hooked up with a reserve unit and it was during one of these back-and-forth’s that they went forth and I went back. All the way to Paris accompanied by a sore throat, dry cough, and a high fever that gave me chills one minute and then the sweats. It was a headache and bouts of dizziness that had sent me to a medic. I began to shiver in the waiting room and was diagnosed with ‘some sort of flu’. He gave me a dose of powder to mix with water, and suggested I stay in my cot for a few days. The Aussie journalist I shared a tent with took one look at my watery eyes and shaking form and told me to get the hell out of that damp environment.

The army won’t look after you, mate, he said. You ain’t one of them, and don’t have to stick around for them. ‘Sides, your paper is responsible for your welfare. Get back to Gay Paree and check into a hotel. A good soak in a hot tub’ll set you straight.

The ride to Paris was pretty much a blur interrupted by bouts of coughing, which at least served to get me some elbow room on the overcrowded train. After consulting with my cab driver, I checked into the Hotel Scribe. There, after the first of many hot baths, I let the paper know I’d be back at the front once the room stopped spinning and I got my appetite back. It would be five days before I ventured out. Even with its monuments sandbagged and night lights extinguished, in case of bombers, Paris remained one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I wandered the streets marvelling at the architecture and soaking in the cosmopolitan atmosphere.

With the arrival of American troops the tide turned and the Allied Front began to take some meaningful ground. Now well enough to make my own advance, I had the paper arrange my re-attachment to a British unit and was soon embedded with a battalion on the far-left flank of the main thrust. One wet morning, hoping to get some periscope shots across no-man’s land, I was surprised to bump into none other than Jeremy–the bastard–Asquith. The bump was actually more like a shove, as he pushed past me within the narrow confines of a trench that the troops had christened Park Lane.

Get that damned shutterbox out of my way.

Jeremy?

The sound of my voice caused him to stop and turn around.

Turcotte! What are you doing in this shite hole, you silly bugger? And with that thing. He jabbed a grimy finger at my camera. Not spying for the Bosch, are you?

Actually, yes. Fritz wanted some snaps of Brits on holiday, so I came here.

My old roomie laughed and opened his arms. Standing in muddy ankle-deep water we embraced like long lost brothers. A step back to take each other in. The three years of war had put a Corporal’s stripes on Asquith’s sleeve but, otherwise, had not been kind. Weathered, worn, and weary, the man looked like he'd been put through the wringer before the washer. When he turned away to light his old briar pipe, I could see his hand shake involuntarily. Nonetheless, his earlier annoyance forgotten, he delighted in regaling his squad with the tale of me and the punt pole.

The enemy had been in steady retreat for the last fortnight and Asquith's squad, essentially a scouting party, made daily forays in advance of the main force. Early one drizzly morning, Asquith sought me out.

Like to come on a little reccy mission, old bean? The Hun's on the run so should be a walk in the park.

Thanks to the constant shelling from our side, of numerous targets on their side, I’d had very little sleep, but I threw on my boots and grabbed my helmet and camera.

Our party of six was to survey the result of last night's barrage on a non-descript piece of farmland that was bordered on one side by a large woodlot. The site had seen earlier battles and we passed many a bloated corpse and rotting carcass of man and horse, along with destroyed vehicles and other artillery pieces. While Asquith checked his map, I took pictures that wouldn’t make the paper but would interest the war department. The others casually poked among the enemy dead for souvenirs, as if looking for pretty shells on Brighton Beach.

Apart from the odd crow perched upon a ghastly meal the only other sign of life came from a nearby farmhouse. Although the barrage had blown out all the windows, a farmer and his wife emerged cautiously from its cellar to collect whatever eggs and vegetables might have survived. We were perhaps a mile from the main body of our unit when small puffs of smoke rose from behind a distant hill. The sound of the large guns arrived milliseconds before the first shells exploded in our midst.

Shrapnel quickly claimed two of our party: one had his leg severed at the hip yet tried to drag himself beneath a burned-out truck; the other, a corporal like Asquith, was slow to duck and died instantly when his face disappeared in a spray of bloody gore. Asquith, who'd wandered some distance from us was not to be seen but it was now every man for himself. The remaining two troopers and I ran hell for leather toward an old slit trench. We were just yards from diving in when the next shell dropped beside us.

The concussive blast blew us into a heap, and I felt intense pain in my forehead and shin. One sliver of hot metal had cut the chinstrap to my helmet and nicked my scalp. Another chunk of jagged steel shattered my tibia a few inches below the knee. I might have had other injuries but was so dazed they didn’t register. In fact, it was several moments before I gathered that I’d been more fortunate than my companions.

The chap I'd landed on had practically been decapitated, yet his hand twitched eerily against my thigh. Worse yet, was the poor bloke on my other side. Taking the brunt of the blast, his body had shielded mine. It had split him open and splayed his innards across my lap. Mercifully, he too had died instantly. However, the gory sight of that unfortunate soul is one that continually disturbs my sleep.

Chapter 3

At five foot six, one hundred and thirty-eight pounds, in boxing circles I'd be classed as a lightweight. I’ve never boxed but am firmly in that class where booze is concerned. Four beers or a couple of stiff whiskey sours and my world starts to go off-kilter. So, prone and concussed in the mud, forehead gashed and leg shattered, the shock coupled with twice the recommended dose of morphine sulphate had rendered me catatonic.

I’ve been told that the medic who saw my blood-smeared face also mistook the intestines across my lap for mine. He would have left me for the burial party had I not blinked when he loosened my collar to collect my tags. Having none, only a press card in my breast pocket, delayed him just long enough to notice my slight facial twitch.

My first solid memory after the blast is of a hospital tent well behind the lines, a few days later. There was a cast on my leg and enough bandage about my head for a decent turban. The men on either side were unfamiliar, and it was from a padre I learned that I was the only known survivor of the scouting party. Corporal Asquith, he told me, was among the confirmed dead. I couldn’t recall seeing Asquith die, so it may have been what spurred the memory of us on the River Cam. Perhaps I’d been mentally saying goodbye.

He said that one trooper remained unaccounted for. While he hoped the soldier had simply run off and not reported back, a direct hit from a fifty-two-pound shell can also make a man disappear. The man wouldn’t have been captured since our own artillery had quickly silenced the enemy guns, followed by a rapid advance by friendly units.

Since months of entrenchment had turned no-man’s land into the worst kind of meatgrinder, logistics dictated that bodies recovered from either side were usually buried nearby. If dog tags were found, then the families would be notified in due course. The padre planned to hold a small memorial near the internment site for the benefit of their fellow soldiers. I was welcome to attend if I could.

Apart from feeling stiff in all my joints, and the occasional headache, I was able to move around with the aid of crutches. The doctors were only too glad to have me vacate the cot since the new offensive seemed to send soldiers back almost as quickly as it sent them forward. As such, I had no problem finding an ambulance to ferry me up to the padre’s makeshift alter for his service. There was a small burial plot with several rough crosses at the edge of a wood. I found Asquith’s name on one and stood, somberly, trying to recall details of his family. Apart from mentioning a sister, he didn’t really speak of them much. His father might have owned a hat factory.

The service was short, and the men were silent except for when we sang a hymn. Afterward, the padre came to where I’d perched upon an empty ammunition box. He handed me a small packet.

Seeing as you’re going back to Blighty, Corporal Asquith’s family might like to have these few items.

Inside were Jeremy’s dog tags, paybook, a few coins, a photograph of a rather winsome young woman—With Love, Lydia on the back, and his watch. I showed the padre the picture and we both smiled sadly. Putting the picture back, my fingers probed among the contents a bit more. The padre must have noticed the slight puzzlement on my face.

What?

Oh, nothing really, I said. It’s just that Corporal Asquith’s pipe and tobacco tin are missing. Never went anywhere without them.

The padre gave a shrug. Chances are someone on the recovery team was a smoker.

I thought back. Jeremy did have the pipe clenched between his molars when we were shelled. It was likely in the mud out there. The padre had me remain seated while he located an empty resupply truck returning to the rear. The noise inside the vehicle discouraged small talk, so as we travelled in silence I thought of what I really knew about the chap I’d roomed with in Cambridge.

A natural athlete who lacked the dedication required by rowing or cricket teams, he would beat most people at tennis especially if there were a bob or two in it. Brighter than his grades would suggest, he’d put a modicum of effort into his criminal law studies, passing yet not standing out as he might have. An agreeable roommate, his gramophone usually played the latest trend: something from America called Dixieland Jazz. His real weakness, though, was cards, or generally anything that he could bet on. I held just one of the many chits that Asquith would never settle.

As the truck slowed to let us off, I reflected that ours had been little more than a fleeting friendship, one that had evaporated like the alcohol in our martinis. Probably why people weren’t allowed to marry while drunk. All the same, we’d had some fun.

Discharged from the field hospital, I crutched to my temporary billet where a letter had been dropped onto my cot. I assumed it was from the paper, requesting shots of something or other. The editors wouldn’t know of my wounds, and that I’d depart once I had transport, so I left it there and went to get my bandage changed. The gash above my eye had been weeping and I was wary of infection.

Skull retaped, I went back to my cot only