wherever it was . . . Daddy says it should have been a VC, anyway.' She turned the nod into a shake, and then returned the shake to Ian. 'It was only because Jack didn't get himself killed there that they gave him a Military Cross, Daddy says.'
She came back to Mitchell. 'But, of course, you must know that, seeing as you work for him.'
She had the poor devil on her toasting fork now, thought Ian.
Sir Jack Butler might not have been quite as heroic as that, long ago, any more than he was 'charming' now, after having been so dull only yesterday (any more, too, than his three daughters might be 'enchanting' and — least likely of all —
that those legal advisers were 'adorable'). But, when all her calculated exaggerations had been stripped away, Mitchell remained spiked on the facts which he must know were accurate, and on the real possibility that her father knew Butler, even if she didn't.
'I do?' Mitchell had managed to get rid of the wreckage of his original smile. 'Do I?'
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'And, of course, that really answers our question, darling.'
Jenny gave Ian a brief nod. 'Jack wouldn't want anything nasty . . .' She trailed off as she turned back to Mitchell. 'But, then again, it doesn't quite . . . does it?'
In place of the smile, Mitchell's face was stamped with caution. 'It doesn't?'
'Mmmm . . .' Jenny eyed him thoughtfully. 'You are all rather elusive and mysterious, of course — in R & D . . . But, then, that's what you're paid to be, so one can't really quarrel with that, can one? Daddy said not, anyway.' She smiled at Mitchell as she turned the toasting fork, with one side of him nicely browned. 'I really wanted to talk to Oliver, you see —
Jack's No. 2 ... I told you, didn't I, Ian darling — Oliver St John Latimer?'
" Ahh — ' With his mouth already open, that was the only sound Ian could manage before she re-engaged Mitchell.
'But positively the only person connected with R & D I could track down was Willy Arkenshaw. And that was more by good luck than good management — in the chocolate shop at Harrods actually, buying a little birthday present for Oliver, would you believe it?' By the second she was becoming more and more her own most-despised self ('The Honourable Jennifer Fielding-ffulke, the well-known author, chatting with Mr Ian Robinson, and Mr Paul Mitchell' , as The Tatler might caption her). 'And Willy's only a camp-follower, really . . . You remember Tom Arkenshaw, Ian darling — who was such a sweetie in '85 — ?'
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'Yes.' This time he was ready for her: the very mention of
'Arkenshaw', which was a uniquely-memorable name, had already alerted him. And the occasion itself had been memorable too, when Sir Thomas Arkenshaw, baronet, had descended on the embattled embassy in Beirut like the wrath of God: it had been Sir Thomas who had first made contact with Major Asad . . . It had been Sir Thomas, thought the Major, who had been instrumental in saving Jenny, not so much from a fate worse than death, as from death itself, which was the only truly-worst fate of all! 'But — he was R
& D — ?' The answer seemed to beg the question.
'No, darling — not then.' She rounded on Mitchell, almost accusingly. 'Jack's only just recruited Tom, hasn't he, Paul
— ?'
'What?' Mitchell wasn't nearly as ready. 'Tom — ?'
'Oh, come on! Now it's my turn!' Jenny had dropped enough names (which were probably all she had; but which she thought ought to be enough, evidently). 'I'll bet you were at Willy's wedding — weren't you, Paul?'
'Yes?' Suddenly Mitchell was certain. 'But you weren't.'
'No. We were both out of the country at the time, as it happens.' The sharpness of the reply betrayed what was left unsaid; which was not so much pure Fielding-ffulke snobbishness as Jenny Fielding's stock-in-trade, which required her to be present, and seen-to-be-present, on such occasions, when useful old contacts could be renewed, and dummy2
future contacts established. 'But. . . never mind Tom.
Because Willy Arkenshaw — Willy Groot, as she was . . .
Willy and I go back ages, my dear man. We were finished together, by the celebrated Madame de la Bruyere, the dragon-lady of Geneva, more years ago than either of us would care to admit now.'
Mitchell wilted slightly under this further avalanche of name-dropping — to Jack and Oliver, add Tom and Willy and Madame de la Bruyere. But then he looked mutinously at Ian. 'Yes ... I suppose you would know Tom Arkenshaw, at that! In Lebanon, that would have been?'
That was another worrying straw-in-the-wind of British Intelligence inefficiency, thought Ian: Mitchell's homework had included Beirut, but it was homework only half-done if Tom Arkenshaw now worked for R & D but hadn't been consulted about his memories of Fielding-ffulke & Robinson.
And that deplorable omission intruded into his own attempts to put faces to names: Tom he could remember well-enough (although not as well as Major Asad); but Jack and Oliver —
and Willy (if he'd been invited to her wedding with Sir Thomas it was news to him!) — they were on the dark side of the Moon . . . unlike Mrs Simmonds, and Gary Redwood and Mrs Champeney-Smythe, and Father John —
'Yes, Beirut.' He heard his agreement come out as a growl, and tried, and failed to put a face to that other name, of someone he'd never seen and never would see now, in the flesh: Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon, alias 'Marilyn Francis', dummy2
Mitchell? Your colleague who was careless at Rickmansworth — and at Thornervaulx too, maybe? Put a face to her for me, Mitchell: tell me about her then!
'Ian — ?' Mitchell was frowning at him suddenly. 'What's the matter?'
'Mr Mitchell — ' Jenny frowned also.
'Miss Fielding — pardon me — ' Mitchell cut her off without looking at her ' — Ian — ? What's the matter?'
'Nothing.' He blinked at Mitchell, and felt foolish: this too-long day, with its surfeit of information — re-animated experience, and experiences . . . and new faces and information — this long day was beginning to play tricks on him, stretching his imagination too far; and, on an empty stomach, the smell of little Mr Malik's succulent curries was making him light-headed.
'No.' Mitchell humiliated him further by seeming solicitous, as he had never done with Jenny. 'You look as if you've seen a ghost.' The next breath was worse than solicitous: it was understanding. 'But then, I suppose Beirut must have been pretty hairy, I guess!' He took the next breath to Jenny. 'You were both pretty damn lucky there, too.'
'No — ' Ian was all the angrier for not reacting more quickly.
There were other ghosts — newer ghosts — than Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon: even Jenny's Philly Masson was a week younger . . . and far more important; and Reg Buller was so newly-dead that he probably didn't even know how to haunt dummy2
the living properly yet. (Or, anyway, Reg would be too busy now haunting his hundred favourite pubs, trying to catch a last sniff of beer and sending shivers up the spines of his best-loved barmaids as they remembered him across the bar, horrified by the evening paper headlines — )
'What?' Jenny sounded irritated: Jenny didn't believe in ghosts.
He faced Mitchell. 'Audley, Mr Mitchell — Audley?'
All the expression went out of the man's face: it was like watching a bigger wave wash away every footprint in the sand, leaving it smooth again.
'If you work for R & D, Mr Mitchell — Paul. . .' What was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. So he smiled at Mitchell. 'If you're here to help us — if we need friends . . .
tell us about David Audley, then.'
Mitchell frowned. 'I'm sorry — ?'
'No.' Jenny reached out, almost touching Mitchell. 'Ian doesn't mean . . . tell us about him.' She touched Ian instead, digging her fingers into his arm — little sharp fingers.
'Because . . . obviously, you — can't do that, I mean.'
Mitchell shifted his position. 'No . . . Obviously, I can't do that.' He took them both in.
'Because he isn't even in England now, anyway.' Jenny added her total non-se
quitur statement as though it explained what Mitchell had just said for Ian's benefit. 'He's on holiday, with his wife and daughter, at the moment, Ian darling — ' Then dummy2
she gave Mitchell her most dazzling smile ' — Spain, I gather
— ?'
Another wave washed across Mitchell's face. 'Spain?'
'From Parador to Parador!' She nodded, as though he'd admitted everything. 'Fuenterrabia, Santa Dominigo de la Calzada . . . which was next? Benavente, was it? And now the Enrique Two at Ciudad Rodrigo?' She took the nod to Ian.
'Paradors, darling — remember those lovely old state-owned hotels the Spaniards have?' Back to Mitchell. 'Paradors, Dr Mitchell — right?'
Mitchell stared at Jenny for a moment, and then seemed to relax, even as Ian realized that he'd just witnessed an event as rare as it was unfortunate: Jenny knew damn well who Paul Mitchell was — had known from the moment his name had been first mentioned, if not from the appearance of his face round the door; and she had just put her foot in her mouth, to forfeit that advantage prematurely with 'Dr'
Mitchell.
'Hold on, now.' It was a long time since they'd worked together like this. But the old rules still held good, and they required him to cause a diversion. 'Jenny — how come I'm the only one without a drink?'
'Oh darling, I am sorry!' She came in on cue instantly, contrite — when her normal reaction to such petulance would have been contempt. 'It's Mr Malik's genuine British-German Pils you like, isn't it — ?'
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'Yes.'
As she turned away, he looked deliberately at Mitchell. But the man was staring at Jenny's back with unashamed calculation. So all that he had gained for her was a little time, no more. But the charade still had to be played. 'You can laugh.'
'I'm not laughing, my dear fellow.' Mitchell scorned his game.
'I was just thinking that . . . your associate has been busy . . .
while we've both been at the sharp end, eh?'
'There, darling!' She came back to him quickly — too quickly, with the froth from the badly-poured beer cascading over the top of the glass. 'One ersatz Pils!'
'Busy' was an understatement, thought Ian, torn between admiration for her coverage of both Audley and Mitchell somehow — and in a working day which had also included the Reg Buller horror somewhere in it — and irritation with her for blowing the Mitchell part of it unnecessarily. 'Thank you.' On balance the admiration won.
'Spanish state-owned hotels — you were saying, Jenny?'
Mitchell showed his teeth.
'Yes.' She returned the compliment. 'So David Audley has fled the country for the time being, has he? But did he run?
Or was he pushed? That is the first question, Paul.' She cocked her head at him, dislodging some of her hair. 'But, of course, you won't answer that — can't answer that. Because that's a secret, isn't it "An official secret", well within the dummy2
meaning of the Act. But then, everything is well within the meaning of the Act.' Now she smiled again. 'And everyone, too! All of us — and poor little Mr Malik downstairs — we're all just one big Official Secret now, aren't we? And . . . all to protect naughty Dr David Audley! Who is the biggest Official Secret of all.' She paused. 'But now he's our little secret, as well as your big one — right?'
As she spoke, Ian had been drawn naturally to watch Mitchell, as she moved up the scale of challenges. And Mitchell was watching her very carefully, now that he had been warned.
'He sent postcards, didn't he?' He grimaced at her. But then he frowned. To Willy — ? But no ... Willy knows better than to tell you that.' All her more recent feints, and sharp-toothed threats, were calmly ignored in the search for an explanation for her special knowledge. 'So ... it would be — Mrs Clarke, of course!' Mitchell nodded to himself. 'And she puts them up on her mantelpiece, amongst those lovely old mugs of hers, over the kitchen-oven — ?' He nodded. 'For all to see . . . and he sends them to her because she loves them — because he loves her.' Another nod. But he was only thinking aloud because he wanted her to hear his thoughts, quite deliberately. 'Or were they from Cathy — ?' He stopped suddenly. 'But you went down there, bright and early. And you chatted Mrs Clarke up — ' Mitchell's mouth twisted ' —
and you're pretty, and you're smart . . . and Clarkie's old now, of course.' His expression hardened. There would have been dummy2
a time when you wouldn't have got through that door, Miss Fielding-ffulke: she'd have clobbered you with her rolling-pin first, I tell you!' Then he relaxed again, having betrayed himself momentarily . . . and perhaps not so deliberately this time. 'So ... it was the postcards, wasn't it — ? Fuentarrabia —
Santa Dominigo de la Calzada, Benevente, Ciudad Rodrigo?'
The man's certainty increased as he echoed the drum-roll of names. 'You really are good! Because . . . that's bloody ingenious — just from a collection of postcards? And poor old Clarkie?'
Jenny smiled at Ian. 'Dr Audley has this ancient retainer darling ... his old nurse, I believe she is ... And she's a perfect sweetie.' She transferred the smile. 'Don't worry, Dr Mitchell: I didn't tell her that her "dear Mr David" was a murderer — it would have been too cruel.'
'And it would also have been wrong, Miss Fielding.'
'Wrong?' Her lip curled. 'He's not a murderer? Of course!'
'Of course.' He nodded, and then considered her for a moment. 'Do you always start your books with preconceived notions about the goodies and the baddies?' Then he shrugged. 'But there! I suppose that's the nature of investigative journalism these days: don't spoil a good story with inconvenient facts, by golly! "I name this bandwaggon Freedom of the Press, and this gravy-train The Right to Know. And God bless them, and all who crusade on them, and do very-nicely-thank-you while smiting the wicked and putting down the proud", eh?'
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'That's not true,' snapped Ian. 'We don't go about it like that.'
All the same, he didn't want to look at Jenny. 'If Audley isn't
— '
'He isn't.' Jenny interrupted him quickly, but coolly. 'Then he's been quite remarkably accident-prone in his long career.
Or ... other people around him have been, wouldn't you say, Dr Mitchell?'
Mitchell looked at his watch. 'What I would say, Miss Fielding-ffulke, is that . . . now that we've met at last. . . is that I have more work to do this night. So I must leave you temporarily, I fear.'
'Temporarily?' The breath she drew belied her coolness.
'But . . . you were just getting interesting, Dr Mitchell.' The repeated Dr Mitchell, matching Dr Audley, was another straw in the wind.
'I'm always interesting, Miss Fielding-ffulke. But, what I mean is ... it's my duty to protect you, so that you can traduce me in print in due course — if you can find a publisher — if
— ?' This time it was Mitchell's lip which curled. 'But, of course, you have found one — post Peter Wright that's only to be expected, isn't it! And especially with your record of heroic and responsible investigative reporting — ' He embraced Ian in this embittered accolade — foolish of me ...
yes!' The lips straightened and tightened. 'But you can't stay here, is what I mean. You need a safe house — a very safe house, as of Paddy MacManus's appearance on the scene, I'd say.' This time he lingered on Ian. 'Because he's still got his dummy2
fee to earn, as I told you.'
'Paddy — ?' Check Coat's name was suddenly like a lump in Ian's throat, which had to be swallowed as he thought of Check Coat out there somewhere in the gathering dark of a London night. So he swallowed the lump. 'Still — ?'
'You'd better believe it.' Mitchell nodded. 'It's just like your books, Ian: fifty per cent advance on signature of contract —
is that it, for you? And then the rest on publication?' He paused to let the terms sink in. 'Which, in this case, will be the publication of your obituary. And failure to deliver, after signature, is bad for business — right?'
Ian looked at Jenny, and caught her dr
awing in her breath.
'We're safe here, Dr Mitchell.' She deflated with the words.
'You're not safe anywhere, Miss Fielding-ffulke.' Mitchell's voice grated on his reply. 'What you don't seem to understand is that you're in the big league now, Miss Fielding-ffulke: you're not just messing with old fuddy-duddy British Intelligence — not with chaps like me, who've got so shit-scared of their own shadows, in case they step out of line, that they swan off without protection, and have to borrow weapons from the local vicar.' Mitchell swung towards Ian. 'For Christ's sake, man: suppose Father John hadn't borrowed that shot-gun himself, to shoot those pigeons that were crapping on his bells in the belfry — ? Or ...
never mind he wouldn't find the shells — in case I actually shot anyone, even in self-defence — ?' His mouth twisted. 'So dummy2
where the hell would you have been now?' He shook his head. 'Because I sure-as-hell wouldn't have gone out there to point my finger at that bastard, and said " Bang-bang!" — '
Mitchell brought his hand up as he spoke, and squeezed his eyes shut as he pointed his finger. 'Because that's the way to get dead, forever after.' Then he focused again. 'You're in the big league. And the first mistake you make in that league is to think you're cleverer than the opposition. And that's the only mistake you make.'
Ian had been conscious of Jenny all the time Mitchell was speaking, drawing in breaths to interrupt; but first failing to get her words in edgeways, and then failing altogether as Mitchell concentrated not on her, but on him, because he was more receptive to the message after their shared experience of Lower Buckland.
'But why us, Dr Mitchell?' She seized the first moment of silence between them. 'If you're not trying to stop us . . .'
There was still doubt in that: she still wasn't giving him the whole benefit of doubt, even now — '. . . then who is?'
'Who?' Mitchell gave her his full attention. 'I wish I knew, Miss Fielding-ffulke!' He shook his head. 'I tell you — you were just a bloody inconvenience, as of forty-eight hours ago . . . Asking all your questions, in the wrong places — '
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