A Prospect of Vengeance dda-18

by Anthony Price

  'Ouch!' She stopped to examine the damage. There was a glistening dark-red globule marking the injury, not far from the unsightly smear of its predecessor, which was mixed with red dust. Sweaty, injured, angry and dirty — bloody, bloody, bloody Ian! 'Wait for a moment! I'm hurt, Ian — Ian?'

  He hadn't even stopped. He was striding ahead, quite oblivious of her. And now she couldn't even see the rocky plateau towards which he started for, when they'd left the car on the edge of that fly-blown village: there was a long undulation of lethal corn-stubble blocking the view. And she was wearing the wrong shoes.

  (They weren't really the wrong shoes: they were her bloody best shoes . . .or, they had been, anyway; it was because he had insisted on leaving the car there, bloody-miles from where they were going — that had made them wrong. 'I can see his car,' he had said, lowering his binoculars, speaking in his strange new voice. ' It's up the track, just by that hut — a dummy2

  silver Rover Sterling. But we'll go from here. I want to walk . . . I want to think. There's plenty of time. Come on, then.')

  He had stopped at last, silhouetted in the glare at the top of the rise against the pure blue cloudless sky. But he still wasn't looking at her: he had his binoculars glued to his eyes again, still oblivious of her.

  Well, that bloody settled it, thought Jenny. This was the new Ian — a problem Ian, and a difficult one; and all the more of a problem, and all the more difficult, because the old one had always been easy and simple, and just tedious in the usual obvious ways, like a dumb-clever brother —

  ' Ian! Sod you!' she shouted at his back.

  Now, at last, after he'd observed what he wanted to check on, he turned towards her. 'What is it?'

  'It's all right, darling.' She realized as he turned that the greatest mistake of all would be to whinge, like a man.

  Indeed, to whinge as Ian himself did (or, had used to do; but this was a different Ian, she had to remember). 'It's just ...

  your legs are longer than mine . . . Have you spotted him?'

  'Yes.' He turned back, away from her, lifting the binoculars again.

  'Yes?' She was conscious of looking at the new Ian with new eyes, now that he wasn't interested in looking at her. That

  'wimp' image had always been unfair, of course: he had been very far from that in Beirut that time, everyone had said dummy2

  afterwards; more like a hero, they'd said, but she'd taken that with a pinch of salt (or, anyway, taken it for granted: in wars and emergencies, scholars and poets down the ages had rarely been among the skulkers . . . and a scholar and a poet was what the poor darling really was — or, in a better world, might have been). 'Where?'

  'On the Greater Arapile.' He lowered the binoculars, and then pointed. 'See where his car's parked — the Rover? Just beyond that hut. Imagine that's the centre of a clock, and the hour-hand is pointing at eleven — follow that line up to the top, Jenny. He's standing just to the right of that monument.

  It must be a battle memorial of some sort.'

  Jenny shaded her eyes and stared.

  '”The Greater Arapile".' The binoculars came up again.

  'That's where the French were, when the battle started in 1812. And the Duke of Wellington came along behind us, from the "Lesser Arapile" to the village. He must have had his lunch just about where we left the car: that was when he saw they'd over-extended their line of march, and threw his chicken leg over his shoulder and said "That will do!" So the story goes, anyway.'

  Either it was the glare, or perhaps she needed glasses, but she couldn't see a damn thing in the desolate parched landscape. 'I really don't need to know about the battle — do I, darling?'

  'It's an interesting battle.' He spoke distantly, as though to a child. 'When people think of Wellington they think of dummy2

  Waterloo . . . like, when they think of Nelson, it's Trafalgar . . . But Nelson's finest victory was the Nile — or maybe it was at St Vincent that he really showed what he was made of ... So this was maybe Wellington's "finest hour" . . .

  ye-ess: " That will do!"'

  Jenny squinted hopelessly at a blur of boring fields and boring rocks, and knew that it wasn't her own finest hour.

  Or, anyway, not yet. 'I didn't know it was the Duke of Wellington we were interested in, darling. I thought it was David Audley.'

  'We could do a book on Spain instead, you know.' The new Ian was impervious to sarcasm. 'All those people on holiday on the Costa Blanca, and the Costa Brava . . . and now Spain in the Common Market. And the ETA link with the IRA . . .

  And we could take the history all the way from the Black Prince, and the War of the Spanish Succession, and Wellington . . . and the Civil War, with the International Brigades — ' The binoculars went down, and then up again '

  — and the phenomenon of peaceful transition from fascism to democracy ... I met a woman recently who is an expert on Spanish economic development, and what she had to say was extremely interesting — ahh!'

  The new Ian was also becoming sassy in pushing alternative projects to the one which mattered to her. Although the one plus-factor was that at least he seemed for a moment to have forgotten Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon, alias Marilyn Francis, about whom he had obsessively taxed poor Reg Buller all the dummy2

  way from London to Madrid to the exclusion of almost everything else.

  Reg Buller — ? The thought of Reg (and of Reg complaining about Spanish beer, even more vociferously than about Spanish food) momentarily diverted her: in Spain Reg Buller was much less of an asset than in London; he seemed somehow to have withdrawn into himself, as though he no longer approved of what they were doing in seeking out Audley; although it couldn't be Audley whom he was worrying about — more likely he was torn between self-preservation and his duty to his paymasters on the one hand, and a sneaking identification with Paul Mitchell, their new suspect, on the other hand — could that be it?

  '"Ahh"?' It probably was it. Because Reg and the Police Force had parted company long ago not so much because of his drinking (that would have been no great sin, the way he held it) as because of his sneaking sympathy for underdogs and minor villains versus authority. But it was still an added burden now, when Ian had gone funny on her too. 'What is it, darling?'

  'I think I've spotted the wife.' He concentrated on the lower part of the plateau.

  'Where?' Reg Buller was all the back-up they had, somewhere behind them in the car, and probably drinking already from his hip-flask. But Ian was her immediate problem.

  'Or it may be the daughter . . . They're both tall and thin and blonde . . . But what on earth is she doing — ?' He dummy2

  concentrated for another moment. Then he lowered the binoculars and pointed. 'Just down there, left of the car — in the ploughed field . . . Come on, Jen — let's get going.'

  'Hold on.' It was still a long and uncomfortable walk to where he was pointing and she felt mutinous. 'Why are we walking all this way?'

  'Eh?' The bloody binoculars came up again. 'I told you, Jen: I want to think a bit. And I also want to look at the battlefield.'

  'You want to — ?' She bit off her anger, and looked round instead to help her count to ten: it was (she could see at a glance) a most excellent and absolute, and suitable and tailor-made . . . battlefield: apart from the modern railway-line which ran diagonally through the valley between the two rocky plateaux, with a couple of grotty station-buildings halfway along it in the middle of the open fields, and that single even grottier hut where Audley's car was parked, there was absolutely nothing to be seen. So, once upon a time, the British and the French could have killed each other in their thousands quite happily, without inconveniencing anyone or damaging anything of value. But that 1812 suitability still didn't answer the question. 'Why do you have to do that, Ian darling?'

  'I don't have to. But I want to.' Now he was studying a more distant ridge to the right of the Greater Arapile. 'It's what Audley's doing today, Jen. I told you in the car — remember?'

  What Jenny
chiefly remembered from the short journey out dummy2

  of Salamanca was that he had been irritatingly masterful and matter-of-fact and decisive. But then he had been like that for the last thirty-six hours, ever since Reg Buller had sold them his theory about Paul Mitchell and that wretched woman.

  'So what?' What cautioned her was that he had also been efficient with it, in coaxing information about David Audley's whereabouts from a series of slightly bewildered Spaniards while she had stood on the sidelines like an idiot girlfriend whose main function was to stare at the ceiling of a series of bedrooms.

  'I told you, Jen.' Now he wasn't so much masterful as quite damnably long-suffering. 'The daughter prattled to that man the receptionist found for us in the hotel after we checked in

  — the one who spoke English? They were here all yesterday, but they were "doing" the English side of the battle, and that ridge over there — ' he pointed. 'So today they were going to do the French side. And the French were up there — " The pointing finger was redirected towards the Greater Arapile '

  — and that's where Audley is. But I wish I knew why.'

  'Why . . . what?' If he'd wanted to make her feel even more stupid, he was succeeding.

  He sighed. 'Why is he studying the battle of Salamanca?'

  She mustn't lose her temper. 'Does it matter? He's supposed to be a historian. Don't historians study battlefields?'

  'But he's a medievalist. The Peninsular War just isn't his dummy2

  period.'

  She mustn't lose her temper. 'I expect he'll tell us why, darling, if we ask him nicely.' But now he wasn't even looking at her again, damn it — and damn him! ' I'll ask about Philip Masson, darling. And you can ask about the battle of Salamanca . . . and Mrs Fitzgibbon too, if you like — '

  He looked at her then, even as she was already regretting what she'd just said. And the way he'd looked at her made her regret the unnecessary words even more, however much he'd asked for them. 'I'm sorry, Ian — '

  'Don't be sorry, Jenny dear. I shall only ask him one question about Frances Fitzgibbon. And I think I already know the answer to it.' He shook his head slowly. 'But it's of no importance to you, I agree. So shall we go, then?'

  The hateful corn-stubble ended eventually, but with a deep drainage-ditch (as though it ever rained in this parched landscape!). And Ian leapt the ditch and went on again without a backward glance, leaving her to take the longer route beside it to the track, while he struck off on his own —

  Hateful, hateful Ian! It isn't as though I haven't prayed that you'd meet some nice girl at one of your Christian Fellowship meetings, rather than making hopeless sheep's eyes at me! But now you have to go and fall for some crazy dead woman who wouldn't have given you a second look in dummy2

  life — a bloody ghost-woman! And now she's going to be the death of our partnership. Because I'm not going to play second-fiddle to any bloody ghost-woman for evermore —

  damn you, Ian Robinson! And damn you, Frances Fitzgibbon, too!

  She reached the dusty track at last, sweating like a horse and with her hair coming down. And she reached it ahead of him, because he had stopped for another of those exclusive binocular-sweeps of his.

  What was he thinking about? Was he 'doing' his battlefield, like David Audley — imagining himself a poor sweating redcoat advancing towards the great unclimbable rocky prow of the headland with French cannon-balls whistling past his ears? Or was he back, not in 1812, but in 1978, with his ghost-woman — his ghost-woman who had been Paul Mitchell's real woman — ? Was he practising his question —

  the question to which he already knew the answer?

  She walked up the track to intercept him, forcing herself to recover her breath, and some shreds of dignity and self-respect.

  It was the daughter, not the wife, she could see now: a tall blonde child mooching up and down the furrows of a newly ploughed field on the edge of the fallen scree from the dummy2

  Greater Arapile plateau, head down and intent on the red earth at her feet, as though she was looking for something she'd lost.

  She had been foolish. Ian Robinson no longer mattered, any more than Frances Fitzgibbon had ever mattered (let alone Ian Robinson's question about Frances Fitzgibbon). And Paul Mitchell didn't matter. And even David Audley didn't really matter — even he was only a means to an end. It was only Philly, dear beloved Philly, who had always been there when she needed him — always there until some bastard had decided otherwise! And now some bastard was going to pay — that was all that mattered now —

  She had a plan.

  And she even had time to put back her hair. And it even went back easily.

  'I want to talk to the child first, darling. Okay?'

  The new Ian frowned at the old Jenny. 'What about Audley?'

  Maybe she had done him an injustice. But now wasn't the time to think about injustice and Ian Robinson: this was justice-time and Philly-time now. 'Audley's not going to go away. Not while I'm talking to his daughter.'

  'No . . .' Even the new Ian couldn't argue with that. But the new Ian didn't like being thwarted. 'But what's the use of talking to her?'

  dummy2

  'It's what I want to do.' The old Jenny frankly didn't give a damn. 'You wanted to "do" the battlefield of Salamanca, darling. So I want to "do" David Audley's daughter.' She could even smile at him now. 'We're still partners, aren't we?'

  'Yes — of course — ' he stopped suddenly. 'If you want to ...

  okay, then.'

  So now you know, too! thought Jenny. And it was strangely like that first moment of falling-out-of-love, when what one already suspected in oneself was confirmed by the sudden doubt in the no-longer-loved-one's eyes, rather than by any outright lie.

  'I want to, then.' But now she also wanted more than that.

  'What's her name? How old is she?' It irritated her that she knew so little: that she was asking these questions now, and not before, when there had been plenty of time. 'What do you know about her?'

  'Her name is Catherine, with a "C". Because he calls her

  "Cathy".' He nodded towards his Arapile. 'Like in Wuthering Heights.' Then he shrugged. 'I don't know anything else.

  Except . . . she talks to Spaniards. So she isn't shy . . . even though she is only fifteen — or maybe sixteen, I suppose — '

  A faint memory of the old diffident Ian animated him suddenly. 'Why d'you want to talk to her, Jen? Audley's up there — ' The Wuthering Arapile received another nod ' — in fact, I rather think he's watching us, actually.'

  Yes, thought Jenny cruelly: you don't want to talk to any dummy2

  fifteen-year-old girl, do you! Fifteen-year-old girls probably frighten you. So at least you won't interrupt me!

  It was easy to ignore him. There was a wide-open gap in the fence inviting her towards the child, who was no more than fifty yards away among the furrows, staring intently down at the ground, pretending to ignore them both.

  But Ian had got her right, exactly: mid-teens, tall and very blonde . . . and thin, almost flat: she'd never be a Page Three girl, for sure!

  'Have you lost something?' On the strength of her own great age, and Catherine Audley's alleged 'not-shyness', she called out confidently.

  The child had already observed them covertly, while keeping her head down. But now she straightened up and stared directly at them from behind the protection of huge sunglasses which emphasized the thinness of her face, first at Jenny, then with a small movement of her head towards Ian, and finally back at Jenny. 'No.'

  Jenny felt herself being scrutinized woman-to-woman, from hair to unsuitable shoes, via her sweat-stained dress, and returned the compliment automatically: jeans (but designer jeans), royal blue sweat-shirt (bearing the legend 'Buffalo Bar — Murdo — South Dakota', but without any sign of sweat), and a Givenchy silk scarf artfully knotted: the shoes alone were ordinary — ordinary schoolgirl's uniform-issue, square-toed (but that only served to remind her of her own sore feet, damn it!).

/>   dummy2

  The child continued to stare at her, giving nothing away from behind the darkened lenses. And Jenny felt a trickle of sweat run down from her throat to lose itself between her breasts, and adjusted 'not-shy' to 'self-possessed' as the gap between their ages was critically narrowed.

  'You're looking for something?' She realized too late that the question was a stupid one. Even though there plainly wasn't anything to look for in the newly-turned red-brown earth, Catherine Audley had quite obviously been looking for something. 'What have you lost, Miss Audley?' She threw the name in deliberately, to regain the upper hand as though it was a fight between equals.

  The child frowned, nonplussed by her recognition.

  'It's Catherine, isn't it?' Jenny smiled sweetly. 'I'm a friend of Willy Arkenshaw's — Lady Arkenshaw?'

  'Oh!' The frown dissolved. 'Willy — yes!'

  'What have you lost, dear?' Jenny tried to open the age-gap again.

  'I haven't lost anything.' Catherine Audley relaxed perceptibly for a moment. But then she began to frown again.

  'I'm looking for bullets . . . Are you looking for my father?'

  'Bullets?' The counter-punch caught Jenny unprepared, so that it took her a second to recover. And then she decided to leave the second question. 'Bullets?'

  'Not bullets, actually — musket balls, I mean.' Catherine Audley touched the frame of her glasses with a nervous dummy2

  gesture. 'Do you know my father? I mean ... if you know Willy

  — ?'

  If this was the teenage daughter, what would the father be like? Jenny wondered uneasily. 'No, dear. But — I've heard a lot about him.' Another sweet smile was called for. 'Musket balls?'

  'Yes.' The child seemed to accept her lying-truth: it would take another year or two for her to learn that grown-ups were liars. 'There was a battle here, Miss — ? Miss — ?'

  Saved by good manners! thought Jenny. 'Oh, I'm sorry, dear!

  I'm Jennifer Fielding — Jenny?' Smile again Jenny. 'And you are ... Catherine? Cathy — ?'

  'Cathy.' The child nodded. But then cocked her head.

  'Fielding — '