The Old Vengeful dda-12

by Anthony Price

  "Ah! I like that," murmured Aske. "So the ring moved in for the first day—but after that it would move out, on the assumption they'd broken through? Is that it? And then, of course, he'd keep inside the ring, never trying to break through it as it expanded? That's good thinking." He half-turned towards Paul. "And then what?"

  "He moved in the least expected direction—southwards."

  "And why was that unexpected?"

  "The obvious direction was east—across the Rhine into Germany. That was the way many of the escapers went from the other fortresses, because they reckoned the Germans wouldn't give them up so easily. And the most direct route to England was north-west—or they could have headed due north, and then turned west when they reached the Low Countries."

  dummy3

  "So they went southwards. And you think that was deliberate?" Aske sounded unconvinced.

  "They were sailors, Mr Aske," Elizabeth could see that Paul chafed under Aske's interruptions. "They would always have known the points of the compass, with the sun or the stars overhead."

  Paul nodded. "That's exactly right, Elizabeth. Chipperfield and Timms were both professional navigators. And all Tom Chard's recollections of their route are full of bearings and distances, as well as descriptions . . . like 'we bore southward that day five leagues, which, for nature of that country, was very wearisome by reason of the steepness of its many hills and valleys'."

  Aske considered the evidence briefly. "So that would mean they were in the Vosges, would it?"

  "The Upper Vosges. 'Great trees, tall and straight, enough to spar mighty navies' is how Tom Chard remembered it—and the humming of the insects up above in the tree-tops, and the crickets in the high pastures . . . and the goats with bells round their necks—Chard was country-bred, and he noticed all the differences between Sussex and Alsace. Although in fact he was much more surprised by the presence of familiar things from home—the jays and the magpies and the robins, and the cranesbill and harebells and foxgloves . . . and the rose-bay willow herb, which tipped off your father about Abraham Timms, Elizabeth."

  "Tipped him off. . . to what?"

  dummy3

  "That Abraham Timms was country-bred like Tom Chard, only much better educated—Chard said he knew the name of everything that lived, and what was edible and what wasn't. . . It's even possible that Chipperfield took Timms along because he knew how to live off the country. But most of all that he was an American."

  "An American?" Aske pursed his lips, and then nodded.

  "Yes . . . well, there were a lot of Americans pressed into the Royal Navy—that was why they went to war with us. But where does the willow herb come in?"

  "Which in his country was called by the savages 'Fire-weed', according to Chard. 'His country' and 'savages' and 'fire-weed' was what tipped Loftus off—not only that Timms was country-bred, but it was a different country. And the clincher that he was an American was when the waggon wheel broke, and Timms had to find wood to repair it—"

  "What waggon wheel?" Elizabeth frowned.

  "What waggon?" echoed Aske.

  "The waggon in which they crossed half of France," said Paul.

  "They came down out of the Vosges somewhere near Gerardmer, so far as we can estimate. And first they bought a horse—Chipperfield had money. Tom Chard doesn't say how, but he had it—"

  "PoWs always have money," murmured Aske. "And they often let the officers keep their personal possessions. Go on."

  "Then, a bit further on, they bought a farm cart. And a day dummy3

  later they filled the cart with hay, and Chard and Timms hid under the hay whenever they came near a village, because they couldn't speak a word of French."

  "Nice—very nice!" said Aske admiringly. "Nothing stolen—so no hue and cry . . . and nobody suspects a couple of farm labourers with a hay cart when the word's out for four desperate characters! I like it."

  "Not even a couple of farm labourers," said Paul.

  "Chipperfield was smarter than that, Aske."

  "Yes? I'm going to stop again soon—at that garage in the distance. So just sit tight." Aske slowed the car. "A man and a boy, of course, I'd forgotten the little mid-ship-mite—"

  "What?" Paul sat up irritably. "For Christ's sake, Aske—what are you playing at?"

  "It's like yesterday, old boy. You are doing the talking and I'm doing the driving—okay?"

  The previous halt was repeated, with the additional detail of a few litres of petrol to top up the tank.

  "Off we go again—just let me do up my seat-belt," said Aske.

  "So . . . the little mid-ship-mite, and the waggon, and the mysterious Timms . . . who was an American cousin far from home, eh?"

  "What the hell's wrong with the car?"

  "Nothing that need worry you, Dr Mitchell ... A man and a boy, you were saying?"

  The air, which had warmed up during their five-minute dummy3

  delay, crackled between them in the ensuing silence, and Elizabeth looked at Paul unhappily. "A man and a boy, Paul?"

  With an effort Paul tore himself away from Aske. "Not a man and a boy, Elizabeth," he addressed her deliberately. "Don't you remember?"

  It came to her then, suddenly but quite easily, out of nowhere . . . no, not out of nowhere—out of the far distant memory of an owl flapping noiselessly across a college garden unreasonably disturbed by strange lights and stranger noises, disappearing into the darkness.

  It had been a weird open-air production, by some smart undergraduate who had gone on from Oxford to great things in television— A Midsummer Night's Dream, with Titania and Hippolyta and Hermia and Helena all cast from the sixth form of a local prep school—

  "The girl, of course." It was simple when you knew the answer. "They dressed the midshipman as a girl."

  "Of course!" Humphrey Aske chided himself. "Thirteen years of age, so the childish treble ... or that delicious half-broken husky alto—no wonder no one spotted them! Clever Miss Loftus!"

  "Clever Lieutenant Chipperfield, rather." She could see that Paul was pleased with her, so this was the moment for becoming modesty. "But he died at Coucy, Paul—how?"

  "Just damned bad luck, that's how, Elizabeth." His pleasure turned instantly to Chipperfield—identifying regret. "The dummy3

  cart broke down at Coucy, and they tried to repair it with what they could scrounge. But while they were working on it there was an accident of some kind . . . Tom Chard's a bit vague about what actually happened, but it looks as though something gave way, and Chipperfield was crushed underneath . . ." he trailed off for a moment ". . . not killed, but very badly injured. Fatally injured, as it turned out . . .

  which is ... rather sad, when you think about it."

  He was no longer looking at her, but just staring into space as though he could see pictures inside his head.

  And that, thought Elizabeth, was what he was seeing: rather sad concealed the same insight which had informed his account of the last efforts of the British and German soldiers locked in mud and exhaustion on the muddy slopes above the Aisne—he had been there with them in their embryonic trenches, just as he was there now, dying by inches under the cart at Coucy-le-Château.

  All those years ago, and long forgotten, it had been first relegated to one old man's memories, and to a few pages in a commonplace book which had become an old lady's family heirloom until Father's letter in The Times had re-animated it. But once it had been a Great Adventure until rather sad—

  she could almost love Paul for that understatement of the unendurable truth it concealed: that this almost anonymous third lieutenant of the Vengeful had brought his comrades so far, in safety against all the odds, with pursuit long out-distanced, only to die slowly and painfully by cruel accident dummy3

  almost within sight of home.

  "So what did Chard actually say, then?" Aske was quite oblivious to rather sad.

  "Oh ... he was still angry after all those years about the cart breaking down that second time." Paul snapp
ed himself back to reality. "He said, if they'd used seasoned ash instead of green elm it would have been okay, and Abraham Timms said that in his country there'd have been plenty of hickory-wood for the taking, which would have been even better—

  that was what Chard thought was interesting, because that was what he remembered all those years after." He looked at Elizabeth, seeing her again. "Which was all quite meaningless until your father saw it, and after 'fire-weed', hickory was the clincher—and our experts zeroed in on it too . . . because hickory is the American equivalent for ash

  —' Carya ovata, or Carya cordiformis, which is frequently confused with walnut, was rare in Europe in the early nineteenth century, but common in North America, from New York State to Florida'." He smiled lop-sidedly at her.

  "When you spend most of your time interpreting security tip-offs and Russian tit-bits a query about the origin of hickory-wood is like a breath of fresh air... But that's where your father picked up his final American clue—and why he went off at half-cock, following Abraham Timms for so long, instead of Colonel Suchet . . . not that Timms isn't a fascinating character, as I said."

  "What's so fascinating about him?" inquired Aske.

  dummy3

  Paul shook his head. "He doesn't really matter. It's Suchet who matters ... all that matters about Timms—and Tom Chard—is that they had to bodge up the cart with inferior material, and it broke again while Chipperfield was underneath. And that was still bugging Tom Chard twenty-five years after—I think he felt that somehow he'd been responsible for his officer's death. He was a good man, was Tom Chard."

  "But not quite good enough," murmured Aske, reaching down towards the dashboard. “Let's have some music."

  Elizabeth had just started to think but what happened next?

  Because if Tom Chard came safe home, what happened to—

  and then a sudden burst of pop music drowned her thoughts.

  "For God's sake, man—" Mitchell leaned forward towards the radio.

  "No!" Aske restrained him. "Leave it on, Mitchell—not quite good enough—and we're not quite good enough either, it seems, old boy. Because we've got a tail."

  "What—"

  "Don't turn round! Yes ... I think the great Dr Audley may have been careless somewhere along the line."

  "What do you mean, Mr Aske?" asked Elizabeth.

  "I mean, Miss Loftus, that we're being followed," said Aske calmly. "And don't you look round, either—and don't shout—

  I can see behind us perfectly well, and I can hear you well enough . . . The music's just in case they've got us bugged as dummy3

  well as bracketed . . . and there is still just a chance, with that and all the rigmarole I've been through, that they may not be quite sure I'm on to them—just a chance." He looked at Paul.

  "Well, Mitchell? What is your pleasure, then?"

  Paul thought for a moment. "What sort of a tail?"

  "Ah . . . now as to origin, I cannot tell you, except that it is undoubtedly professional, as one would expect—never right behind us, in clear view . . . But as to content, that's easier, because they had to turn off after passing us when I stopped, and pick us up again when we continued . . . and then one had to overtake us—he's in front now—just to make sure we hadn't switched cars, or anything tricky like that." He paused, and then half-turned towards Elizabeth. "I had this feeling, you see, Miss Loftus, not long after we left Laon . . .

  this pricking in the back of the neck . . . that we were not altogether alone. But I couldn't be sure, not until now."

  "What sort of tail?" repeated Paul. "What vehicles?"

  "One Renault 20 saloon, blue, with driver and passenger.

  And one unmarked Citroen van, grey, with driver only.

  Though what's behind the driver—what wealth of ingenious gadgetry—I also cannot tell, of course . . . Hence the disgusting French equivalent of the Top of the Pops, Miss Loftus—just in case."

  Paul leaned closer to Elizabeth. "He means we could be bugged— with a voice pick-up as well as a directional indicator . . . Damn!" He turned back to Aske. "Didn't you check out the bloody car?"

  dummy3

  Aske sighed. "Don't be silly, old boy. If these are pros I could strip it down, and still not find anything—you know that."

  "Damn!" murmured Paul. "Damn, damn, damn!"

  "I admit I maybe didn't take things quite seriously enough,"

  conceded Aske. ''But then we haven't been doing anything terribly serious, have we?"

  "Damn!" said Paul again.

  "Don't fret, old boy. This is what I'm here for—to keep you safe and sound. So long as they don't try anything crude we're in no danger . . . and with all this traffic around us I can't think that they have that in mind. And I'm sure I'm a much better driver than either of them . . . There's a passenger seat-belt in the back, Miss Loftus—put it on, please . . . Just in case . . . though one should always wear one's belt, in any case, of course."

  "Can you lose them?" asked Paul.

  "Yes." Askc leaned forward again. "I think we'll have a leetle more background noise . . . Yes . . . But not here."

  "Where then?"

  "Oh, Paris is the place. Lots of nice fast traffic, lots of different lanes . . . They have us boxed in, so I shall lose them on the périphérique—the one in front at the Saint Ouen intersection, or at Clignancourt. . . and then I'll get the one behind into the wrong lane just before Clichy, and I'll slip out there. We'll need a little luck, but not a lot."

  dummy3

  Elizabeth began to feel almost reassured.

  "I can only give you a few minutes, though," went on Aske smoothly. "Because if they know their business—if there's a directional bug on this car, which I assume there is—they'll be on to us again quick enough . . . and if they've got more back-up waiting for us, that could be awkward . . . You can never be absolutely sure of losing a well-organised tail—I know, because I've outsmarted my Bulgarian friends more than once . . . But I can put you down round a corner near the Avenue de Wagram, and then I can ditch the car further on ...

  So not to worry, eh?" Aske checked his mirror. "Here he comes now, tucking himself nicely behind that Saab . . ."

  Elizabeth fought the desire to look over her shoulder. "Who are they, Paul?"

  "Ah . . . now that's the interesting question, Miss Loftus,"

  said Aske. "But it can hardly be the French just watching over us, I'm afraid."

  "Why not?"

  "What have we done to annoy them?" Aske's shoulders lifted.

  "Nothing, so far as I am aware—certainly nothing to justify this VIP treatment . . . even if our Dr Mitchell has something of a record . . . No—if they didn't like us they'd simply pick us up and boot us out, without much ceremony. That's more their style, you see."

  "It could be the French, Elizabeth," said Paul.

  Aske snuffled. "You're making pretty pictures, Mitchell.

  dummy3

  Pretty pictures to suit yourself—what they tell us never to do!"

  "Pretty pictures, Mr Aske?"

  "That's right." Aske nodded at the road. "To be spotted by the French—that's just bad luck . . . But to be picked up by the KGB . . ." He shook his head sadly ". . . that's both good and bad, I suppose."

  Elizabeth couldn't for the life of her see how being pursued by the KGB could be good.

  "Shut up, Aske!" snapped Paul.

  "She has a right to know, old boy. It's bad, Miss Loftus, because it means our security is bad—or because theirs is too damn good, alternatively . . . But it's also good, because it means that we've got the swine worried enough to take all this trouble—which means that Audley knows what he's doing, however odd it may seem to us." He turned to Paul.

  "So do tell us what happened next in 1812, Dr Mitchell—do tell us more about the old Vengeful and All That—"

  XII

  THE WEIGHT OF scholarship surrounding them in the ante-room to Professor Louis Belperron's study was at once reassuring and oppress
ive: the room was high-ceilinged, almost a square box, and every inch of it not taken by its two doors and single window consisted of shelving crammed with dummy3

  old books. And from these, in the absence of the slightest breath of fresh air, there emanated a dry smell of old paper, ancient leather and glue, and of the dust of ages which had gathered on that combination.

  "Well, if Professor Belperron doesn't know about Colonel Suchet, then no one does," concluded Paul from his reconnaissance of the shelves.

  Elizabeth stared out of the window, down into the bustling avenue below. The contrast of that bustle, after their dodge'em car drive through the maelstrom of the peripheral motorway, and their final rush from the car into this old apartment building, with this sudden peace and quiet . . .

  that contrast ought, she felt, to be calming, but somehow it wasn't—it was more like the uncalm stillness of an examination room before the exam.

  "Can you see Aske?" asked Paul.

  "No." It didn't seem likely to her that she would be able to spot Humphrey Aske in that throng, but the unlikely gave her the lie even as she spoke. "Yes."

  "Where?" He craned his neck over her shoulder.

  "Down by the corner of that side-street." Perhaps it was because, in all that movement, that one slender figure was unmoving at the apex of a corner-shop window—unmoving except for his head, as he switched his attention through the points of the compass.

  "Well, at least he's keeping his wits about him," said Paul dummy3

  ungraciously, turning away again.

  Aske completed his survey, but instead of crossing towards the entrance into the building he then walked quickly a few yards up the street, to disappear under the awning of a cafe.

  "He seems to do his job rather well," said Elizabeth.

  "Adequately, yes." Paul was studying the shelves again.

  "Even though you're horrible to him."

  "Hmmm . . ." He seemed more interested in the books. "I cannot bring myself to love Mr Aske, certainly ... or trust him either, come to that." He lifted a volume out carefully, and blew the dust from it. "And the prospect of travelling with him to Alsace, which could have been a pleasure . . . that frankly appals me, Elizabeth. And not least because he brings out the worst in me . . ." He opened the book. "Which I would prefer you not to see."