Sion Crossing

by Anthony Price

  “That’s my job now—to check up on Cookridge.” At the same time, what Butler had set him to do no longer seemed so stupid to Mitchell. Indeed, it could be crucial, even. “Whatever I get … I’m due to phone you in Rome tomorrow morning, David.”

  “Oh yes?” Audley didn’t seem much comforted by that prospect. “Well, I wish you the best of British luck!” His eyes clouded. “Does Jack know anyone who can give you the low-down on the Senator? Anyone in London?” Audley’s expression became as innocent as when he’d mentioned Elizabeth. “Because, if Howard Morris doesn’t know—because if he doesn’t know—?” Suddenly the innocent-clouded look dissolved. “I tell you, Paul—the Foreign Office is bloody useless. The only man they’ve got who knows the blighter from Adam is sailing a trimaran in a single-handed race somewhere. And they don’t even know how to ask him the question, never mind get any sort of answers, without broadcasting it across six continents… . I can give you that for free—I tried that this morning, and I got a dusty answer … All you’ll get from them is facts and figures, nothing more.”

  Mitchell’s morale dropped another point on the scale. “There are SGs scrambled to Washington at the moment, to our people there. And there’s a chap at Cambridge who knows him—I’ve put a ‘search’ out for him.”

  Audley said nothing for a moment, yet Mitchell could read his thoughts exactly.

  “I’m sure you’re doing all you can.” Audley nodded. “But it’s too bloody late, if you ask me.”

  “You mean … we haven’t got a prayer.” Mitchell nodded.

  “A prayer is about all we have got. We can pray that we’ve imagined all this from start to finish—that all Senator Cookridge wants is a professional opinion from an unbiased third party that this … this Sion Crossing treasure—gold, or whatever, still exists, and can be found.” He nodded back at Mitchell. “That sort of initial professional advice, from someone who isn’t going to be in on the actual search, is perfectly correct procedure—sensible procedure, too … Because most treasure-hunters are consumed with a mixture of greed and enthusiasm, so their judgement is usually defective. You need a cool, dispassionate approach for that sort of thing—I know, because I have been involved in one or two little treasure-hunts, as you know, Paul.” He drank, and nodded again. “In fact, I would have been a natural choice for Sion Crossing—as you yourself have pointed out … So the Senator was well-advised … but in this instance—unlucky, shall we say?” He half-smiled at Mitchell suddenly, and frowned at the same time. “Or perhaps not, as the case may be, since Oliver might well make a perfectly adequate consultant … good logical mind, used to handling unreliable information … a bit short on imagination, but that’s not a fatal defect when it comes to treasure—better a devil’s advocate than a dreamer … Yes, Oliver could well earn his fee, you know.” He nodded once again.

  Mitchell frowned “His fee?”

  “Oh—I’m sure he’s not seduced by the thought of money.” Audley cocked his head knowingly. “To do Cookridge a good turn could well be better than money in the bank.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Yes … I think, if Cookridge had come to me, I might very well be in Sion Crossing by now, one way or another.”

  “Even after knowing about Mulholland?” The black face grinned in Mitchell’s memory.

  “Ah … well, now … I might not have known about Mulholland.” Audley thought for a moment. “Yes … you see, that’s just possibly the one place where this operation didn’t go according to plan—if it is some sort of operation … which, on balance, I think it has to be.”

  “But surely it went wrong when Howard Morris chose Oliver instead of you, David?”

  “Same thing. Just related cause and effect.” Audley nodded. “Let’s suppose old Howard had met me in the Oxbridge, and popped the question—and suppose I had agreed to meet Cookridge.” He shrugged. “I’d hardly have refused, because it would have been much too interesting … So then Cookridge pops his question—”

  “But you said you’d have checked with Butler, David, then?”

  “Ah …” Audley bridled “… but that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t have taken the bait.” He gave Mitchell a sly look. “You wouldn’t have started digging then … And we’d never have checked with anyone—I’d have said to Jack: ‘Here’s a marvellous chance to get in with this fellow Cookridge, about whom we know sod-all at the moment—you can spare me from Cheltenham for a few days—I’ll be back in no time at all.’” Audley smiled. “It would have made good sense … And I’ve never been to Georgia—I know the theory of the Mint Julep … I’ve drunk an Oxford version of the South Carolina recipe from the Trapier cup at New College, even … But one of Rick Harwell’s juleps served ‘on location’, as it were—that would be something to remember, Paul!”

  Audley’s eyes closed momentarily, and Mitchell thought when it comes to doing the right thing for the wrong reason—

  Then the eyes were open, transfixing him. “And Jack would have bought that—because it makes sense. In fact, if Oliver had gone to him with the same story he would have bought it, though he wouldn’t have let Oliver go … In fact, Oliver behaving out of character is the real and only place where this operation has come unstuck—otherwise, it’s a quite damnably clever little piece of logical planning, when you think about it—” He stopped abruptly.

  And there, of course, was the cause and effect, thought Mitchell: it was only because they had been baffled by Oliver St John Latimer’s eccentric behaviour that they had dug deeper—had cornered Howard Morris and checked the flights to America

  “Whereas now we’ve got Mulholland,” he said.

  “Miss Cookridge led us to Mulholland.” Audley looked at him, and then through him into the deep of his own memory. “But it was Howard who gave us Miss Cookridge—and it was Howard who connected her with Macallan … Although he might well have assumed we’d already got both of them …” Audley continued to stare into his memory. “Was that for friendship’s sake? Or was that because he was scared? Or was it deliberate policy?” Audley frowned.

  “He knew Macallan would remind you of Debreczen, David,” said Mitchell.

  Audley focussed on him. “Debreczen—of course! You’re absolutely right, Paul Mitchell … if he’d been an Englishman, and they’d kicked him up into the Lords, he’d have been Lord Macallan of Debreczen, by God!” He nodded approvingly. “Quite right!”

  “But where does Cookridge come in? Because he doesn’t mean Debreczen—” Mitchell stretched Audley deliberately “—he means Macallan’s ex-wife and daughter. And that’s not exactly a friendly connection—it’s more like an unfriendly disconnection, David.”

  Audley shook his head. “But Sion Crossing means the Civil War, and there’s a connection there. Because the Civil War was always Bill Macallan’s hobby—that I do know!” Then he shook his head again. “But then Macallan was bed-ridden in Iowa for months—or years—before he died. And Iowa’s a long way from Georgia.”

  “I can get him closer than that,” said Mitchell.

  “What?” Audley concentrated on him. “How?” And then caution overlaid the flash of eagerness. “Or is this your stock-in-trade, Dr Mitchell?”

  The sudden half-mocking formality marked the man’s acceptance that the ten-year-old pupil-teacher relationship was over for him too: they both knew they were equals now.

  “Not really, Dr Audley.” In that instant Mitchell decided that it was enough to have made his point implicitly. With Latimer as deputy-director he might need Audley as an ally in the coming months, and Audley wielded influence with Colonel Butler and others out of all proportion to his position. “I don’t think we have to trade with each other. I only said that to get you out of the office.”

  Audley contemplated him for a moment, as though he too was making a longer appraisal of their future relationship. “Just as well! Because I haven’t got anything to trade with you—now that you’ve got full access to The Beast.” Then he straightened up. “Though don’t you go ge
tting the idea that The Beast knows as much about Debreczen and Macallan as I do, my lad … At least, so far as the old days are concerned. Because most of what it’s got is mine, and I didn’t put everything in it, by golly!”

  “Of course.” Mitchell recognized his chance. “And the same applies to Sion Crossing now, David.”

  Audley’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean? Didn’t this pal of yours put over the details? I thought Jack was reading ’em off from that screen of his?”

  “So he was.” Mitchell nodded. “But my pal didn’t put everything he’d got into it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a friend of mine—because I told him to put over the history.” Mitchell gazed at his teacher innocently. “But I also told him that if he picked up anything that wasn’t history he was to keep that for me alone.” He smiled at Audley suddenly. “You once said that common knowledge spread power too thinly for it to be very useful, David.”

  “Disgraceful!” Audley concealed approval behind insincere disapproval. “Did I say that?”

  “You did. With many other anti-social doctrines.” Mitchell nodded. “I have been very badly trained, I suspect.”

  “Evidently.” Audley was as susceptible to flattery as anyone—except Jack Butler. “So what was Bill Macallan’s connection with Sion Crossing?” He raised an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve been through to your … friend again? Does he know what you do?”

  “Yes.” Mitchell drank some of his beer. “He has a fair idea.”

  “And he’s reliable?”

  “Absolutely. And as a teacher of American history he has a lot of contacts over there.”

  “Even in Sion Crossing?”

  “Not exactly in Sion Crossing. But the story’s quite well-known, it seems.”

  “Yes,” Audley nodded. “Treasure stories usually are. It’s the treasure itself which is elusive. Was it a king’s ransom—a great treasure?”

  “No. That’s really the point, David. You see, by ’64—1864—there wasn’t a great deal of hard cash left in the Confederacy. There was a lot of paper money—and bonds, and such like.”

  “Uh-huh—naturally … ‘Promise to pay’ rubbish, yes—Scarlett O’Hara’s father invested everything in the ‘Glorious Cause’, as I recall. Like our National Savings and Victory Bonds in the last war—if Mr Hitler had won, all that would have been waste paper. And Mr Lincoln did win.” He nodded once more, but then frowned. “But Senator Cookridge must be after gold, not paper, surely?”

  “Not this gold.” Peter’s facts and figures came back to Mitchell. “The whole of the Confederate treasury, that Jefferson Davis sent out of Richmond in ’65, only amounted to about a third of a million—in gold, that is … there were millions in paper—but there was actually more private gold in that convoy, from the Richmond banks. Nearer half a million, maybe.”

  “From Richmond … in ’65.” Audley looked past him, at the clock. “But what has that got to do with Sion Crossing in ’64?!”

  “Nothing—directly. Except that Jefferson Davis’s gold was also plundered. At a place called Chennault Crossroads, in Georgia. They got some of it back, and the lawsuits about possession went on for years afterwards.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “What my … contact says, is that Chennault Crossroads is just a historical footnote to the war, David. And Sion Crossing is just a couple of lines on the end of it—a footnote to a footnote. Calling it ‘treasure’ is ridiculous, he says. At the most there was no more than 20,000 dollars in gold and silver, and that’s stretching it. The rest was paper.” He met Audley’s frown. “Chickenfeed, David.”

  Audley blinked. “Gold’s never chickenfeed, my lad.”

  “Chickenfeed to Senator Cookridge. Not worth the effort—particularly as it most likely doesn’t exist anyway. Because the local militia tangled with Union foragers there—some of it was recovered, but most of it went into the soldiers’ pockets.” He shook his head at Audley. “‘Tipu’s Treasury’ at Mysore. And after the battle of Vittoria in Spain—and the Summer Palace in China … never mind Chennault Crossroads in ’65, or Sion Crossing in ’64.”

  A corner of Audley’s mouth twitched. “And Germany in ’45—you have a point, I agree.” He twitched away the memory of Germany in ’45. “But somebody thinks this is worth Oliver St John Latimer’s time—somebody thought it was worth my time, damn it!”

  “Yes.” They had come to it. “And not just your time.”

  Audley concentrated on him. “What d’you mean?”

  Mitchell experienced a curious twinge of memory of his own past. “You remember what I was doing when we first met, David?”

  “You were … writing a book.” For a fraction of time Audley’s expression softened. “I have a copy signed by the author—remember?”

  “But that didn’t pay the bills, while I was writing it.”

  “No.” Audley knew the economics of historical writing better than most. “You were a leg-man.” He smiled. “You did the donkey-work in the archives for those blessed with more of the world’s goods—or who had comfy academic tenure, and lots of other irons in the fire. Right?”

  “I was a researcher.”

  “And a good one.” Audley nodded. “That was one of the reasons why we hired you.”

  “Yes.” ‘One of the reasons’ was a most delicate way of putting it. “Well … my contact, he uses researchers in the States. He’s been working off and on for several years on a biography of Nathan Bedford Forrest.”

  “Oh yes?” Audley took a second to work that out: he was much better on medieval horse-soldiers than their mid-19th century Confederate descendants. “You mean Professor Welsh does?”

  There were a lot of ways Audley could have known about Peter Welsh: he could simply have asked Colonel Butler whose Sion Crossing information had been fed into the Beast. But what he was signalling was for Mitchell to cut the crap with him.

  Very well, thought Mitchell. Their time was almost up, anyway. “He had a good one in Atlanta. A lady by the name of Wright—Mrs Holly Wright. She was an ex-librarian whose husband ran out on her, and left her with two children … And they don’t pay librarians much, so she branched out … Peter thought a lot of her, because she was bright, as well as accurate and tenacious, so he paid top rates.”

  “Had?” There wasn’t a hint of softness in Audley’s face now.

  “She wrote to him, the last time, to say she’d got this commission from an old buff in the mid-west, to trace the route of a particular Iowan regiment in Sherman’s army. And though the money wasn’t all that good, it could be quite long-term, because the man was some sort of cripple and couldn’t do any of his field-work.”

  “The last time?” Audley was adding two-and-two fast now. “What happened?”

  “Actually, it wasn’t quite the last time—that was the last letter. But she sent him a card, David.”

  “From Smithsville?”

  “From near there. There’s nothing photogenic at Smithsville—she always used to make her own cards, with pretty postcards or photos of her own. So … this one was of a historic old church—an ante-bellum one that survived the war. The Sion Crossing Church, it was.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She had an accident, David—a road accident—” Mitchell accelerated to forestall Audley’s mounting exasperation “—they found her upside down in her car, in the trees off the inter-state one morning. Her sister wrote to Peter Welsh … It was a dead-straight highway, so they reckoned some damn great truck had maybe shouldered her off, and didn’t stop—maybe didn’t even know … It happens like that out there. Sometimes they don’t even find the wrecks for weeks.”

  Audley thought for a moment. “That does sound suspiciously like Mulholland. He likes an accident … And you’re sure Welsh is reliable?”

  “Peter Welsh?” Mitchell was taken aback. “Good God—what d’you mean? He’s just a friend … we were up at college together.”
>
  “Famous last words! You asked him about 1864—and he gave you a fatal accident in 1984. That was good of him.”

  “So he’s got a suspicious mind. I told you—he knows I work for the government now. He thought what happened to Mrs Wright was a curious coincidence, in the circumstances.”

  “In the circumstances we’re up to our necks in coincidences. And this is the final one.” Audley looked at his watch. “We’re into extra time—if Bill Macallan hired someone to look at Sion Crossing, and that someone had a fatal accident—and Winston Mulholland specializes in fatal accidents … then that’s way beyond coincidence, Paul.”

  And when Oliver St John Latimer was unknowingly following in Mrs Holly Wright’s footsteps, thought Mitchell. Christ!

  All the same—

  “I only see Peter Welsh once in a blue moon. And I got in touch with him this time. I’ve no reason not to trust him, David.”

  “Yes.” Audley was only half with him. “And he’s your vintage, not mine … we can check on him later … It’s Bill Macallan I’m worried about—Bill Macallan …”

  It was no good saying … but he’s dead, David again, he had to accept that if Bill Macallan could still worry David Audley from the grave then there was something to worry about.

  “Why, David?”

  “Why?” Audley shook his head quickly, as though to clear it. “Yes …” He concentrated fully on Mitchell. “The trouble with the passage of time, Paul Mitchell, is that it leaves one behind, pickled with one’s memories … You don’t remember Bill Macallan—and, come to that, neither does Jack Butler … he was playing soldiers somewhere when I was playing silly buggers with Macallan. So Macallan’s just a name in the ‘dead files’ to both of you—and the same with Debreczen—Just a bit of history, like Sion Crossing and General Sherman. But I remember them both—they’re not history to me, they’re experience—and bitter bloody experience, too!”