And yet … in another way and in her own sweet vengeful time, she had come back, had Madeleine Francoise. And even now she was reaching out to catch her husband’s heel from behind, when he least expected her touch.
* * *
She shook her head again, decisively. ‘No.’
‘No?’ He was no longer searching for doubt in her. Instead he was superimposing her conclusion on top of his own knowledge in the last hope that they wouldn’t coincide.
Finally he sighed: one thing Paul never did was to argue with inconvenient facts, or not for long.
‘Okay. So they adore him, he adores them. And he hated her.9 The corner of his mouth drooped. ‘So you’ve got the one bit of dirt no one else came up with—the Reason Why. And they’re really going to adore you for that. Or he is.’
‘He? Who?’
‘Our Control. Our esteemed Control. He who will give us anything we want, everything we want, provided we will give him exactly what he wants. Namely, the dirt on Jack Butler—a dirty knife in the back for Fighting Jack: the Thin Red Line attacked a tergo, with no time to turn the rear rank back to back, like the 28th at Alexandria—‘
‘What d’you mean?’ Frances quailed before his summer-storm anger.
‘Battle of Alexandria, March 21st 1801. French dragoons caught the 28th—the Glosters—in the rear when their infantry was attacking from the front. So their colonel turned the rear rank round and fought ‘em off back-to-back—I know you don’t go much for the military. Princess, but you ought to remember that from your Arthur Bryant—‘
He swung away suddenly, towards the bookshelves, scanning the titles ‘—and he’ll be here somewhere, Sir Arthur will be, you can bet your life—‘
Frances took a step towards him, but he -was already moving down the long shelving. ‘I didn’t mean that, Paul.’
‘No? The Years of Endurance—it has to be here, the old General would never have missed it … No? Well, perhaps you ought to have meant it—there’s something in it you ought to see, by God!’
‘Paul—‘
But he ignored her, pouncing on a maroon-coloured volume and thumbing through the pages without looking up as he swung back towards her. ‘Yes—‘
‘Paul—listen to me, please.’
‘No. You shut up, Princess, and listen to me. Listen to this, in fact—‘
Frances opened her mouth, and then shut it again as he looked for a moment at her.
‘1801. We beat the French in Egypt. Everyone knows about Nelson sinking their fleet at the Nile, but that was no contest—no one remembers we beat their army, Bonaparte’s veterans of Lodi. No one ever gives a stuff for the British Army, they just take it for granted—and pay it wages that would make your average car worker go screaming mad with rage, and rightly so—‘ His eyes dropped to the page ‘—now, listen—‘
This was the obsessive Paul again, the military historian who had never worn a uniform. But there was something more to it than that obsession this time, thought Frances: something in his mind had connected now with 1801, which she could only discover by holding her tongue.
‘Abercromby—General Sir Ralph Abercromby, commanding the army that beat the French. Died of wounds a week after—gangrene from a sword-cut—67 years old, but he wouldn’t give up until the French retreated from the battlefield … they put him in a soldier’s blanket and he insisted on knowing the name of the soldier, because the man needed his blanket … Here it is: when he died there was a General Order of the Day published:
“His steady observance of discipline, his ever-watchful attention to the health and wants of his troops, the persevering and unconquerable spirit which marked his military career, the splendour of his actions in the field and the heroism of his death are worthy the imitation of all who desire, like him, a life of honour and a death of glory!”
He didn’t look up when he’d finished reading the passage: he was re-reading it, memorising the words for himself, for his own purposes, for the secret Paul, to make sure he was word-perfect.
But where was the connection?
He looked up at last. ‘Well … at least he’s not quite dead yet. Princess—our General Abercromby.’
So that was the connection: somewhere along the line during the past twenty-four hours Paul Mitchell had finally changed his mind about Colonel Butler, from anger to approval, to admiration. And if it didn’t quite make sense to Frances—computers like Paul shouldn’t have emotions—it was altogether fascinating that he should in the end have come to the same conclusion as the irrational one she’d had at the beginning.
‘I haven’t killed him off.’
‘You’re going to give them a motive.’
‘But no proof.’
‘They don’t need proof. Control doesn’t need proof.’ He shook his head. ‘They’re never going to hang anything on him—even if they could that would be bad publicity.
All they want is enough to put the big question mark on him, and means and opportunity never were enough for that. But if you can add a motive to it … that’ll be enough to swing it.’
He was right, of course. If the marriage was on the rocks … and nothing could be proved against her … then Butler wouldn’t have got the children—my girls. And that, in the whole wide world, was the one thing he might have killed for out of the line of duty, they could argue.
And that would be enough to swing it.
What have I done? thought Frances. I don’t for one moment think that Colonel Butler killed his wife—but if I put in a true report of my conclusions I shall suggest that he did.
‘You agree that there is a motive?’ The cold, pragmatic half of her still wanted to know why Paul was so emotional about the job of excavating Colonel Butler’s past.
Because it couldn’t be that Paul simply admired Butler’s Abercromby performance in the Korean trenches and the Cypriot mountains—not enough to hazard his own career, anyway.
‘A motive?’ Paul’s voice was suddenly casual—as casual as a subaltern of the 28th echoing the command Rear rank—Right about—Prepare to repel cavalry! ‘Frankly, Princess. I don’t give a fuck about motives. Or wives. Or murder—‘
That was David Audley speaking: David never swore, except very deliberately to shock, or to emphasise a point by speaking out of character … And Paul was a chameleon like herself, taking his colour from those he observed about him.
‘—Or anything else, but what matters—what really matters.’
‘What really matters?’
‘What matters is—we don’t kill off Fighting Jack. That’s what matters.’
‘Kill off?’
‘We don’t block his promotion. All we have to do is disobey orders—give him a clean bill of health—lie through our teeth: happy marriage, tragic disappearance, “Motorway Murderer”.’
So Paul had done his homework—naturally. Paul knew reporters and news editors.
Like David Audley, Paul was owed favours and collected on them, promising future favours. Paul was born knowing the score, down to the last figure beyond the decimal point.
But did Paul know about Trevor Anthony Bond, and Leslie Pearson Cole (deceased, restricted) and Leonid T. Starinov (restricted)? And the curious not-alibi which lay between grimy Blackburn in the morning and medieval Thornervaulx in the afternoon—did he know about that too?
At the moment he didn’t care, anyway: he was bending all his will on bending her will.
Make me an offer, thought Frances cynically. It would have to be either an offer she couldn’t refuse or a threat she couldn’t ignore, nothing else would serve—that must be what he was thinking, not knowing what she had already done for his Fighting Jack.
‘Can you give me one good reason why I should do that, Paul? Why I should risk my neck?’
‘Why?’ He snapped The Years of Endurance shut and reached up to slot it back into its space in the shelf. ‘Say … the best interests of our country—‘ He glanced sidelong at her, and then straightened the books casuall
y ‘—would that do?’
That was the offer: the National Interest, with no direct benefit attached for her.
Quite a subtle offer.
He faced her. ‘And in our best interests too, as it happens, Frances.’
She had been too quick off the mark: self-interest as well as National Interest—that was more like Paul.
‘Our best interests? How?’
He grinned. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Nor I did!’
I think I know what his promotion is, Frances remembered. She had been staring at Isobel’s white wall when he had said that, deliberately tantalising her.
‘You didn’t quite get round to that, no.’
The grin vanished. ‘You’ve been playing pretty hard to get. Princess. It’s been all give and no take, don’t you think?’
The threat was coming.
‘I wouldn’t exactly say that.’ But it was true nevertheless, she decided. She had been a pretty fair bitch to Paul, matching his hang-ups with her own.
‘Okay—have it your way … I’ll tell you.’ He nodded slowly. ‘But first I’ll tell you something else: if you tell Control that Butler had a motive for chilling his missus … then I’m going to phone the Grand Hotel in Blackburn—‘
‘Blackburn—?’
‘That’s where Jack is tonight—and I’m going to tell him the score. At least he’ll have the chance to face the enemy at his back then—‘
‘What’s he doing in Blackburn?’
He did a double-take on her. ‘How the hell do I know? I don’t know—Jim Cable said he’d be there tonight, until about midday tomorrow—what the devil has that got to do with it? It’s his home town, isn’t it?’
‘You were in Blackburn today.’
‘Ah … Yes. But he’s not on my trail, if that’s what you mean.’
‘How d’you know he isn’t?’
‘Because Jim Cable booked the hotel for him the first day they went up to Yorkshire, more than a week ago. Which was at the start of the O’Leary hunt—long before the Butler hunt started, Princess.’
‘He’s on O’Leary’s trail, then?’
‘Yes, he is—and very hot too, Jim says.’ He nodded.
‘In Blackburn?’ Frances persisted.
Paul frowned. ‘No, not in Blackburn. What’s so all-fired important about Blackburn?’
‘You said you didn’t know what he’s doing there. But you know what he isn’t doing.’
He shook his head. ‘I meant that literally. He told Jim he was taking a half-day off on the Friday week ahead, and he’d be spending the night before in his home town, that’s all. He’ll be back on the job by 1.30 tomorrow, anyway—you can pick him up at the University then if you want him.’ He continued to frown at her, half puzzled, half suspicious. ‘We seem to have lost the thread rather, Princess. And you haven’t yet revealed what you intend to do.’
The heavy door-knocker on the mock-Tudor door boomed out, echoing in the empty hall outside the library.
‘Are you expecting callers?’ asked Paul quickly.
Frances shook her head, listening intently. Even before the echoes had died away she could hear other sounds mingling with them inside the house.
‘Then who—?’
She raised a finger to cut off his question. That first sound had been the clatter of the latch on the TV room door. Then there had been a burst of unmuffled pop music—at that volume it was amazing that the girls had heard anything else, even that thunderous door-knocker—but the music had been quickly muffled again as the door was closed on it. Now there came the distinctive clackety-click of Sally’s fashion clogs crossing the parquet floor of the hall, ending with the thud and rattle of mock-Tudor bolt and safety chain on the door itself.
At least it couldn’t be Colonel Butler himself, because Colonel Butler was in the Grand Hotel, Blackburn, this night—this Thursday night (that other November night, nine years ago, had been a Monday night).
What was strange was that she wasn’t as relieved as she should be that it couldn’t be Colonel Butler. Indeed, analysing the strangeness, she came upon the beginning of a day-dream that he had come back, very late, after the girls were safely tucked up and asleep, and she herself was comfortably curled up (in Diana’s exotic nightie and warm dressing gown, which Jane had found for her), reading his Tales of Yoknapatawpha County—reading in it maybe ‘As I Lay Dying’, or ‘A Rose for Emily’, or perhaps ‘The Bear’, which she had first encountered so unforgettably at college—young Frances Warren as excited as John Keats On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer—in ‘Go Down Moses’—
* * *
‘I hope you don’t mind me reading your Faulkner.’
(One hand clasping the book to her breast, the other modestly joining the edges of the gown together at her throat.)
Wo? at all, Mrs Fitzgibbon.’ (Very formal, he would be.) ‘You like Faulkner, do you, Mrs Fitzgibbon?’
‘Very much! (‘The old verities and truths of the heart,’ Colonel Butler.) I think we’ve both read him in the same way, you know.’ (Deduction: From the dates on the fly-leaves, each meticulously recording the book’s date of acquisition. Butler had read his way through Faulkner at break-neck speed, book after book, in the midst of his duel with the EOKA terrorists in the Troodos Mountains, beginning with Intruder in the Dust, and then Absalom! Absalom! He must have had them flown in, money no object by then, for by then he was a rich man, the ex-poor boy from Blackburn, self-made officer-and-gentleman… Maybe lying in ambush all day on those rocky hillsides with his sub-machine gun and his newest Faulkner?)
(Well, in the same way, if not in the same circumstances exactly. Except that it was all in her imagination, every word, every picture. All a dream.)
* * *
‘Frances,’ said Sally. ‘Frances—there’s a policeman at the door, for you, he says. Not the one who brought the Chinese grub—food, I mean.’
Frances smiled at her, sisterly-step-motherly. ‘Yes, dear?’
‘He says he’s a policeman, anyway. He says he’ll show you his … his warrant card.
But he’s not in uniform, so I haven’t let him in. But he says he knows you.’
So it would be Detective-Sergeant Geddes. The delivery of the Chinese take-away had been a constable’s chore. But what would Geddes want?
‘All right, dear. I’ll see him.’
‘Okay. I’ll tell him you’re just coming.’ Sally ducked out obediently, sisterly-step-daughterly.
Frances looked at Paul. ‘I’ll take him into the sitting room.’
‘Don’t take long.’ From his expression Paul’s patience with the hard-to-get Fitzgibbon was close to exhaustion. ‘I’d like to know what you’re intending to do, Frances.’
What she intended to do.
What she was doing was also all a dream, thought Frances. Ever since the bomb everything had had an insubstantial quality, fuzzed at the edges, as though she was living out an alternative version of a life which had actually ended beside the duck-pond in a spray of blood and muddy water and feathers.
‘I shall be here tonight and in Blackburn tomorrow ‘ she said.
* * *
The door was open, but on the chain. She could smell the wet November darkness through the gap, beyond the area of the porch light.
Through the side window of the mock-Tudor porch she saw a long strip of light where the curtains in one of the mullioned windows of the library hadn’t quite met. As she watched, the light went out and a second or two later the curtains moved: Paul was observing her policeman.
‘Yes?’ she addressed the gap.
‘Mrs Fitzgibbon?’
‘Yes.’ She peered through the gap. Whoever it was, it wasn’t Detective-Sergeant Geddes. The moustache was there, and the rather swarthy complexion too; but this was a stockier and an older man.
‘Special Branch, madam. My warrant card.’
Frances accepted the card—Detective-Superintendent Samuel Leigh-Hunter. That certainly made him top brass, on a le
vel with their own formidable D. S. Cox in the department; and he had the same heavy-lidded seen-it-all-but-still-learning-from-it look which the best of them had, and which was frightening and reassuring at the same time—that much one glimpse through the gap registered.
Caution, though: she still didn’t know him.
‘Yes, Superintendent?’ The chain remained in position under her hand.
‘I’d like a word with you, madam. Inside the house, if you don’t mind.’ The eyes were opaque. ‘With reference to Dr David Audley.’
Frances’s legs weakened at the knees. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she heard herself say, in Mrs Fitzgibbon’s haughtiest voice.
‘Let the man in, Frances,’ said Paul from behind her.
‘What?’ she swung round.
‘Let him in, you crafty little bitch—or I should say something complimentary really, I suppose!’ Paul grinned broadly at her.
‘What?’
‘Then I’ll let him in.’ He reached past her towards the chain, lifting the knob out of the slot. ‘Come in. Colonel Shapiro—join the club!’
CHAPTER 12
THE ISRAELI wasn’t pleased. Frances sensed his displeasure the moment he stepped inside, it was like a tiny movement of air setting one leaf quivering on a still day.
‘Captain Mitchell.’ The leaf no longer moved, but it had told its tale: Paul had touched it with his unexpected presence.
‘Not “Captain”.’ Paul’s grin faded to a self-deprecating smile. ‘The highest rank I ever aspired to was lance-corporal in the Cambridge University OTC, I’m afraid. Colonel.’
‘Of course. But the first picture we ever took of you was as a captain—France in ‘74.
In an RTR black beret. And first impressions last longest.’ Shapiro traded smile for smile.
‘And you are something of a tank expert, 1918 and all that, I believe?’
‘But not on your level—1967 and all that … the Jebl Libni counter-attack, was it?’
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