Ian saw it all, detail by detail, on the hillside he’d not yet seen, among the ruins of the abbey he’d also never seen yet—not yet! But which he would see, by God, as soon as he was free again!
‘Yes?’ He almost added, for Jenny … this is one we have to write, Jen! But then he suddenly wasn’t so sure. ‘Go on, Reg—go on!’
Another frown. ‘Well, that’s all there is, lad: they took ‘er away—an’ O’Leary with ‘er … An’ then they started to make bloody-sure no one ever printed the truth about what happened there.’ Buller watched him. ‘So what else do you want, then?’
Ian couldn’t really say anything. But Jenny saved him from admitting so much. ‘But … you haven’t really told us the ending—have you, Reg?’
Buller picked up his chaser, but didn’t drink it. ‘Yes … But maybe that’s the bit you won’t like, Lady. An’ I’d only be guessin’ anyway. An’ maybe it’s too early to start guessin’? Not when you’ve got your cheque-book at the ready?’ He looked at Ian.
For once Ian knew that he not only knew more than Jenny did, but also understood better what he knew: knew that he had lost forever what he could never have won anyway—knew utterly and forever that his best book couldn’t be written.
‘Go on, Reg.’ His knowledge didn’t set him free: it chained him. But he wanted Jenny to feel the weight of those chains.
‘Okay.’ Buller dropped him. ‘Your bloke Masson, Lady—he may have been the greatest thing since bread an’ alcohol. But he’d still have played his game the only way he knew—the way the clever buggers in the Civil Service always play it. Which is only the way everyone else plays it, anyway, if they’re clever: you use the weapons you’ve got, that the other bloke hasn’t got—okay?’
The man was trying to wrap up his can-of-worms in pretty paper. ‘For God’s sake, Reg—tell her!’
‘Okay—okay!’
Jenny looked from one to the other. Tell me what—?’
Out of nowhere, Ian suddenly understood why Buller was delaying. And that was remarkably to Reg Buller’s credit, when he was so shit-scared of ‘Dr P. L. Mitchell’—enough to make them go over that wall in the rain and the dark into the railway cutting so uncomfortably and so recently. But, for his part, he couldn’t let himself identify so exactly with Dr Mitchell—not yet, not yet!
He faced Jenny. ‘Philip Masson wanted the job, Jen. And … maybe he didn’t think Jack Butler was right for it—‘ Partly on impulse, and partly to help her accept what he was about to say, he sugared the bitter pill ‘—more likely … So he fixed a test for Butler to prove himself—handling all the different pressures, up north: not just O’Leary, but the Special Branch, and MI5, and the local police up there—and the Chief Constable—right, Reg?’
Buller nodded gratefully. And then faced up to the truth. ‘It was a maybe fair test—‘ Then he faced Jenny in turn, to repay his debt. ‘—but it was a fucking dirty trick, Lady—if you’ll pardon my French!’
‘It was a fair test.’ Ian chose to disagree. ‘Because Butler pretty well passed it at the University: he didn’t catch O’Leary … but O’Leary’s bomb didn’t kill anyone.’ He still tried to sugar the pill—even after Reg Buller’s French. ‘But then O’Leary went on to Thornervaulx. And … Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon died because of that, you see—?’
‘You’ve got it, lad!’ Buller didn’t want to owe him more than that. ‘But that’s where we ‘ave to start guessin’, Lady. Because it still could be Audley who did for him, after that. Or … it could be ‘e just turned a blind eye—see?’
The blind eye seeing confused her for a second. ‘Audley—?’
‘ ‘E could ‘ave turned a blind eye.’ Buller emphasized himself. ‘ ‘E could have just pointed Mitchell in the right direction. Or he could have gone to Mitchell straight off, an’ said “This bugger Masson—if ‘e fell under a bus now … or, maybe, if ‘e fell off ‘is boat, an’ drowned, an’ no question asked … wouldn’t that be nice now?” An’ after what ‘ad ‘appened to the woman ‘e wouldn’t ‘ave needed to ask twice; ‘e’d got the perfect murderer. Or almost perfect.’
Jenny stared at them both. ‘Mitchell?’
‘ ‘E’s got the balls for it, Lady.’ Buller nodded. ‘An’ she was ‘is woman, Lady—don’t you see!’
With a terrible certainty, Ian understood why she was so slow now, when she was usually so quick. And then he saw how he could make her understand. ‘You want vengeance for Philip Masson, Jen. So Paul Mitchell wanted to even the score for Frances Fitzgibbon.’
She frowned at him. ‘But Philly didn’t kill her.’ She looked at Reg Buller.
‘”Mad Dog” O’Leary?’ Buller shook his head. ‘ ‘E just snapped a shot off—it could ‘ave been at anyone—it could ‘ave been at Mitchell … or it could ‘ave been at Butler … or it could ‘ave been some poor bloody copper, Lady: they’re the ones who usually get the bullet.’ Another shake. ‘But it was ‘er … an’ if it was your bloke Masson who put it all together, then it was ‘im that got ‘er killed—that’s the way I might ‘ave seen it, if she’d been my woman, I tell you straight.’ He cocked his head. ‘ ‘Ave you ever loved anyone? Your mum and dad, maybe? Or this bloke of yours, Philly—?’
Jenny had got it: it was pasted across her face, white under falling-down red.
‘If it ‘ud been my woman I might ‘ave done it, anyway,’ repeated Buller simply. ‘Or … if I was “Dr P. L. Mitchell”—yes. Because then I’d ‘ave known how to do it, too—‘specially if I’d ‘ad “Dr D. L. Audley” to help me!’ He stared at Jenny. ‘But, then again, I’m not sure about Audley to tell the truth. Because, ‘avin’ ‘eard a thing or two about ‘im, I reckon ‘e’d ‘ave fixed Masson some other way, short of murder.’ He cocked his head at her. ‘Wasn’t it you said on the phone today that ‘e likes to out-smart people? That ‘e gets ‘is jollies that way more than any other? An’ she wasn’t ‘is woman, after all—was she?’ He shook his head finally. ‘No … if I was bettin’, then I’d say the worst ‘e might ‘ave done is to ‘ave looked the other way. An’ my money would all be on Mitchell, Lady.’
Jenny looked at Ian: she had been looking at him ever since she’d got it, he realized. ‘Ian—?’
He had to face it, too. ‘She was quite something, Jen. Everyone who knew her—‘ He thought of Mrs Simmonds for an instant ‘—everyone who knew her as she really was … she must have been quite a woman, Jen.’
‘I don’t mean her—‘ She brushed irritably at her hair ‘—I mean Mitchell, Ian.’
‘Yes.’ Ian had to face that, too. And with Paul Mitchell there was the matter of the empty shot-gun between them, as well as Frances Fitzgibbon. But it was Frances who made the decision easy. ‘Actually, I think Mr Buller has got it wrong, Jen. It’s clever … but he’s wrong. Although … it’s early days, of course.’
‘Oh aye?’ Buller frowned at him in surprise.
‘Yes.’ Never writing this marvellous book was bad enough. But helping Paul Mitchell to escape was a more immediate problem. And then, quite suddenly, he saw the easy answer. ‘Or is Mitchell a saint, Reg?’
‘A—?’ The frown deepened.
‘Only saints have the gift of bi-location, Reg: they can be in two places at once. But the rest of us can’t.’ Annoying Reg Buller would also help. ‘Even if Mitchell wasn’t saving my life this afternoon, I really don’t see how he could have been killing John Tully—do you?’ There was, of course, a major flaw in that dismissive argument: he didn’t really know that Mitchell had been behind him, watching him, until quite late in the afternoon. But Reg Buller couldn’t know that. ‘I’m his alibi, Reg.’
‘Oh aye?’ Buller stared at him belligerently as they both faced up to John Tully’s death, about which they knew next to nothing. But … if that had also been Mitchell, then his own ethical problems multiplied hideously. But he would think about that later: it was early days—everyone seemed agreed on that.
Buller grinned suddenly. ‘You could be right at that, la
d—back in’78.’
It was Ian’s turn to frown. ‘What?’
‘Someone hired O’Leary. So someone was up to something.’ Buller dropped him, almost contemptuously, in preference for Jenny. ‘So now Masson’s turned up again, an’ there’s a great big can of worms goin’ to be opened up … An’ if you want me to try an’ guess what’s ‘appening—Lady, I can’t even begin to guess.’ He made a face at her. And then remembered his whisky chaser on the table beside him, and picked it up and downed it. ‘But I tell you one thing: there’ll be others as well as Mitchell tryin’ to stop up the rat-holes. An’ the rats are all runnin’ scared, bitin’ whatever gets in their way—like us, for a start, maybe?’ He looked at Jenny for a moment, and then nodded. ‘So I’m runnin’, too. An’ not just from Dr P. L. Mitchell, neither, Lady.’
Mitchell himself had said it, thought Ian with a swirl of panic: they had raised the Devil between them! And now the Devil was after them!
Now he found himself looking at Jenny—looking, and trying not to look at her bitterly, without recrimination. Because it had been Jenny who had wanted vengeance for her beloved Philip Masson, against his own better judgement, and that had been what had started them off on this ill-judged enterprise. And from their present experience he now came upon an unpalatable truth belatedly, which his judgement and instinct hadn’t been quite strong enough to formulate exactly, before it was too late—
The door opened again, without any knock, as before—
Oh God! Ian thought. Not more drinks! Not when Reg Butler’s bulbous red nose seemed even larger than usual, and they needed him stone-cold sober, as never before!
The large barmaid was somewhat breathless, and she didn’t smile at Buller this time. ‘Call for you, Mr Buller—on the phone downstairs—okay?’
‘Thank you, love—‘ Buller addressed the door as it closed again. Then he looked at them in turn. ‘Well, “the bell invites me”, as the bard says—eh?’
That was Reg Buller to the life, thought Ian: all those dropped ‘aitches’, and half-genuine, half-false common speech. But Reg Buller had always been more than he seemed to be. So now, when Jenny had started them off with Macbeth, Reg Buller was quoting Macbeth back to them: he either knew it from old, or he’d looked it up after Jenny had quoted it at him. And now he’d quoted it back at them, when it was too-damn close to the bone for comfort.
‘Wait!’ Jenny surfaced first: Jenny was never better than in danger. ‘If we’re running, Mr Buller—Reg—?’ She half-looked at Ian, as though to remind him that even Paul Mitchell had wanted them to run.
That was their old technique: one picked up the unasked question from the other. ‘Where are we going, Reg?’ He moved slightly, so as to block Buller’s passage towards the door. ‘We’re running … where?’
Buller grinned at him. ‘We ain’t exactly runnin’, Ian lad.’ He replaced his empty beer-glass on the table, beside the empty whisky-glass. ‘Because I don’t reckon there’s an ‘ole deep enough for us to run to, not now—not even if we go an’ call on the Lady’s dad, even—‘ He started to move towards Ian.
‘Where, Mr Duller?’ Jenny moved too, alongside Ian.
‘Not “where”, Lady.’ Buller stopped. ‘Who is the name of our game now, I reckon—where just takes us to him. And we know where.’
Now they were shoulder-to-shoulder in the way, just like in the old days. Only now … Frances Fitzgibbon was between them, somehow, thought Ian: now they were just business associates, and allies at need.
‘Spain, Mr Buller?’ Jenny drew a breath.
‘Audley, Lady.’ Buller’s expression hardened. ‘The only bloke who can get us out from under is Audley. Because … if ‘e knows, then we can maybe make a deal with ‘im. An’ … if ‘e doesn’t know … then ‘e’ll know what’s what when we’ve told ‘im. An’ then ‘e’ll ‘ave to be on our side, to save ‘is own skin.’ He started to move towards them. ‘Okay?’
Ian didn’t know which of them moved first. But they both moved, anyway.
And he completed that belated truth then: as with lies, and with all the sins, great and little, so with vengeance and revenge: you never knew, until too late, what a great work you’d started out on—until too late!
PART TWO
JENNIFER FIELDING AND
THE GHOSTS OF SALAMANCA
1
ALTHOUGH THE SUN had nowhere near reached its full strength Jenny already felt a prickle of sweat between her shoulder blades. And, as she sensed it, another spike of corn-stubble gouged her ankle painfully, reminding her again that she had chosen the wrong shoes this morning. She had planned to look cool and elegant for this encounter, and she was going to end up a perfect mess, sweaty, injured and angry. And it was all Ian’s fault—bloody, bloody Ian!
‘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 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 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 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 way from London to Madrid to the exclusion of almost everything else.
A Prospect of Vengeance Page 23