A Prospect of Vengeance

by Anthony Price

  ‘Did you? Gosh!’ The child scanned the hillside. ‘A fox—?’

  ‘He’s gone, dear—‘

  Audley was still waiting. Although now, after they’d taken such a time to reach him, he had managed to stand up, and had moved out of the shade of the monument into the full sunlight, so that she could see him clearly at last.

  ‘Daddy—!’

  What he looked like, length-and-breadth-and-face, was no great revelation: there had been that picture, which John Tully had uncovered, of David Audley in a line-out—Cardiff versus the Visigoths, on some dreadful rugger-playing day, when they’d all looked as though they’d been mud-wrestling: and Audley had been wearing a dirty headband, and a look of excited brutality, like an eager Saxon in the shield-wall at Hastings.

  (But—God! the real-life image, of the man himself, jolted her as though she’d touched a live wire—)

  ‘Daughter?’ Standing up under the monument, Audley could look down on them, with the huge sky behind him: a sky shading down from purest blue to palest blue-grey, where the distant green line of trees on the next ridge divided it from the yellow cornfields, and he seemed ten-foot-tall for a moment, above them. ‘What’s this, then?’

  But it wasn’t that—

  ‘What’s this, then?’ Audley smiled at his daughter as he repeated the question. And then he looked directly at Jenny. ‘Hullo, there!’

  That made it worse. Or … not just worse—much worse!

  ‘Daddy—this is Mr Robinson … and Miss Fielding. They know Willy Arkenshaw. And they write books, Daddy. And they want to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes.’ Audley stared at Jenny. ‘I know.’

  ‘Dr Audley—‘ The jolt of the shock was still there: it shook her voice, just as it had shaken her hands that time, after she touched that wire beside the ancient Victorian light-switch in the cellar at home. ‘Dr Audley.’ The husky faltering repetition was almost worse: it was so far from the way she had intended to face up to him that it was almost laughable. Except that, if she started to laugh, she was afraid she might go off into hysterics.

  ‘Daddy—?’ As Audley continued to stare at her—as they both continued to stare at each other—the child picked up the vibration of something strange happening.

  ‘Miss Fielding.’ Audley spoke at last, drawing her back to him even as relief suffused her. ‘I do recognize you, actually. I saw you on the television once. That time you escaped in Beirut. And, of course, I’ve read your books.’

  He had a nice voice. And, although the pictures of that rather battered face hadn’t lied in any factual detail, he seemed much younger than Willy Arkenshaw had suggested: old was as much a slander with David Audley as it had been with Philly: old was in the mind—

  God! She was betraying Philly now—

  ‘Oh, Daddy!’ Cathy Audley exploded.

  Jenny was aware that more of her hair was coming down; and there were beads of sweat crawling down the side of her face, and elsewhere—

  But he was so very like—so very like, even though he was quite unlike—so very like Philly! And she bloody-well fancied him! And—what was so ultimately worse: what rocketed that betrayal into unimaginable orbit—was that he fancied her, too!

  ‘Mr Robinson knows all about the battle, Daddy.’ Cathy Audley’s patience ran out. ‘He wants to talk to you about General Le Marchant.’

  ‘He does?’ Audley let go of Jenny unwillingly. ‘Does he?’ The letting-go stretched itself until it had to snap. ‘Mr Robinson … You are the writer, of course.’ He smiled at Ian. ‘And you have a rare grasp of good English. A quite unjournalistic grasp, if I may say so—?’ All the smile went out of Audley’s face. ‘But that would be because you were at Princess Mary’s Grammar School, and brought up on the classics? Like Gibbon having the Bible hammered into him?’

  Jenny looked at Ian, and caught him with his mouth open.

  Audley nodded. ‘Hennessey—Henworth—? Henworthy … he was your High Master, of course. And he was taught by my old Latin Master, as an inky child, before he gravitated to higher things.’ He nodded again. ‘There’s a descent in such matters, among schoolmasters. Not quite as good as breeding through pedigree bulls, perhaps … but it leaves its mark, nevertheless, I’d like to think.’ Another nod, but this time accompanied by a terrible cold smile. ‘I particularly enjoyed your book on the Middle East. It had several interesting insights, as well as some quite deplorable flights of fancy.’

  Jenny felt her own mouth open—Audley wasn’t perfect: the ‘rare grasp of English’ and the Hennessey/Henwood one-upmanship was fair enough at a smart cocktail party; but if Audley thought he could patronize Ian Robinson, he had much mistaken his man! But then it was too late, because Ian was reacting—

  In fact, Ian was smiling. ‘Your daughter has told us about your ancestor, Dr Audley—who was killed in the charge here?’ He gave Audley back a nod. ‘But … was he just another bone-headed English dragoon? Or was he one of Wellington’s “Research and Development” officers—the “exploring” officers, were they called? Andrew Laith Hay—? Or John Waters, or Somers Cocks? Or Colquhoun Grant? Or Dr Paul Mitchell?’

  Christ! That was giving him both barrels! thought Jenny. Ian, being Ian, really had done his homework!

  ‘You’re interested in the battle of Salamanca, Mr Robinson?’ Audley, being Audley, was taking Ian’s measure now.

  ‘Not in the least, Dr Audley.’ Ian smiled at Audley. ‘But—‘

  ‘Daughter!’ Audley interrupted Ian rudely. ‘Go and see how your mother is—‘ He nodded past the monument, into a stone-quarried gap behind him, which divided the Greater Arapile super-tanker into two parts, fore and aft on its port side here, below the tall stone shaft. ‘She’s reading her book … or sunbathing, or something—down there—yes?’

  Cathy Audley stared at her father, the huge sunglasses concealing what would certainly be a frown.

  ‘Go on, Cathy.’ Audley’s voice was gently level now, neither pleading or commanding.

  The sunglasses turned towards Ian for an instant. But now the tightened lips and the anger-lines around the mouth told their own story.

  ‘Off you go.’ This time he actually smiled. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

  Cathy came back to him. ‘I told them you received a phone-call, I think they pretended not to be interested in it. I’m sorry.’

  Audley shrugged. ‘So I received a phone-call. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, love. So—‘

  ‘Yes—“Off I go”.’ The child started to go, but then stopped. ‘But I’m forgetting my manners—aren’t I!’ She swung towards Jenny. ‘They all say “Don’t talk to strangers—forget about good manners!” But, I forgot my lesson, didn’t I, Miss Fielding?’ No child now—not for her, and not for Ian, in his turn: for Ian, a look which, if he’d been a British dragoon, and Cathy Audley a Frenchman sighting him along her musket, would have knocked him stone-dead from his saddle, beside her ancestor and General Le Marchant. ‘And goodbye, Mr Robinson.’

  Wisely (although she didn’t give him time, anyway) Ian didn’t try to answer, as she twisted away again, and dropped down gracefully into the rocks below the monument, leaving the echo of his name on her bullet in the silence.

  ‘Yes … well, I don’t really need to enlarge on that—do I?’ Audley watched her go, and then turned back to them with the vestiges of his smile still in place, but with a mixture of pride and contempt edging it. ‘But, then, perhaps I am indebted to you both—for teaching her a lesson about the Great British Press, to go with “Don’t talk to strangers”?’

  Now it was war to the knife! thought Jenny. ‘We’re not the Great British Press, Dr Audley. We’re just … us, actually.’

  ‘”Us”?’ Looking at her (rather than at Ian), his expression twisted. And the bugger of it was that she knew that look, having seen it on other men similarly caught between suspicion and desire; but she had not felt about them as she felt about him—and she must stop feeling like that, right now!

&n
bsp; ‘We’re in trouble, Dr Audley.’ Self-preservation came to her rescue, adding tactics to inclination. ‘We need your help.’

  ‘My … help … ?’ His confusion helped her. ‘But … I thought I was the one who was supposed to be in trouble. Aren’t you supposed to be investigating me, Miss Fielding-ffulke?’

  ‘”Fielding”—‘ Everyone who wanted to shit on her waved that ridiculous name in her face ‘—just “Fielding”, please, Dr Audley.’

  ‘No “ffulke”?’ He cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘But that’s a fine old name, Miss Fielding-ffulke: Rudyard Kipling chose it in Puck of Pook’s Hill—which is one of our favourite books, “ffulke”—Fulke … he was the double-agent—the traitor. He was the one whom the Lord of Pevensey “turned round” to save England from Robert of Normandy, Miss—Fielding-ffulke.’ The eyebrow lowered. ‘So … whose side are you on now?’

  Ian loomed up at her side—like the old Ian, at need: like the older Ian, when they’d worked together. ‘Didn’t your telephone-caller of last night tell you all about us, Dr Audley?’ Ian-like, he didn’t try to give a smart answer to a silly question.

  ‘He did—yes.’ No expression for Ian. ‘He said you were investigating me. And he didn’t suggest that I should be flattered, either.’

  ‘We’re only trying to find out the truth about Philip Masson’s death, Dr Audley.’

  ‘Only the truth? Well-well!’ Audley sneered at the word, just as Mitchell had done before him. ‘I wish you the worst of luck then, Mr Robinson.’

  ‘You don’t fancy the truth?’ Against Audley’s sudden unpleasantness and the sense and the thrust of his own question, Ian was as respectful as a curate with a bishop nevertheless.

  ‘My dear fellow! I’ve spent two-thirds of my life looking for the truth. But only in relation to other people, of course—just like you. The truth about myself … and my many wicked deeds … is quite another matter.’ Cutting his losses, Audley became pleasant again. ‘But you must forgive my bad temper—or make allowances for it, anyway. Because I am on holiday. And with my family—‘ He raised a big blunt-fingered hand ‘—and yes—I do realize that Dr Goebbels and many other villains—probably Attila the Hun, too—were good family men, who loved their children, and their wives, and also went on holiday … I realize that, Mr Robinson!’ He smiled a terribly ugly smile, not at all sweetly, in spite of his best efforts. ‘But … would you like all your little secrets dragged into the harsh light of day? Or of print—in some book, or some yellow tabloid rag?’

  ‘No.’ Ian shook his head, still curate-respectful. ‘Especially if they involved the death—or the murder—of another human being, Dr Audley … No—I certainly wouldn’t like that.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that, Mr Robinson. I meant exactly what I said.’ Audley twisted slightly, peering down beside the monument where there was a gap in the rocks, as though to make sure that his wife and daughter were not within earshot. ‘As it happens I have been “involved”, as you put it so delicately, in the death of a number of human beings over the years. Since before you were born, in fact, Mr Robinson.’ The sneer was back. ‘I started young, when I didn’t know any better, with anonymous Germans in Normandy, saying “shoot” to my gunner—second-hand work even then, you might say.’

  He was that old! thought Jenny. But of course he was, and Cathy Audley had said as much; and even Philly himself had been killing Chinese—anonymous Chinese in Korea only a hand’s-breadth of years after Audley’s war; and Audley hardly looked older than Philly had done, that last time, when he’d turned up out of the blue at the end of her Finals—Philly! Oh Philly!

  ‘Ian—Mr Robinson—isn’t talking about ancient history, Dr Audley,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Neither am I, Miss Fielding.’ Audley almost sounded hurt by her sharpness. ‘But … old men have a habit of remembering the wounds they had on Crispin’s day.’ He shrugged. ‘As it also happens … I had no hand in your godfather’s death, for what it’s worth—‘ He raised his hand as her mouth opened ‘—oh yes: I know all about him … And by “all” I do mean all, Miss Fielding. Because I investigated him, once upon a time … Or, rather, twice upon a time: first, before he died, because we needed to know who he really was … and then afterwards, when we wanted to know why—or what … and then who and how, as well as why.’ He stared at her for a moment. ‘He was quite a man, was your godfather … But, then, you know that already.’

  He was quite a man, too! She started to think. But then she fought against the thought, amending it mutinously: whatever he was, he was also a clever man—and even that instant of mutual recognition might be part of his cleverness, like a python hypnotizing its prey before swallowing it! So now he was trying to make her think what he wanted her to think, perhaps?

  ‘I know it suited you when he died, Dr Audley.’

  ‘Did it? Well … perhaps it did. And perhaps it didn’t. Who can tell?’ He shrugged again. ‘What I know is … that it doesn’t suit me now to be bothered by you. Because I have other work to do—more important work than having to worry about you.’ Now, at last, she got his purely-ugly face. ‘Which is why I asked “whose side are you on?”, Miss Fielding.’

  ‘But you’re on holiday now, Dr Audley. So we’re not wasting your official time, are we?’ Ian came in again, playing uncharacteristically dirty.

  ‘I don’t suppose it would do any good if I told you I have an alibi?’ Audley ignored Ian. ‘I flew back to Washington the Tuesday after we killed O’Leary—the Tuesday after the Saturday when my very dear Frances died—?’ He switched to Ian suddenly. ‘No—?’

  It was the wrong appeal, to the wrong person.

  ‘No.’ Audley nodded. ‘I didn’t think it would.’ He sighed. ‘And you’re quite right, of course! It’s like an old friend of mine is always reminding me, about what the centurion said to Christ, according to St Matthew: “I am also a man under authority, having soldiers under me; and I say to this Go! And he goeth”.’ He gave them both a twisted grin. ‘It’s what he calls “one of the hard sayings”. Meaning that authority and action and responsibility are all the same thing in the end. So that won’t do will it?’ He smiled at her. ‘So we have a problem. Because you won’t believe me unless I tell you what I’m not at liberty to tell you. And even if I do tell you, then you may choose not to believe me. So I’m into a Catch-22 situation, it seems.’

  ‘And so are we, Dr Audley.’ If Ian had liked the St Matthew throwaway line, he didn’t show it. ‘Didn’t he say—on the telephone?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Audley bowed slightly. ‘You’ve “raised the devil”—? And now he’s after you—is that it?’

  Suddenly Jenny wanted Reg Buller badly. Audley was playing with them, and Ian was still too screwed-up about Frances Fitzgibbon to think as straight as he usually thought. And even she was having trouble with Audley’s sharp image imposed on her memory of Philly.

  ‘Where’s Reg, Ian?’ What they needed was Reg Buller’s no-nonsense brutality: Reg had no hang-ups about Philly or Frances, let alone Audley.

  ‘Yes—‘ Ian raised his binoculars again ‘—he has rather taken his time. But—yes, he is coming now, Jen—see?’ He lowered the glasses and pointed at a distant dust-cloud in the valley between the Greater Arapile and the lower ridges opposite, across the intervening cornlands which had once been another foreign field that was for ever England. ‘Actually … we’ve begun to think that it may not have been you, Dr Audley—see there, Jen—?’

  ‘What?’ The information casually dropped after Ian’s advice to Jenny, that Buller was approaching at last, caught Audley flat aback. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Mrs Fitzgibbon—‘ Ian squared his shoulders, while pretending to concentrate on the foreign field, like a French general watching the advance of the British Army ‘—she was Paul Mitchell’s girl, wasn’t she, Dr Audley?’

  That couldn’t be the question—there had to be more than that!

  ‘What?’ Audley frowned.

  It couldn’t be the
question—even though it fulfilled the ‘I-already-know-the-answer’ criterion.

  ‘Frances Fitzgibbon was Paul Mitchell’s girl—was she, Dr Audley?’ But Ian stuck to his gun like a brave Frenchman with the dragoons upon him, nevertheless.

  ‘No.’ Audley shook his head slowly. ‘Actually, she wasn’t. Although he would have liked her to be. But … she wasn’t anybody’s girl. Not even her husband’s, I rather suspect … But … I don’t really see what Frances Fitzgibbon has to do with you, Mr Robinson.’

  ‘Or Paul Mitchell, Dr Audley?’ Jenny came in on his flank.

  ‘You asked us which side we’re on, Dr Audley.’ Ian came back on cue. ‘But we don’t know for sure whose side anyone is on, now. All we know is that we’re in trouble—like Miss Fielding said. And we think you’re the only person who may be able to help us.’

  That really was the truth. And, of course, who better than Ian to pronounce it?

  Audley relaxed, suddenly. ‘Mitchell—Paul Mitchell—?’ Then he laughed, but not happily. ‘Oh yes—that would be it, of course! We laid the trail—and you picked it up … even after so many years … is that it? Now I see! You think that Mitchell—? Because of Thornervaulx—?’ He completed the unhappy chuckle. ‘It’s what my dear wife always says: “too-clever-by-half”—and not half clever enough!’ He looked at Ian, and then Jenny, and then away from both of them, down the hillside.

  Jenny waited.

  ‘Well, Miss Fielding—Mr Robinson—‘ Audley came back to them, with a slow shake of the head ‘—if you think that, then I think you’re both in big trouble now.’ He pointed down the hillside. ‘So now we’ll see?’

  And then there was suddenly Reg Buller, stamping up out of the dead ground among the rocks.