"But you want me to recruit Audley nevertheless, and he's Cambridge sir."
"Audley's a maverick." Clinton shrugged off the inconsistency. "And there's nothing wrong with the Manchester School of History."
"In which I got a shaky Second."
"Which should have been a First, according to your professor." Clinton leaned forward, frowning. "And your flat in Paris is full of books—"
"Yes, but—"
" We chose you for this, Roche," Clinton overbore him. "I told you before—we chose you very carefully—we chose you particularly—get that into your head, and don't ever forget it. You, and no one else, Roche."
Roche opened his mouth, and then closed it quickly. After The Old House and its secret he was consumed with curiosity dummy5
about Audley, so that he almost wanted the assignment for its own sake.
"Because you can do the job, that's why." Clinton sat back.
"When you learn more about David Audley—you may understand . . . but you ought to know one thing already, from what you heard in the Admiral's Room—"
Sir Eustace's room, under the Sargent portrait, where the Admiral's eyes had screwed into his soul, seeking out its innermost treachery: how could Clinton miss what the long-dead Admiral saw so clearly?
"—if we sent Master Latimer, with his Oxford First in P.P.E.—
whatever that is—do you think Audley would change his mind for him! Not in a hundred years! Or Malcolm Thain—
not in a thousand years! That man couldn't recruit a drunkard for a piss-up in a brewery, I don't think—not if we really needed him." Clinton wrinkled his nose in contempt.
"But you, Roche. . . you just might manage it."
The train was in the station, but it was still moving, and it still might not stop.
"You're a bit of a dreamer, Roche. But you're also a soldier, and that's important, if you have to deal with David Audley, because whatever he may say about his military service—
however he may denigrate it, he's proud of it."
Clinton was a strange man, thought Roche warily: not Oxbridge, even contemptuous of Oxbridge. But not unintellectual.
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"And you're a scholar too—and that's also important for Audley. He values scholarship."
"Hardly a scholar, Colonel." The devil was still talking. "Not since Manchester. And not even then, not really."
"But still close enough. And you left to become a soldier."
Clinton smiled evilly. "It should have happened to him—and you'll see that he knows how it happened."
"How it happened? I was called up, that's how it happened!"
"I mean, how you got into Intelligence—a volunteer, not a pressed man."
God! If they knew the truth about that!
"A scholar—but not Oxbridge . . . and he has his reasons for not loving Oxbridge . . . and a soldier," continued Clinton smoothly. "So you have the right profile of the pen and the sword . . . And you have one final attribute which neither Master Oliver nor Master Malcolm possess, more's the pity, I'm sorry to have to admit. Can you think what it is?"
The recollection of how he had really come to volunteer for that transfer from Signals to Intelligence was still unbalancing Roche: what the hell did he have that Latimer and Thain didn't, except that guilty secret?
"You'll send me back to Paris if I fail?" Clinton and Genghis Khan were brothers under the skin.
"Not to Paris. An ambitious young man can still be unhappy in comfort there. If you fail with Audley we'll bury you somewhere uncomfortable, Roche."
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If he failed with Audley, and was relegated to counting paperclips in some backwater, then he'd never get away from either of them—until the Comrades decided to trade him for some minor advantage.
"But I don't think you'll fail. I think you can do the job," said Clinton, almost amiably. "And then you'll be Major Roche in London, I shouldn't wonder. 'And there is in London all that life can afford', as Dr Johnson said." He nodded at Roche.
"So the incentive is a two-way one—"
Molières, Beaumont, Roquépine, Monpazier, Lalinde—
All the same, that clever-stupid bastard Thompson had still got it wrong, thought Roche morosely. The study of the medieval bastides of Aquitaine might be outside Audley's special historical period, and even a perfectly reasonable subject for a student of French history to study in this particular area of all others, the more so as it was also an uncommonly congenial region as yet unspoiled by le tourisme.
Nevertheless, if bloody Thompson had only taken the trouble to ask, instead of using his initiative, he would have learnt that student-Captain Roche, the soi-disant soldier-scholar, was far better informed on the 16th and 17th centuries than the 13th and 14th, and on the French Wars of Religion than on their endless dynastic blood-lettings with the English in the Middle Ages.
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Roche rolled on his back and day-dreamed of the good old 16th century, when a chap could happily betray one side to the other, and change sides two or three times as commonsense dictated, and still be reckoned a man of honour if he timed his actions prudently.
That was his century, which he had studied most and enjoyed most; when there were two rival faiths, just like now, but with just enough elbow-room for the same man to make honest mistakes and learn from them without being damned, unlike now . . .
And his favourite century would have done well enough here, which had been debatable territory for the Catholics and Protestants just as it had been for the French and English in medieval days . . . well enough, or even better, remembering the Domme bastide where he'd lunched well, but not too wisely, only a few hours ago, which had been ingeniously seized from the Catholics by a famous Protestant commander who had then promptly changed sides and sold it back to its proper owners at a handsome profit to himself.
Those were the days! He could have prospered then, in those days. He could have served his own interest, and saved his own skin, and kept his self-respect as well. Whereas now . . .
Whereas now he was suspended between Clinton and Genghis Khan, and tied more tightly to each of them so that he could no longer even be sure where his best interest lay—
or even where his best chance of survival might be.
But he didn't want to think about them, because more dummy5
immediately there was Audley—
Only, before Audley, thanks to bloody Thompson, there was Villeréal and Castillones and Montflanquin and Villefranche-du-Périgord and Domme and Beaumont and Monpazir and . . .
"Good heavens! Isn't it David Roche?"
The sun switched on and off and on, in blinding flashes between red-black, and his tongue was half as big again as it ought to be, and tasted of armpits.
"It is David! I thought I recognised the car back there—the Volkswagen—your posszonwagen! Wake up, David!"
A shadow blotted out the sun above him as he fumbled for his dark glasses, which had slipped off his nose somehow while he had been dozing.
"David who-did-you-say?" Another shadow took the place of the first one, a bigger shadow with a fluffy aureole of hair.
"Do I know him?"
"How on earth do I know? But I shouldn't think so—David's an army-type, commuting between the OEECD and NATO, doing frightfully important things . . . I met him at Fontainebleau—wake up, David!"
Roche managed to get his sunglasses back in position at last, to filter out the glare.
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"What are you doing here, David?"
One thing was for sure—or two things, counting the fact that he had never done anything important between the OEECD
and NATO as the first one of them: he had never seen this girl before in his life.
He blinked at her, the glasses sliding on the sweat which had accumulated on his nose. "Gillian Baker—Jilly!"
There was another girl coming into view, alongside the big one with the fluffy golden hair, a small, dark-haired one; three of them . .
. but the one who was due to recognise him was doing the talking, and she had to be Gillian Baker—
Thompson on Gillian Baker: Foreign Office assistant principal, Cheltenham Ladies' College and Oxford— plain as a pikestaff but super-bright— she'll get you on to the inside . . . not one of ours, but they're doing us a favour for once— someone high up must have twisted their arm, they've never done as much for us before . . . but they've got her in, and she'll get you in— you met her at a NATO
reception and took her out to dinner afterwards . . . 'Jilly', you call her, and take it from there—
"I adore soldiers!" exclaimed the big girl. "And isn't he gorgeous—what a tan!"
Roche didn't feel gorgeous as he staggered to his feet. "And tall, too!" The big girl seemed set on demoralising him.
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"What are you doing here, David? Are you on leave?" Jilly persisted. "Take no notice of my predatory friend."
"I was trying to sleep." It was hard to take no notice of the big girl: Jilly wasn't really as plain as a pikestaff, she had a beautiful slender body, just sufficiently rounded, to go with her snub nose and freckles; but the big girl would have stopped any merely casual conversation, not only with her splendid proportions but also with her slightly glazed expression, which contrived to be eager at the same time.
"We were just going for a swim," said the big girl encouragingly. "We always swim here—isn't that lucky!"
Roche couldn't help smiling at her, even though whatever it had been, this encounter hadn't been a matter of luck.
"Come on, Jilly—introduce us!" said the big girl. "Don't be mean."
"Do shut up, Lexy," said the dark-haired girl. "How can anyone introduce anyone when you're burbling all the time?"
"Oh—sorry! Sorry everyone—" The glazed-eager look embraced them all, settling finally on Roche "—I mean, if he's yours, Jilly darling, I mean double-plus sorry—"
"Oh God!" murmured the dark girl.
"He's not mine, Lexy," said Jilly. "He's not anyone's."
Lexy's mouth—a big generous mouth, revealing very white teeth with gaps in the centre—opened wide.
"Don't say anything, Lexy," said Jilly. "David—Lady Alexandra Perowne—David Roche—Meriel Stephanides—
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David Roche. End of introduction."
"Lexy for short. Pleestameecha, David." Lady Alexandra Perowne began to unbutton her dress.
"Hello, David," said Meriel Stephanides, offering a cool, long-fingered hand to Roche. The dark hair and the pale olive skin were as Mediterranean as the surname, but the voice was English home counties, refined in some exclusive boarding school. Also, now that he looked at her properly, he realised that she was the most arrestingly beautiful of all, so much so that he wanted to go on staring at her with pure platonic admiration, even while trying to take in Lady Alexandra's unbuttoning with entirely different thoughts in mind. For if Lady Alexandra was a splendid English rose in full bloom—or maybe more like a great big prize chrysanthemum—Miss Stephanides was some rarer and more exotic flower, delicate and subtly perfumed.
"Do you hunt?" Lady Alexandra's fingers stopped midway down.
Roche swallowed. "I beg your pardon, Lady Alexandra?"
"Are you cavalry? And 'Lexy', not 'Lady'. Are you cavalry?
You look like a hussar. I met an absolutely smashing one at Christmas, at our hunt ball—Jerry Somebody-or-Other. He wore these marvellous tight trousers which looked like they'd been painted on him—Jerry Somebody—" she waved a rather grubby hand vaguely "—if you're a hussar then you'll know him. He has this birthmark ..."
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Roche tried desperately to concentrate on what she was saying, rather than what she was showing: there was already a generous portion of Lady Alexandra on view, but there was a lot more where that came from—and it was coming, what was more.
"No, I—I'm afraid I'm not a hussar," he said quickly, before she could render Jerry Somebody's identification easier by locating the birthmark for him.
"What a shame!" The grubby paw toyed with the next button.
"But you don't look like a guardsman—"
He had to put a stop to this somehow: that button was going to give way any second now, and then even his sunglasses would be no protection.
"—you look too intelligent for a guardee—almost haggard, like Daddy's accountant—"
"Lexy—" interposed Jilly.
"No! Don't interrupt me when I've almost got it." The paw waved Jilly off, but then came back to the button, tugging at it distractedly. " 'Doing frightfully important things', Jilly said
—something fearfully hush-hush, I'll bet—"
"Lexy!"
"I've got it!" The button gave way. " You're in the Secret Service!"
The moment of truth elongated as she pointed at him in triumph and the dress gaped open.
"You're bursting out all over, Lexy," said Jilly sharply.
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"So what? We came here to bathe, didn't we?" Lexy paused.
"I'm wearing my—" she looked down suddenly "—oh! I'm not, am I!"
"No, you're not, Lexy dear," said Meriel Stephanides. "You're definitely not in the Secret Service, like David."
"Oh— damn!!" exclaimed Lexy, snatching clumsily at the edges of the dress. "You made me come away so quickly—
you're always rushing me, both of you!" As she captured the dress the towel under her arm escaped, liberating two scraps of bright scarlet material at Roche's feet. He bent to retrieve them, half instinctively and half to give himself something to do other than goggling helplessly at a situation which had passed beyond his control.
Lexy's reflexes were one disastrous second slower than his: as he started to straighten up, she bent over him, and his head collided with soft breasts which momentarily enveloped him with expensive perfume, perspiration and embarrassment.
"Oh—fff fff— sorry!" She looked into his eyes at close quarters, but he was too overwhelmed to register her expression. "Thanks—" Pause—"— oh bugger!"
Roche croaked incoherently. What made things worse was that Jilly and Meriel Stephanides, the brains and the beauty of this incongruous trio, were laughing at him.
"Not at all like Tiffany Case," said Meriel.
"Or Vesper—or Gala Brand," said Jilly.
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"Or James Bond, come to that," said Meriel.
"Who?" said Lexy, frowning at them.
"We told you—we gave you From Russia With Love to read, Lexy dear," said Meriel sweetly.
"But she doesn't read thrillers—remember?" said Jilly to her confederate. "She only reads historical novels—she's too busy swotting up on Galla Placidia, to keep up with David Audley tonight—remember?"
Meriel nodded. "Of course! To keep up with David! Sweet chance she's got—of keeping up with David!"
"Always supposing that she still wants to keep up with that David . . ." Jilly nodded meaningfully at Meriel.
"With that David?"
"With that David?" Meriel glanced at Roche calculatingly. "Of course— with that David!"
"Tactics," said Jilly.
"Tactics!" agreed Meriel. "Conjure up the green-eyed monster as an ally: pit David of the Secret Service against David the Dragoon!"
"Of course! That's why she wanted to know whether he'd been a hussar!" Jilly bobbed agreement in turn. "Horse to horse—sword to sword! Or should it be 'sabre'?"
"We'll have to ask him." Meriel continued to consider Roche appraisingly. "But d'you think it'd be a fair match?"
Jilly eyed Roche like a horse-dealer at an auction. "Don't see dummy5
why not. He's a damn sight better-looking, haggard or not.
And he's younger."
"Always back a good young 'un against a good old 'un? But he's not much younger. And maybe he won't bite?"
Jilly looked at Meriel, and shrugged. "We can only try."
“Well then—you try. You know him, after all, Jilly."
"But it was
your idea, Steffy."
"No, it wasn't—it was yours!"
Looking from one to the other, Roche decided that it was time the horse had its say in the auction.
"Could someone please tell me what's going on?" He tried not to sound plaintive.
For a moment none of the three girls spoke. Then Lady Alexandra rallied, drawing her dress together as much as its inadequacy allowed.
"Yes. As my Mum always says, 'bitches are women, and vice-versa'. And these two particularly, David," she said icily.
"Whatever they say, you say 'no' to them."
"Nonsense!" snapped Jilly. "And it's your interests we're thinking of. Are you on leave, David? Or are you just passing through?"
Jilly was running the show. Whatever the 'idea' was, it hadn't been Steffy's—it was Jilly who was making the running—
Getting him in!
"I'm on leave. I've three weeks due to me." He smiled dummy5
innocently, playing back to her. "As a matter of fact, I'm gathering material for my somewhat delayed doctorate."
"Doctor—what?" Lexy shook her blonde head at him.
"Doctorate. Not the Royal Army Medical Corps, Lexy dear—
Ph.D—D.Phil, that sort of thing," said Jilly dismissively.
"What's your thesis on, David?"
"The development of the bastides in the 12th and 13th centuries." It sounded as stupid as it really was when he said it out loud. Damn Thompson!
Lexy's mouth contracted involuntarily, the generous lips puckering into an interrogative b for bastides—
Suddenly, Roche had her pinned down in his memory, from yesterday in the plane and from last night in the train, before sleep had claimed him— from Kipling's Stalky, which Wimpy had given him in that farewell parcel beside the Lodge at Immingham: not an overblown English rose, and not a prize chrysanthemum either, but Mary Yeo, the tall daughter of Devon, the county of easy kisses, fair haired, blue-eyed, apple-cheeked, with a bowl of cream in her hands—
Pretty lips— sweeter than— cherry or plum, Seem to say— Come away, Kissy!— come, come!
"No, Lexy." Jilly shook her page-boy curls wearily. "Not dummy5
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