‘You have a problem, caller?’
Audley gave Elizabeth an old-fashioned look. ‘Our only problem is that the lift has stopped.’
‘Please press the red button again, caller. The lift will proceed.’
Audley continued to look at her as he pressed the button. ‘Don’t bother to apologize. I’d hate that.’
Thirty years with Father, who had been a fully paid-up life member of the Never Apologize Society, had at least inured her to that weakness. ‘I wasn’t going to.’
He relaxed, and became almost his old self again. I’m glad to hear it. I am seldom wrong, but it’s always good to have one’s judgment vindicated by events.’
To the extent that he had recommended her recruitment, she was his invention. But if he was reminding her of that he still had a lot to learn, in spite of his seniority and experience, she decided as the lift-doors opened.
‘Dr Audley—Madam.’ A Mrs Harlin-class battle-cruiser was waiting for them in what must be Xenophon’s Holy of Holies. ‘I’m so sorry about the lift, Dr Audley.’ She gave Elizabeth a tripod-masted look. ‘Sir Peter will see you now.’ She indicated their route, through another of Xenophon’s exotic jungles. Except that those couldn’t be real flowers surely, could they? ‘Shall I lead the way?
‘By all means.’ Audley bowed slightly to Elizabeth as the woman moved ahead. ‘After you, Miss Loftus,’ he murmured.
‘Thank you, Dr Audley.’
‘And God help us—‘ As she passed him she heard the rest of his murmur ‘—Peter Barrie and David Audley, both.’
5
ELIZABETH LOOKED about her in surprise.
‘Home from home, maybe?’ Audley had been looking round too. And he was also surprised.
That was just about exactly right, thought Elizabeth. Or, anyway, it didn’t look like a Xenophon room: no company symbol, no green-and-gold colour scheme, no expensive furniture—and, above all, no vegetation, apart from a spindly Busy Lizzy plant on the window-sill. The books in the shelves were mostly paperbacks, and many of them looked as though they had been well-read. In fact, the whole place looked lived-in, as nowhere else in the great tower had been, or ever could be. It was like a suburban flat—almost tatty, even.
Audley picked up the paperback which lay on the coffee-table, with a slip of paper in it marking the reader’s place.
‘Henry Williamson—A Fox Under My Cloak.’ He made a thoughtful face. ‘Paul would approve of that. Ypres 1915, is it, this one?’
‘Among other places.’
Elizabeth turned towards the voice.
‘I’ve only just discovered him properly. I thought he was merely the author of Tarka the Otter, who ruined himself by backing the fascists in the thirties. It makes me ashamed, how ill-read and ill-informed I am. Hullo again, David Audley.’
He was as tall as David, but thin, almost gaunt, where David was proportionately big. He reminded her slightly of pictures she had seen of George Orwell.
‘And hullo again, Peter Barrie.’ Audley replaced the book where he had found it, taking care to keep the marker in position. ‘Though, in the circumstances, that hardly seems adequate, after all these years—don’t you think?’ He bent down and adjusted the book. ‘1958—was that a good year for claret?’
Sir Peter shook his head. ‘I don’t think I bought much wine that year. I was in somewhat straitened circumstances—remember?’
There was something between them which was too big to be communicated except in small talk. So that was why Audley had been … the way he had been, perhaps? ‘So you were. Although you wouldn’t have bought any ‘58 in ‘58, anyway. I bought some ‘49 in that year. It cost me a fortune—I should have bought it before and kept it longer. One so often does things too late. My wife’s into early English water-colours at the moment.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Far too late.’
Sir Peter was looking at her. ‘Introduce me, David.’ Audley gave her a vaguely apologetic look. ‘There! I’ve done it again—or not done it.’ He turned the look back to Sir Peter. ‘I got bawled out by General Razzak in your front office not five minutes ago for just the same thing—would you believe it?’
Sir Peter continued to study her. ‘General Razzak?’
‘None other. And as he’s here to see your Colonel Saunders he’s probably rather miffed with you, as well. For upsetting his security arrangements in Cairo at the last moment—would that be it?’
Sir Peter smiled at her suddenly. ‘Probably.’ The smile had an oddly conspiratorial quality, as though he wanted to share it with her. ‘You know, he’s not going to introduce us. But I believe you are … Miss Loitus? And I am Peter Barrie.’
His hand was gentle. ‘Sir Peter.’
‘And you are a colleague of David’s?’
‘A junior colleague, Sir Peter.’ Just as suddenly as he had smiled, she knew why he had done so. ‘His manners were always bad, were they? Even back in 1958?’
‘Always bad.’ He nodded agreement. ‘But one must not be offended by them.’ He glanced at Audley. ‘I have some dealings with a man who thinks very highly of you, David. You have had dealings with him a few years ago. Eugenic Narva.’
‘Oh yes?’ Audley ran his eye along the bookshelf idly. ‘I seem to recall meeting him once, yes.’
They weren’t just name dropping, decided Elizabeth. They were sending messages to each other in code.
‘He certainly remembers you. He asked me if I knew you.’
‘And what did you say?’ Audley moved down the bookshelf.
‘I recalled meeting you once, long ago.’ Sir Peter paused. ‘You’d vetted me, I told him.’
‘Yes.’ Audley nodded to the bookshelf. ‘Since he probably knew that already … that would have been the right thing to say.’ He came to the end of the shelf, and looked round the room again before finally coming back to Sir Peter. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Peter.’
‘I think so.’ Sir Peter nodded happily.
‘Homely.’ Audley gestured towards the books. ‘I remember some of those, from when I searched your flat in Tavistock Road, back in ‘58.’
‘Yes?’ The man didn’t seem in the least surprised, unlike Elizabeth herself. ‘You have a good memory, then.’
Twenty-six years? She had been at primary school, among her picture-books and crayons, reading about Old Lob, and Mrs Cuddy the Cow, and Mr Crumps the Goat—or had Mr Crumps been a donkey?
‘Uh-huh.’ Audley observed her astonishment, and stretched out to tap one—two—of the larger books. ‘Powicke—Henry III and the Lord Edward. Two school prizes, with embossed school crests on front, and P. W. Barrie, Upper Sixth, Bishop … Bishop Somebody -Bishop Somebody History Prize … See for yourself, Elizabeth.’ He pulled one of the faded green volumes from the shelf, and handed it to her.
The crest was that of a once-famous direct grant school, now a successfully independent public school, which was presently and quite infamously poaching sixth formers from girls’ public schools. And not at all to the girls’ advantage, thought Elizabeth bitterly. ‘Bishop Creighton, David.’
Creighton—of course! A boring Victorian historian—I should have remembered.’ He sniffed derisively, and then gestured towards the other books. ‘And all the rest—the early Penguins with the advertisements in ‘em—see that old yellow Penguin, Elizabeth—and those Bernard Shaws. The reason I remember ‘em is because I bought the same books at the same time—1940s, 1950s—and they’re still in my shelves too.’ He jerked his head in a different direction, towards a corner of the room. ‘But that desk … we had one hell of a job getting into that, without damaging it … That was there, too.’
‘Quite right. And I’m very glad you were so careful. Because that was my grandmother’s desk—not very valuable, but valuable to me.’ Sir Peter smiled at Elizabeth again. ‘I used to have a flat in Tavistock Road, Miss Loftus.’
‘We didn’t damage it,’ growled Audley defensively.
‘I didn’t say you did. I didn’t even kn
ow you’d searched the place, David.’ Sir Peter’s mouth twisted. ‘Or I guessed you must have done, eventually. But there never was any sign of it that I could see, anyway.’ He came back to Elizabeth. ‘I lived there until quite recently. But I was away so often, and particularly during the last few years … ’He shrugged. ‘And there were a couple of burglaries—‘ He switched to Audley ‘—ordinary burglaries, David: they just stole the silver and the hi-fi … At least I presume it wasn’t you, after all these years, was it?’
Audley was still looking round. ‘Not as far as I know.’
‘No?’ Sir Peter stared at him thoughtfully for a second or two. Then he turned to Elizabeth again. ‘Well, so I thought … I had this dreadful ecological penthouse here, where I lived more than half the time, but I couldn’t relax … So I thought—it was Mother’s old flat, and I’d lived in it off and on since I was a child. But it was only things, really—and shapes.’
‘Home from home,’ snapped Audley. ‘And RHIP -Rank Has Its Privileges—eh?’
‘What?’
Audley nodded. ‘I wondered why this place was bugging me so much—apart from its lack of plant life.’
Peter Barrie smiled. ‘Yes, David—?’
Audley nodded again. ‘This is the same room I searched, back in ‘58—just a couple of miles away, and a couple of hundred feet up—right?’ He ran a quick glance round the room. ‘Same furniture, same dimensions … same books, plus another twenty-six years’ shopping -only the windows are different: we came in through the door, but you had sash-windows in Tavistock Street, naturally—right?’
‘Right, David.’ Peter Barrie beamed at him. ‘The windows were really too expensive here. But I’ve got a sash in my bedroom—would you like to see?’ He included Elizabeth in his pleasure. ‘Moving the walls was no problem—they were only partitions up here, nothing structural. And the builders loved it: they’d never had to do anything like it before—they just added ten per cent for a lunacy factor, I rather think.’
Elizabeth felt herself absorbed by them both—by what they were saying to each other, and what they were both saying about each other: two old men—or old-young men, old enough to be her father, each of them, but young enough still to take pleasure from deliberate irresponsibility, as Father had never been able to do, because he had never been reconciled with the unfair cards fate had dealt him.
‘Elizabeth—I’m sorry.’ All the time, Audley had kept half an eye on her, at intervals. ‘I do apologize, for all this chat.’
‘And so do I,’ agreed Peter Barrie. ‘But after twenty-six years this is something of an old boys’ reunion, you might say.’
‘I don’t mind.’ She could even forgive Audley now for leaving her high and dry. ‘All this is very—‘ What was it, apart from fascinating? ‘—educational, Sir Peter.’
They looked at each other, each slightly off-put by her choice of adjectives.
‘How—“educational”, Elizabeth?’ Audley got in first.
He was no longer an ally, she thought. When they’d entered this strange room, which was suspended in time as well as space, it had been two-against-an-absent-one. But now, with the way David remembered Peter Barrie after twenty-six years, it was two-against-one—and she was in the minority.
‘More than that.’ Two-against-one, then! ‘If this room is vintage 1958—‘ At least that was an improvement on 1944, which was before she’d been born! ‘—then tell me about 1958, for a start, please.’
The allies consulted each other again.
‘How much does she know, David?’
‘Practically, sod-all, Peter. I’m just her minder—I’m not a bloody KBE-tycoon, like you.’
‘Yes. But I received your message.’
‘And cancelled your trip to Egypt, Sir Peter?’
‘Yes, Miss Loftus. But that’s what comes of having a bad conscience—even after twenty-six years.’ He cocked his eye at his ally. ‘Who was it said no one could afford to buy back his past?’
Audley grimaced at him. ‘God knows. It’s certainly not Kipling.’
What had Audley put in his message, to stop Sir Peter Barrie’s Egyptian trip, and bring General Muhammed Razzak hot-foot to the Xenophon Tower? It was obvious that neither of them was going to tell her—they were waiting for her to tell them.
So she had to hit them with what she had. ‘Squadron Leader Thomas, Sir Peter?’
‘”Squadron Leader”?’ He reproduced Audley’s ‘reaction.
This time, she would wait for an explanation.
He was looking at David. ‘How many planes did Haddock destroy?’
‘Six.’ Audley raised his huge shoulders interrogatively. ‘Or ten if you include the Luftwaffe.’
‘Eleven—if you include the Tiger Moth during training.’ Sir Peter held up one hand, with its fingers spread wide. ‘He lost seven British and hit four Germans. But they were only probables, weren’t they?’
Audley shook his head. ‘I think you’ve got to count them. Allowing for the number of missions he flew—to be fair.’
‘Very well. Four of them.’
‘He may have hit others.’
‘Possibly.’ The five fingers bunched into a fist, and then sprang open again. ‘Shot down twice—once over France, and walked home—once by the Americans—right?’ He grasped two fingers with his other hand.
‘That was bad luck—the second time, Peter.’
‘Bad luck—good luck—‘ The three remaining fingers remained standing ‘—if you ask me, he was born lucky, was Haddock.’
‘You could say that,’ agreed Audley. ‘Compared with some.’
‘With most.’ Two fingers and a thumb, actually. ‘Came down hard twice—once, battle damage … once, engine failure—four—right? Plus the Tiger Moth.’
Audley rocked uncertainly. ‘By the same token, I lost four tanks—if you count two which broke down in England, during exercises on Salisbury Plain, Peter.’
‘Four.’ There was only one finger left. ‘Ditched twice—once off Eastbourne Pier—or Brighton Pier, or somewhere—‘ The thumb disappeared, but a new finger came up instead ‘ … and once on D-Day, when the British shot him down—and the Americans picked him up, which cancelled out the previous offence, he used to maintain … which makes seven all told, agreed?’
‘Sir Peter—‘ For Elizabeth, that was enough of Haddock Thomas’s wartime career for the time being ‘—I was referring to … to later on, after the war.’
‘You never told me about those four tanks of yours, David.’ Sir Peter addressed Audley, ignoring her.
‘Losing tanks is boring.’ Audley took the first volume of Powicke’s Henry III and the Lord Edward from her, and replaced it beside its comrade. ‘Tell her about 1958, Peter.’
‘But you know more about that.’
Audley adjusted the books in the shelf. ‘I can tell her my version any time. But mine is the official record. And who believes the official record?’ He trued-up the line of books, until they were like guardsmen on the Horse Guards, waiting for the Queen to inspect them. ‘Yours is how it really was.’
Sir Peter Barrie presented a suddenly-different face to her—not his remembered Tavistock Street face, but his Xenophon Oil one. ‘Why d’you want to know, Miss Loftus?’ He blinked, and the friendly Tavistock Street face was back again. ‘After all these years—?’
‘Because it’s her job, Peter.’ said Audley.
‘Let her answer for herself then. Always assuming that I can recall such far-off events—why, Miss Loftus?’
‘You can remember,’ said Audley.
‘Not if I don’t choose to.’ Sir Peter Barrie pronounced the threat mildly, but he knew that he had let her see through the gap in this curtain. ‘You know, I do seem to recollect some of the questions he—‘ Without taking his eyes off her he indicated Audley ‘—he once asked me. Do you want the same answers—if I can remember them?’
She had to get away from their old games. ‘I’d much rather you told me why you’
ve got a bad conscience about Squadron Leader Thomas than David did. Then I can draw my own conclusion.’
‘I see. So I must believe him, when he said you knew “sod-all” about old Haddock, must I?’
She was in there with a chance. ‘Not quite “sod-all”. But I would rather like to know why you both keep calling him “Haddock”, for a start. Is that really his name?’
‘Indeed?’ It was a hit—a palpable hit, she could see that from the way he suddenly shifted to Audley at last. ‘Why was he called “Haddock”, David? It wasn’t because he kept being shot down into the sea, and then swam ashore—was it? Because I don’t think it was—because he was “Haddock” long before that, wasn’t he?’
Audley was back among the books. ‘You know why. And you want to talk to her, not me—so you answer her then.’
Sir Peter Barrie frowned. ‘I know about “Caradog”—or “Caradoc”, or whatever it was … And even Caractacus -is that it? But how did it—metamorphose—“metamorphose”—? Was it at school?’
‘God Almighty!’ Audley slammed back the book he’d half-removed from the shelf. ‘He was your friend—ex-friend—not mine! And you ask me?’
‘Oh yes … he was my friend.’ It was niether the Tavistock Street face nor the Xenophon Oil one now, but a painfully-assumed mask which was perhaps midway between the two. ‘Or ex-friend, as you are so pleased to remind me -‘
‘Not “pleased”.’ Audley chose another book. ‘Pleasure doesn’t come into it. Just fact.’
‘But you investigated him. I never did that.’
‘I investigated you too.’ Audley looked up from his book. ‘Did you have a nickname? I never established that!’
‘Where is he now?’ Sir Peter Barrie brushed the question aside. ‘What’s he doing now?’
Audley switched to Elizabeth. ‘Thomas—Squadron Leader,—T. E. C.—RAFVR—QBE, DFC, MA—“Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, Order of the British Empire, Distinguished Flying Cross, Master of Arts, Jesus College, Oxford”—Thomas, T. E. C.—“Thomas, Tegid Edeyrn Caradog”—and you can’t get more bloody Welsh than that, short of scoring a try at Cardiff Arms Park, against England. And the funny thing about that, Elizabeth, is that he never did score a try, and he hasn’t really got a Welsh accent. And he accounted for more British planes than German … and for a lot more women in his time than either British or German planes, if he ever bothered to log his score.’ He appraised her momentarily.
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