‘No!’ Interrogation would never have wrung that pain from the man, not with the whole of Xenophon’s green-and-gold tower beneath him, thought Elizabeth. And Audley hadn’t tried to interrogate him.
‘That was the way it was.’ Audley knew when he was on a winner. ‘They were both after the same girl. And Haddock won.’ He paused, but not long enough to allow any objection. ‘So his good friend shopped him.’
‘That was not the way it was—and you know it.’ Sir Peter registered his objection too late. ‘You’ve already said as much yourself.’
‘Oh—sure! The first tirne I twisted your arm you wouldn’t talk. But when the Greek twisted your arm … then you gave me Haddock. So you’d sorted out your priorities by then—right?’
Sir Peter Barrie looked at her for a long moment, which she realized was the moment Audley had been working towards from the beginning.
‘Miss Loftus … in a perverse way he’s right—the truth, the whole truth … and everything but the truth … that’s how he’s right.’
She felt for him, recalling the same division of truth which Father’s mourners had delivered and withheld at his funeral, as they had briefly held her hand, with the rain dripping from their caps, or their hats, or their umbrellas—those who knew him, some of them old shipmates, and those who only knew him from his medals and the naval annals and afterwards: all of them had possessed a piece of that truth, and pehaps she herself only knew a part of it, after all.
The truth was that the truth always had one more dimension than even the most complete profile imagined. ‘Yes, Sir Peter?’
‘I don’t really know what you want. But if you want me to shop him now, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Because I think I loved them both, Miss Loftus.’
Past tense—loved! But Haddock Thomas was still alive, so what did loved mean?
‘Delphi was younger than I was—ten years younger.’ He dismissed Audley with a half-glance. ‘And Haddock was almost exactly eleven years older than I was … I know that, because he used to say that he was conceived after the Battle of Loos and born during the Battle of Somme—and that’s 1916. So I was midway between them. And … it wasn’t just “Yes” and “No”. I thought he was too old for her, as a matter of fact, Miss Loftus.’
Elizabeth struggled with the mathematics of what he was trying to tell her, which somehow added up to the dreadful arithmetic of the whole blood-stained twentieth century: Haddock Thomas had been a pilot in Father’s war—but Sir Peter had been just too young for that … and Delphi—Philadelphia Marsh—?
‘He introduced me to her. It was at a party in the American Embassy—Dr Marsh was one of their economic advisers, commuting between Bonn and London and Washington … Haddock had worked with him, off and on, ever since he’d joined the service, after he’d come down from Oxford the second time, after the war.’
‘Where—when did you meet … Haddock?’
‘At Oxford, in ‘48. He was a post-graduate—a Farnsworth scholar. If you want to address him correctly he’s Doctor Caradog Thomas. I was a mere undergraduate.’
‘But you were friends.’
‘Not then. I seconded a motion he proposed in a debate. “This house does not believe all cats are grey at night”. After that we were friendly acquaintances. I didn’t meet him again until … ‘53—no, ‘54. He was Foreign Office, I was an economic dogsbody. It was in Paris.’
‘And that was when you became friends? But he was older than you.’
‘Oh yes. Eleven years and a war older, Miss Loftus. But he always maintained the war didn’t count—those were his lost years, he said, so they were struck off. And that made the difference only five years.’ He thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I didn’t think of him as being older, anyway. Not then.’
He stopped, and Elizabeth knew she would have to jog him again to make him go on. ‘He introduced you—?’
‘Yes. To Delphi Marsh. He knew a lot of people—a lot of girls. I didn’t.’ He was slowing again. ‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Yes, Sir Peter. She was his girl?’
‘No. She was no one’s girl when he introduced her.’ He took his memory by the throat suddenly. ‘Then she was my girl—very much my girl, Miss Loftus. We had an understanding. We went on holiday to Italy together. Then she went on holiday again, but without me. And then she was Mrs Caradog Thomas.’ He drew a single breath. ‘And then she was pregnant, and then she was dead, Miss Loftus,’ he expelled the words with the same breath, as though to clear them finally from his chest, once and for all.
‘Dead?’ The sudden ending to an otherwise familiar story took Elizabeth by surprise. ‘She died—?’
‘In childbirth?’
He shook his head. ‘She was knocked down by a car.’
‘A lorry, actually,’ murmured Audley.
‘A lorry, then.’ He continued to look at her as he half-turned his head towards Audley. ‘If you want to know all the details I’m sure he has them on file somewhere. But it was no one’s fault. At least … at least that was what Haddock wrote in his letter.’
Elizabeth frowned from Sir Peter to Audley. It was as though they had assembled a jigsaw for her, carefully sorting the straight edges and the surrounding pieces, but leaving the centre blank. ‘But how did—? You said … he was “shopped”—how was he shopped?’
‘Quite simply, Elizabeth dear. As simply as “B” comes before “T”, to start with. Meaning that I came to “Barrie” on my little list before I came to “Thomas”. Because they’d both been on holiday in foreign parts, but one tends to work alphabetically.’
‘But—‘ Elizabeth came within a tyro’s breath of adding why, only just catching herself in time: for whatever original reason, Audley had only been doing then what she was doing now, all those years ago ‘—but Sir Peter had left the service—the Board of Trade, or the Treasury, or whatever—by then, surely?’ It was lame, but it was better than nothing.
‘Very true,’ agreed Sir Peter. ‘But then, even if I had still been employed in Whitehall, it was still a great nonsense.’
Elizabeth looked at him. ‘Why was it a great nonsense?’
‘For three reasons, Miss Loftus. You yourself have supplied the first: I had quit the Queen’s service—I had, as it were, privatized myself. And although the Greek had some fairly hot little secrets of his own, they were hardly the sort which should have interested British Intelligence. Besides which, I was never really privy to any of his secrets, I only suspected things here and there. But the second reason is more to the point, though actually not dissimilar. Because, when I was in the service, what I was doing was hardly top secret. It was sensitive, of course—some of it. But none of it was really in the least important. What I had in my head was of far more use to the Greek’s oil deals than to any foreign power, actually. So if they were after a traitor, I was a very poor candidate.’
Audley shook his head. ‘I told you, Peter—I wasn’t particularly after you.’
‘So you said. Although it didn’t seem like that at the time. And you were certainly after that Italian holiday of mine—‘ He came back to Elizabeth ‘—which is my third point. Because there was no mystery about that, you see.’ The corner of his mouth dropped slightly. ‘It’s rather ironic—I’d guess that’s the only time I’ve been properly vetted, with expense no object—would that be correct, David?’
Audley puffed his cheeks. ‘It was the only time I vetted you. That would be correct.’
‘Uh-huh? Well, the other times wouldn’t have amounted to much, compared with your time, I would guess.’
‘Why was it ironic, Sir Peter?’
‘Ironic and expensive.’ He smiled at her with his mouth, but not with his eyes. ‘It was a rather special holiday. I was with the girl I expected to marry. And she was beautiful—I suppose I was rather proud of myself: I’d never expected to capture such a beauty, and … partly because I loved her, and—but perhaps partly to impress her, and make sure of her … I drew most of my s
avings out of the bank -I hoped to make more from the Greek, one way or another—and I splashed it around. Miss Loftus.’ He added. ‘We flew to Rome, and stayed at a good hotel—she was used to good hotels. And I hired a car, and we progressed by slow stages—and more good hotels—to Florence. And then to Venice … I knew what to show her, because I’d slummed that same route long before, mostly hitch-hiking and sleeping semi-rough. But this time it was all first-class and over-tipping.’ For a fraction of a second he looked clear through her. Then he focused again, and shrugged sadly. ‘And if you want another irony … obviously I didn’t impress her at all. I only put her off, it would seem, judging by what happened afterwards. Though it didn’t seem so to me, at the time.’ He thought for a moment. ‘No … but I must have left a trail a mile wide—‘ He nodded to Audley ‘—for him to follow—what was it, David: “Where did you go?”, and “Who can vouch for you, that you were there?”, and “Which day was that?”—I couldn’t remember which day it was, exactly … but I’ll bet you found enough over-tipped waiters and chamber-maids and hotel managers who recalled the silly young Englishman and his bellissima signora, eh?’
Audley made one of his extra-ugly faces. ‘I wasn’t after you, Peter.’
‘Yes, you were. And you checked.’ The old bitterness lay beneath very thin ice. ‘And you pushed me.’
‘And you were scared.’ The ugly face became brutal. ‘If you had such a bloody-clear conscience—why were you so scared?’
‘Has it never occurred to you why?’ The ice cracked. But now it was anger which showed. ‘My God, man—it was because I had a bloody-clear conscience that I was scared! I knew it couldn’t be the holiday, so it had to be something else. So I thought it was the Greek, don’t you see? I thought he’d been up to something really nasty that I didn’t know about. In which case I was out of a job again—and compromised—and with hardly any money, too!’ All the vivid memories of 1958 suddenly animated Sir Peter Barrie’s face, melting its ice to reveal both anger and bitterness. ‘You’re absolutely right—I was scared! I was scared stiff, if you must know.’
‘Ah … ’ Audley came as close to embarrassment as he was capable of doing when caught in an error. But then he shrugged it off quite easily, as he always did. ‘So that was why you served up the Haddock?’
Sir Peter’s mouth tightened. ‘Which I have regretted ever after. And never more so than now, I think.’ He looked at Elizabeth suddenly.
‘He was on the list,’ snapped Audley. ‘I would have come to him without your help, sooner or later.’
‘Would you?’ Sir Peter ignored him. ‘What are you up to, Miss Loftus?’
‘What did you say about him, Sir Peter?’
‘Huh!’ Audley sniffed. ‘Actualy, he said very little, as I recall.’
‘But also too much. I said—‘ Sir Peter’s features contorted ‘—or, something like, I said … “If you’re looking for holidays abroad—mysterious holidays—why don’t you try Dr Caradog Thomas? He’s always going on holiday abroad. And his last holiday was the most mysterious one of all, you’ll find—ask him about his Romanesque churches—ask him how he liked Cluny.”’ He controlled his face with an effort. ‘I was frightened, Miss Loftus. So I cracked. And I said, in effect … “Do it to my friend Haddock—not to me!”’ He paused. ‘And now I am justly served, with my own treachery. Which is how the past always serves us, I suspect.’
He really loved the man Thomas, his ex-friend, thought Elizabeth. Even after Thomas’s betrayal of their friendship—or the combined and ultimate betrayal of it by Thomas and the beautiful Miss Philadelphia Marsh—even after that, he still loved the man, his once-upon-a-time friend. Because, in spite of all that, he counted his betrayal the greater one.
She looked at Audley, and guessed that he had known all this too.
‘I don’t know what you’re up to now.’ Sir Peter pulled her back to him, but then stopped suddenly. ‘No—I know you can’t tell me that—can’t or won’t—I know that. But I still have two things to tell you, neither of which you may find very much to your taste, perhaps. But there it is.’
Audley surely knew all this. But whether he had or not, his instinct had been right, to drop everything in order to make sure of catching Sir Peter Barrie to start her off on Dr Caradog Thomas.
‘Yes, Sir Peter?’ she stepped meekly into his silence.
The silence continued for several long seconds. ‘He forgave me, you know, Miss Loftus. Naturally.’
Tff—‘ It was the last thing she’d expected until she heard it. Then it was … natural, of course. ‘He forgave you?’
‘I still have this letter—his second letter, which he wrote after Delphi’s death … Quite a long time after, because I was away, and I didn’t hear about it at the time.’ Another silence. ‘I have both his letters still. But I will not show them to you. But … he very carefully explained why he left the service—that it really had nothing at all to do with the Intelligence badgering. Nothing to do with me, in fact: “Like you, I am mine own executioner, mine own liberator”—I’ll give you that much.’
Another silence set in. But this time she must let it live out its natural life.
‘And the other thing is—‘ Once again he turned to Audley ‘—that you’re wrong, David Audley. Because if it’s Haddock you’re after now, then you’re just as wrong now as you were back in—back in whenever it was, when you persecuted us both. Check me again, if you like—you can have a free run. But leave Haddock alone—it’s simply not in him to be a traitor. I’d stake my life—or Xenophon’s profits for the year, whichever you reckon the more valuable—on that. Because he worships different gods.’
It wasn’t until they were in the lift that Audley spoke again, beyond the minimal grunts and required pleasantries of farewell.
‘A remarkable man, Elizabeth. And not a second-class man, either. But he was quite right to leave the Civil Service. He was a man of action—a born money-maker, not a spender. The Greek understood that. Whereas … whereas Haddock Thomas was something else again.’
‘What else, David?’
Audley stared at the red button. ‘A man of different action. A better man, too.’
‘Better?’ She had to remember that Audley had cleared both of them. ‘Even though he seduced his friend’s girl?’
The lift stopped.
‘Seduced … and married, Elizabeth. And I rather think she was his one true love.’ He looked at her as the lift-doors opened. ‘Or is that too sentimental for you to swallow?’
Audley had married a much younger woman too: that was something else she had to remember. ‘So you still think he’s innocent?’ She met his gaze. ‘In spite of Major Parker?’
‘I think … I think you are supposed to make your own mind up about that, my dear.’ He gestured for her to leave the lift. ‘So what do you want to do next? Or can I return to my more important work at Cheltenham? You can always use Major Turnbull for your leg-work—his legs are younger than mine.’
She stepped out of the lift, and the decisive click of her high heels on the Xenophon mosaic floor mocked her irresolution.
‘Well, Elizabeth?’
If he had wanted to go back to his Cheltenham investigation nothing either she nor the Deputy-Director could have done would have stopped him, decided Elizabeth: Cheltenham was important enough for him to have appealed over both their heads. Therefore he did not want to go back. And that meant he was more concerned with Haddock Thomas than he pretended to be.
Paul, she thought suddenly. If Paul meant business, then this must be the business he meant—
‘Well, Elizabeth?’ The question was repeated just a little too casually, confirming her suspicion.
‘I need to know more about Thomas before I go to see him, David.’ She needed to talk to Paul. ‘I’d like to have a look at the Debrecen records.’
‘I can tell you all about that.’ He relaxed slightly. ‘Most of it is what I put into it myself.’
‘Who else can te
ll me about Thomas?’ She didn’t want him around when she met Paul. ‘Who would you recommend? That we can rely on?’
He stared at her for a moment, as though in doubt. There is someone I can perhaps lay on for you. But it’ll need a phone-call or two. And we’ll have to go to him.’
She smiled. ‘Okay—will you do that, David?’ But she must give him more than that to do. ‘And will you brief Major Turnbull for me, while you’re about it?’
His doubt increased. ‘Brief him about what?’
About what? She needed something quite complicated and time-consuming, yet reasonable.
‘About what, Elizabeth?’
She found herself staring past the nearest bank of Xenophon jungle, towards the reception desk and at the beautiful receptionist he had bullied, who was watching them uneasily.
She was beautiful—
‘I’d like to know a lot more about Thomas’s wife, David. Sir Peter Barrie’s ex-fiancee?’ The idea expanded as the two sudden deaths telescoped over the many years which separated them. ‘Particularly the circumstances of her death.’
He frowned. ‘It was an accident, Elizabeth. We did look at it carefully, you know—?’ But he knew he couldn’t really question the request. ‘All right, if it will put your mind at rest, we’ll see what Turnbull can turn up. But he’ll be wasting his time.’
Time was what she needed. There was something going on which she didn’t understand, but which relegated Cheltenham to the second division. And if anyone knew what it was, Paul would know enough to guess at it. And she could always handle Paul, at a pinch.
‘I’ll meet you back at the office after lunch, David,’ she concluded.
6
IT WAS all according to what you were used to, thought Elizabeth as she paid the taxi-driver.
They were all accustomed to meet in pubs up and down the river, as well as in more respectable places—to meet, and to meet people whom they did not wish to be seen meeting in those too well-frequented respectable places: that was apparently the way David Audley had always operated, and Paul emulated him in this, as in other things. But, although she liked to regard herself as entirely liberated and equal to all occasions, there were still pubs and pubs. And the Marshal Ney was quite evidently one of those in the ‘and pubs’ category.
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