One untimely death, plus Haddock Thomas’s resignation: was that an emerging pattern? ‘Was that why the operation was aborted?’
‘Partly that.’ He was studying the cottages ahead of them now: cottages, idyllic, English, as opposed to cottage, idyllic, French, near St Servan-les-Ruines, thought Elizabeth. ‘Not everyone I was bullying was as friendless as Peter Barrie. Haddock, for example—he had friends in several high places, rather surprisingly … You see, it wasn’t popular, what I was doing—there were accusations of “witch-hunting” … or, in the American vernacular, “McCarthyism”—the Senator wasn’t just history in those days, either.’
She had clean forgotten about that. “This was happening in America, too … Of course!’
‘Of course?’ He came back to her quickly. ‘My dear Elizabeth, that was really the chief reason why we aborted … That is, apart from the fact that I was fed up—and Fred was worried about Research and Development getting a bad name … which was a lot more important than my being thoroughly pissed-off, in the final reckoning.’
‘It went wrong in America?’
‘Wrong? Huh!’ he emitted a growling noise. ‘It depends what you mean by “wrong”—“Define your terms”, I should say: maybe “wrong” in ‘58 might mean “right” in ‘84—eh?’
Irritation tightened her hands on the steering wheel, so that she suddenly became aware of them. They were no longer sweaty, merely disgustingly sticky. And she herself felt cold now, in the shadow of the trees, and tired and thirsty with it. Whereas he seemed altogether to have forgotten that he had been dying for a cup of tea an hour ago.
The Yanks had three things going for them that we didn’t have.’ He was lost in his own memory now. ‘They had the resources. And the man who was running their show was a real professional, much more experienced than I was … ’ He trailed off, memory engulfing him altogether.
Elizabeth dredged her memory. ‘And he enjoyed his work?’
‘That’s right.’ He focused on her. ‘I told you, didn’t I?’
‘You also said you didn’t get on with him.’
‘An understatment. He disliked and mistrusted the English in general, and me in particular. He only worked with me because he hated traitors even more—he was a good hater. Old Scottish Presbyterian stock, out of Virginia from way back. They were always good haters.’
Audley had done his homework on his hostile colleague, typically. ‘And you returned the compliment?’
‘I didn’t fancy him as a drinking crony. He didn’t drink, anyway.’ He retreated behind more English understatement. ‘But more than that, I was a little scared of him, to be truthful.’
The thought of Audley scared was itself a little frightening. And the more so because he was also quite notoriously a lover of America and all things American. ‘Why, David?’
‘Huh! I was afraid I might turn up on his private Debrecen hit-list one day, for one thing. But I also didn’t like his methods, they were a bit rough for my effete tastes—I suspect he regarded Senator McCarthy as a much misunderstood man. But he was damn smart, all the same.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘Hmmm … ’ He thought for a moment. ‘What we thought at the time was that he’d trodden too hard on too many toes—as I was doing—only much worse. And that was part of the truth: that he forced good men and true to gang up against him, because of the damage he was doing.’
‘And the other part?’
‘Other parts, my dear … The other part we knew about was that when the good men got the dirt on him and he needed friends, we—if I may mix metaphors—we put the boot in. Because I convinced Fred that if he prospered in the CIA we could kiss goodbye to the Special Relationship, what there was left of it.’ He compressed his lips. ‘Mistake Number Two, in retrospect?’
Elizabeth waited for the third part of the truth.
Audley drew a slow breath. ‘What we think now -which we came to long afterwards, and much too late—is that maybe—just maybe—it was the KGB which fabricated the dirt on him … which was that he was taking bribes to discredit innocent liberals.’ Another breath. ‘Oh, it was all done neatly and painlessly, the way good men do bad deeds: he wasn’t able to make a martyr of himself, or anything like that.’ He cocked a defensive eyebrow at her. ‘You understand?’
‘Mmm … ’ What she understood was that he was ashamed, but he wasn’t actually going to admit it. ‘But David -‘
‘Yes?’
There was no way of putting it except baldly. And she was too tired to put it any other way. ‘If the KGB framed him … that means Debrecen was genuine. Surely?’
‘Oh no—it means no such thing.’ He had been ready for the question. ‘When you fish with a net, you don’t just get what you’re fishing for—you get all sorts of things. Just because we were fishing for one sort of traitor—a very rare and special sort, which maybe didn’t even exist—it doesn’t mean that we didn’t catch anything else edible, which just happened to be swimming in the wrong place, at the wrong time.’
Fish, thought Elizabeth
And then Haddock—
Dance for your daddy, my little laddie!
You shall have a Haddie
When the boat comes in!
Was Haddock one of those other fish, if not a Debrecen man?
‘Come on, Elizabeth. Let’s go and get some well-earned refreshment.’ Audley opened the car door before she could open her mouth, and she knew that he would avoid any question she put to him. She could only follow him—as she had been doing ever since their meeting in the foyer of the Xenophon Building. Damn!
And—damn!—her heels sank through leafmould into mud, threatening to unbalance her, if not to take her shoes off her feet. And—damn again!—she had no sensible country shoes in her overnight bag.
‘David—‘ She grabbed the car for support as she tried to extricate herself from the mud ‘—David—‘
He was busy stretching his long legs again and flexing his shoulders on the other side of the car, free at last of it, just as he had done in the yard at the King’s Arms. And then he stopped suddenly, and turned towards her with a new expression on his face, of quite idiotic pleasure, which matched the sun slanting over the cottages behind him rather than the beastliness of everything he had just been telling her.
‘By the big holly tree—Holly Cottage,’ he jerked his head, still smiling foolishly. ‘Name of Willis—same as the cricketer, okay? I’ll join you in a moment.’
Her shoes were free, and her feet were still inside them. ‘Where are you going, David?’
‘To have a look at the road.’ He nodded. ‘Just to make absolutely sure.’ He misread her expression. ‘Don’t worry, Elizabeth. I promise you I’d never have brought us here, of all places, if I rated the risk a remote possibility.’ He shook his head. ‘Not here, Elizabeth.’
What was so special about here—beyond their own safety? ‘You take the cases.’ The smile came back. ‘I’ll just check the road, to make assurance doubly sure—Holly Cottage, name of Willis—okay?’
‘You take the cases’? She watched him retrace their route down the track for a few yards. Then he cut off into the trees confidently, as though he knew where he was going; which only confirmed her impression that he had been here before.
But that was David Audley, of course: having been somewhere before, and knowing someone there, was his stock-in-trade, acquired over the years. He had certainly been there before, in the foyer of the Xenophon Building, if not up to Sir Peter Barrie’s holy of holies; and there had been that hail-fellow-well-met Egyptian general, who had been so old-world courteous and menacing at the same time—that was the world of David Audley, to the life-and-death of it.
Huh! And ‘You take the cases’—that was Audley too, she thought, as she hauled out the two overnight bags, and tucked her bag under her arm as best she could, and set out towards the holly tree.
At least, they weren’t too heavy. And at least the beaten track, away from i
ts verges, was firm enough. All she had to do was avoid the puddles and the scatter of horse-manure along the way.
It was the biggest holly tree she had ever seen: holly was slow-growing—slower-growing than oak, was it? Or was it that people hacked at holly every year, for their Christmas decorations, to cut it back and diffuse its growth?
They had hacked back Debrecen, between them. But it had grown in spite of that—
She caught her heel in another soft patch, as she was gazing up at the topmost branches of the tree, and had to set the bags down in order to extricate herself again. Her shoes were muddy now—her best and newest Italian shoes, foolishly chosen this morning (God! Only this morning!) when she had dressed for London and Oliver St John Latimer, not for a muddy lane in the middle of nowhere and bloody David Audley—and now, as she straightened up again, a case in each hand, her handbag—her best Italian handbag, matching her muddy shoes -was trying to slip past her elbow—
The tiny sound caught her in the midst of an ungainly attempt to catch the bag between hip and elbow, and it was just sufficient to divert her attention: the bag escaped her, glancing off her knee to land in a pile of fresh horse-manure.
Elizabeth swore aloud that particular forbidden word which nevertheless described the handbag’s fate exactly—and then found herself staring straight into the eyes of the little old man who had been watching her performance through a gap between the tree and the hedge.
For a moment they looked through each other with equal embarrassment. Then the little man peered past her down the lane, towards the Morgan.
Elizabeth put down the cases and rescued her handbag. Florentine leather ought to be equal to English horse—manure, she hoped. Then she looked at the little man again.
‘If you sponge it, it should be all right,’ said the little man politely, in an educated voice at odds with his faded, collarless shirt, which had been inexpertly patched in several places, and his old pair of army battledress trousers which were supported by even more ancient braces barred with rust-marks from their metal clips, as though they had supported the trousers of other men of different heights, or trousers of different lengths.
‘Thank you.’ After the other word, her voice sounded incongruously demure in her ears.
He smiled at her. ‘If it’s Mr Harvey you want—Andrew Harvey?—he lives in the other cottage, my dear.’ He pointed. ‘But you can leave your cases here, just inside my gate. I’ll keep an eye on them, they’ll be quite safe. Then Andrew can come and collect them.’ The blue eyes twinkled. ‘Mustn’t have any more mishaps, eh?’
How old was he? wondered Elizabeth. When it came to the Ages of Man, there were really many more than Shakespeare’s seven in these more complex and better-medicated times. Or, anyway, if this old man was a good ten years beyond her own dear old Major Birkenshawe—those parchment-folds of skin at his neck, and the mottling on the back of his hands, gave that away—his voice still had an edge to it, and that brightly twinkling eye was a long way from childishness.
‘No—‘ It wasn’t just the distant crashing in the undergrowth, away behind her towards the car, which cut her off: it was the sudden look on the little old man’s face, which lit up as though the sun had come out.
‘Willy!’ shouted Audley from behind her.
‘Dear boy!’ exclaimed the little old man happily.
9
‘DAVID, dear boy!’ The little old man ducked down from the gap in the hedge, to reappear behind his white-painted picket-gate on the other side of the tree. ‘What a pleasant surprise!’
‘Don’t talk daft, Willy.’ David’s face bore the same foolishly beatific expression as the little man’s. ‘I phoned you just this morning—remember?’ He short-cutted across the grass towards them, oblivious of the horse-manure.
‘Ah—‘ The little man flicked a glance at Elizabeth ‘—ah. But you are early, David, And that is a pleasant surprise, even though I have not had time to kill the fatted calf for you, consequently.’ He opened the gate, and held out both hands to Audley.
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’ Audley took both the hands, then enfolded the little man in a bear-hug. ‘There was a slight hitch in our programme … so one of our engagements was cancelled.’
‘Not to worry, dear boy.’ Once released, the little man turned his attention instantly to Elizabeth again, catching her with her mouth open in astonishment. She had never before seen Audley embrace anyone, even his wife, let alone another man. ‘Now … just let me solve this young lady’s problem. Now, my dear -‘
‘That’s no young lady,’ Audley interrupted him. ‘Willy—meet Elizabeth Loftus. I told you I wouldn’t be alone.’
It was the little man’s turn to register astonishment; which he did for several seconds, as he took in Elizabeth again—face and hair, pink dress, muddy shoes and manured handbag. But where he had been smiling at her before, now he was frowning. ‘Indeed?’ he said coldly.
Audley heaved a sigh. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Willy! Elizabeth and I are colleagues, and we are working—we are not engaged in some illicit escapade behind Faith’s back.’ Anpther sigh. ‘Good God Almighty!’
Elizabeth watched the little old man’s face break up from hardening disapproval to such embarrassment as made her instantly sorry for him. And, after all, he had at least done her the back-handed compliment of assuming the worst; whereas Audley, judging by his blasphemous reaction, couldn’t even see the funny side of it.
‘Mr Willis—‘ She mustn’t smile, and the fact that Audley regarded the possibility with irritation made that easier ‘—I’m sorry—I should have introduced myself straight away.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ snapped Audley. ‘Silly old bugger!’
Poor old Mr Willis struggled to get his face together again. ‘Miss—ah—Loftus—Loftus … Mrs Loftus—?’
‘Miss.’ Audley’s brutal tone, coupled with the warmth of his embrace and the look on his face when he’d got out of the car, served only to emphasize his regard for the old man. ‘Sometime senior scholar at LMH—and First-Class Honours. And a hockey Blue when Oxford beat Cambridge, as well as everyone else … which is more than either of us can say, when we played our little games.’ He had got the bit between his teeth now. ‘Service rank … equivalent to assistant-secretary in any appropriate ministry. But not my mistress at the moment. Actually, more like my boss at this moment. So treat her respectfully, Willy.’ As he turned to Elizabeth she saw that this litany, or maybe the incongruity of its last items, had restored his good humour. ‘Elizabeth, may I introduce you to Mr William Willis, Master of Arts from your university, sometime Commanding Officer of the Prince Regent’s South Downs Fusiliers and latterly of the Intelligence Corps, former senior Latin master, Immingham School … and permanently—alas—my godfather and guardian.’ He raised his hands apologetically. ‘Which is presumably why he was so worried about my morals and your marital status just now, the silly old bugger.’ He turned back to his unfortunate godfather-guardian. ‘Good God, Willy—as if I had the time, never mind the inclination!’
‘Miss Loftus.’ The litany had also given Mr Willis time to get his act together again. ‘First—I was never a real “I” Corps wallah. And I only commanded a line battalion of infantry very briefly, until they decided I was too infirm of body, if not of purpose—a depleted battalion too—audiet pugnas vitio parentum, rara iuventus. And second, I am your colleague’s—or your subordinate’s -former godfather and legal guardian. I relinquished those daunting responsibilities long ago, on the occasions of his confirmation and twenty-first birthday respectively.’ He almost managed his original smile. ‘Before that, he was a sore trial to me.’
‘I can well imagine that, Mr Willis. He’s a sore trial to me now.’
‘Ah … yes!’ Honesty was allied with recent embarrassment. ‘You really must forgive me—‘ He held the gate open for her ‘—do please come in—let him bring the cases … which he should have been carrying in the first place, of course.’
Eliz
abeth stepped carefully through the gateway, avoiding the vegetables which had fallen from Mr Willis’s basket when Audley had bear-hugged him. ‘There really is nothing to forgive, Mr Willis.’
‘Oh, but there is!’ He ignored Audley and the fallen potatoes and broad beans equally. ‘And it is not even as though it is entirely his fault, either. For he did say that he might bring someone—‘ He directed her along the side of the cottage, under a great cascade of clematis, alongside a bed thick with columbines and wallflowers ‘—it is I who am at fault.’
‘Silly old bugger!’ repeated Audley, behind them.
‘”Silly”, unfortunately—“old”, inevitably.’ Mr Willis pointed her past his back-door and his dustbin, towards the garden proper. ‘”Bugger”, I reject. Shall we settle for “fool”?’
The sitting-out side of the cottage, where thick thatch was lost in more spreading clematis, was ablaze with roses—old cottage roses competing with modern hybrids—round a tiny patio, and a lawn full of daisies to the exclusion of grass.
‘Do sit down, Miss Loftus.’ He indicated a trio of elderly deck-chairs. To continue my apology—but I see you are admiring my daisies.’
It didn’t sound like an apology, thought Elizabeth as she lowered herself cautiously on to the faded canvas. “You have a lot of them, Mr Willis.’
‘I’m thirsty, Willy,’ complained Audley.
‘A cup of tea, Miss Loftus?’ The old man still ignored Audley. ‘Or … at this hour I sometimes treat myself to a glass of hock-and-Seltzer. I find it most refreshing.’
Elizabeth smiled at him. ‘That would do very well, Mr Willis.’
‘Capital!’ He lowered himself into the chair next to her, and then waved at Audley. ‘Well—don’t just stand there, dear boy. Take the cases inside. The hock and the Seltzer is in the refrigerator, and the beer is where it always is. So chop-chop! He bobbed his head at the lawn. ‘Yes … my daisies—they were there when I first came here, and I fought a great war with them, with one of those frightening selective weedkillers. But after a year or two they started to come back. And then one evening I was sitting here, planning another massacre … and I thought suddenly how beautiful they were, with their little rayed-sun faces, sacred to the Mother Goddess. So I went and put the weedkiller in the dustbin, and we’re all perfectly happy now, living together.’ He watched her, but he wasn’t smiling. ‘It’s my age, you see.’
Here Be Monsters Page 19