Present Tense [Round Two of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  "Edward thought he was in love with me."

  What was the difference between thinking one was in love and actually being in love? “He made no secret of it."

  "I mention that only because I really believed he had died. He would never have departed voluntarily without at the very least dropping me a note. Now you say he has returned under equally mysterious circumstances.... May I suppose that he was taken against his will and has now escaped?"

  "Out of the frying pan?"

  She smiled and turned to study the hissing gas.

  "I must see him."

  "I told Smedley I would visit him again on Friday."

  "No, we have departmental minutes on Fridays.” A wicked gleam shone in her eyes. “One advantage of being female, Mr. Jones, is that a male employer is always too embarrassed to ask for details if you request a day off."

  Shocked again, he coughed awkwardly. “Yes."

  "So will you stay over tonight?"

  Oh, yes please! “Oh, I couldn't possibly—"

  "The settee is quite comfortable, my friends tell me. I doubt if the neighbors will notice, and we must hope the zeppelins don't. Not many zeppelins now, anyway—they have these big bombers instead. I have a largish had-dock we can share, and potatoes are back in the shops, thank goodness. If you can manage on half a haddock, two potatoes, and a sofa, then you are more than welcome."

  "That is exceedingly generous of you!"

  "I am most grateful to you for coming here, Mr. Jones,” Alice said somberly. “You must tell me how you tracked me down. What is your normal procedure for organizing jailbreaks?"

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  5

  WEDNESDAY BROUGHT SMEDLEY DISASTER. THREE DISASTERS.

  Whatever the war had done, it had not seriously damaged the Royal Mail, which delivered the first two disasters by the morning post. Miss Alice Prescott was “not known” at the Chelsea address. Whether or not Jonathan Oldcastle, Esq. still resided at The Oaks, Druids Close, Kent, the Post Office was not about to admit being aware of the address.

  With one hand and a foot, Smedley tore both letters into fragments. Then he had a quiet weep.

  The third disaster was even worse. He was told to pack his bags.

  He begged. He pleaded. He groveled. Damned tears wouldn't come when they might be useful. The thought of being buried alive in Chichester was the living end. Since his mother had died the house was a tomb. With no servants available now, he would be completely alone with his father. Worse, next Sunday was his twenty-first birthday, so every aunt and cousin and uncle from Land's End to John o’ Groats would descend on the returning hero. He would gibber and weep buckets and shock the whole brood of them out of their wits.

  "Those are orders, Captain,” the medic said coldly. “Besides, we need the beds, old man."

  His discharge would take effect as soon as he had been up to the palace to get his medal. Meanwhile he was on sick leave. There was a bus at 12:10. Ta-ta!

  Then he remembered Exeter, who would wait and wait and never know why his savior did not return. Ginger Jones was coming back on Friday with whatever plans he had been able to concoct, but Smedley could do nothing by himself. The willies came then. His face did its octopus dance. Tears streamed in torrents. He shook so hard he expected the dressing to fall off his wrist. He gabbled.

  "Well...” the doctor said unwillingly. “We've got a new lot coming in on Friday. Can put you up till then, I suppose."

  Smedley could not even get his thanks out. Two more days! He wanted to kiss the man's hand like a dago.

  It felt like midnight, and it was still not lunchtime. He wandered out into the entrance hall, which was almost the only public space in the building. On a rainy day, like this one, it was crammed with uniformed men, those mobile enough to leave their beds. Amid all the bandages and crutches and wheelchairs there were dominoes and draughts, bridge and newspapers, and much desultory, bored conversation.

  Dr. Stringer came marching in the main door.

  Smedley made an about-turn. He headed back to his room and changed into civvies. He would get away with that for about twenty minutes, if he was lucky. He asked a red-haired nurse to tie his Old Fallovian tie for him, so it would look nice.

  "Mr. Stringer is extremely busy!” the secretary snapped.

  Surgeons were never called “doctor,” but fortunately Smedley had remembered that. He should have guessed that surgeons, like golden fleeces, would be guarded by monsters. This particular monster had fortified a stronghold of her own; her rolltop desk was probably armor plated, the wall of filing cabinets behind her cut off half the hallway. Her outer defenses of chairs and tables could not have been bettered by the German high command. It would need at least a full division to advance to that decidedly closed door.

  If she could not actually breathe fire, she could certainly look it. “You are not one of his patients, Captain—er..."

  "Oh, I shan't keep him more than a jiffy! It's a family matter."

  The old hussy pouted disbelievingly. “Family?” A surgeon as eminent as Mr. Stringer could not possibly be related to anything lower than a colonel.

  "Sort of.” Wilting under the glare, Smedley fingered his tie. “Just wanted to pay my respects, don't you know."

  Perhaps she had been a schoolmistress in her youth. She wore her hair in a bun and must be at least thirty. Her features had been chipped from granite, but the basilisk eyes narrowed as she appraised the tie. “I'll see if he can spare you a moment, Captain Smedley. Pray take a seat."

  He sat on a hard wooden chair and sweated it out. Stringer was another Old Fallovian, but he could not have known Exeter, who had been long after his time. Even by talking to the man, Smedley was breaking trust. But what choice did he have? In less than two days he would be evicted from Staffles and lose all hope of helping Exeter. This was the only lead he had. He need not give John Three's real name. Just make a few inquiries. Find out what the score was. Face seems familiar, maybe? Dare he go that far?

  And if the surgeon called his bluff, the provost sergeant would break Smedley into pieces in seconds.

  He studied the Illustrated London News and saw not a line of it. Oddly enough, though, his hand was so steady that the paper wasn't even shaking. Funny, that. No accounting for the willies.

  "Mr. Stringer will see you now, Captain."

  The office was a cramped oblong with a small, high window and green-painted walls. It had probably been a butler's pantry originally, because scars on the wall showed where built-in cupboards had been ripped out when the Army took over. There was barely room for a desk, two filing cabinets, and a couple of chairs. The chair behind the desk looked comfortable. The one in front was not.

  Stringer rose and extended his left hand. Smedley had not yet decided whether he appreciated that courtesy or regarded it as patronizing. In this case it had been offered to show that the surgeon had fast reactions.

  He was short, fortyish, starting to grow plump, and his fair hair was parted in the middle. His suit had cost fifty guineas on Savile Row. His manner was brusque and arrogant, which was to be expected of surgeons. He had an unhealthy hospital pallor, as if he rarely went outdoors. His eyes were fishily prominent, and they had registered the tie.

  "Do take a seat, Captain. Smoke?” He offered a carved mahogany box, English and Egyptian.

  Smedley accepted a chair and a Dunhill. Stringer took the same and lit both fags with a vesta. He leaned back to put his visitor at ease. He smiled politely.

  "I was not aware that we were related."

  "Adopted family, sir."

  "Esse non sapere?"

  "That certainly applied in Flanders!” To be, not to know.

  Stringer nodded approvingly. “Fallow has more than done its share in this war, Captain. Forty-four old boys have made the Supreme Sacrifice, last I heard. I feel sorry for the youngsters there now. Grim lookout, what?"

  "Bloody awful."

  The lookout for a sixth former now was
a great deal worse than the lookout for a successful surgeon with a prosperous Harley Street practice, who probably regarded his weekly consultation at Staffles as all the Empire could legitimately expect from him in the way of war effort. Field hospitals would be beneath a man of his eminence.

  He was smiling the sort of smile that medical professors taught their best students. “You are assured of an honored place in the school annals yourself, Captain. Sorry I hadn't registered you were here. Jolly good show. We can all be proud of you."

  Willies gibbered in the rafters. Smedley shuddered and fought them back.

  Stringer's eyebrows rose fractionally. “And what can I do for you today?"

  What Smedley wanted to say was, Don't let them send me away from here!

  What he did say was, “Er..."

  "Yes?"

  "Er...” He was choking, he could not breathe. “Er ... er..."

  Stringer patiently trimmed the ash on his cigarette in the ashtray, looking at that and nothing else.

  "Er..."

  Still the doctor kept his eyes down. “Take your time, old man. It just takes a little while to get it out of your system. You're still fresh out of Hades."

  "Er..."

  "We've got lots worse than you. Not my specialty, of course. Not my patients, most of them. Can't amputate memories, unfortunately."

  They all said this sort of guff at Staffles, but it wasn't what they thought. What they thought was coward and weakling, just like the guv'nor did. When Smedley was thrown out of here, he was going to have to face a world that thought like that.

  Still Stringer studied his cigarette, while Smedley's face burned like a sunset and twitched and twitched. His lips and tongue would do nothing but slaver. Why had he come here? Any minute he would blurt out something about Exeter....

  "Some poor devils can't even remember their own names,” Stringer said offhandedly, putting his cigarette back in his mouth. He took a letter from a wire basket and scanned it. “Got one chappie upstairs hasn't spoken a word since the day he was brought in. Understands English, though. He reacts—tries not to, but he does. Understands German, too."

  Good God! He knew!

  "But I don't really think the German's too significant,” Stringer remarked, frowning at the page.

  "Probably not,” Smedley agreed. Exeter had always been a sponge for languages. Stringer knew who he was!

  "Interesting chappie. Picked up in the middle of a battle without a stitch on him, just outside Ypres. No account of how he got there. And he can't tell us. Or won't, perhaps. There was some talk of just standing him up against a wall and shooting him."

  "Why didn't they?” said a voice astonishingly like Smedley's own.

  Stringer looked up cautiously and seemed to approve of what he saw. He dropped the letter back in the tray. “Well, it's a rum do. His hair, for one thing."

  "Hair, sir?"

  "He had a full beard and his hair was down over his ears, like a woman's. I needn't quote King's Regulations to you, Captain, and I dare say the Kaiser feels the same way about lice.” Stringer drew on his cigarette, eyebrows cocked quirkily to indicate that this was all frightfully jolly and nobody need get overwrought. The fishy eyes gleamed. He spun his chair around and opened a drawer in one of the filing cabinets. “At any rate,” he said over his shoulder, “our mystery man was no soldier. That's certain. And then there was his tan. I suppose the south of France is a possibility."

  "Tan, sir?” Hospital pallor?

  "He had a tan. A corker of a tan.” Stringer spun around to face his visitor again, thumbing through a file. “Yes, here it is. ‘When stripped, the patient appeared to be wearing white shorts. This pigmentation is only compatible with recent, extended exposure to a tropical climate.’ Then he turns up outside Ypres in the wettest summer in fifty years. Odd, isn't it?"

  Now the surgeon put his arrogant stare to work, but Smedley was past noticing. Now he knew why Exeter had not been shot as a spy. But he wasn't much further forward. There was still a murder in the background, and now there was also the problem of how Stringer had known....

  The surgeon was smiling.

  "How?” Smedley asked weakly.

  Smirking. “Best fast bowler the school's had this century. Saw him get that hat trick against Eton."

  Lord, who would ever forget that day! The willies grabbed Smedley's eyeballs and squeezed.

  "Astonishing thing is that no one else's recognized him yet!” Stringer sighed. “What the hell are we going to do?"

  "You? You, sir? You'll help, sir?"

  "Don't you want me to?"

  "Yes, oh, yes! Would you? I mean he was just about my best friend and I'll do anything I can to get him out and clear his—"

  "Ah, yes. There is that, isn't there?"

  Smedley considered the awful prospect that he had walked into a trap. He had never spoken to this man before, and now he had betrayed his pal. The chance that Stringer would jeopardize a notable career and even risk a prison sentence for abetting the escape of a suspected spy was not the sort of hypothesis even a shell-shocked...

  But the doctor had already known.

  "Nothing too serious physically,” Stringer muttered, perusing the file. “He picked up some scratches in the mud, of course, and that stuff swarms with microbes. Gas gangrene, tetanus—we have antitoxins now, thank the Lord. Not like 1915. And he got some mustard gas blisters.” He looked up warily. “But he's basically sound, physically that is. You said you were chums? I'd have thought he was a year or two behind you."

  "He seems to have worn well.” Smedley had not. “Sir, I will never believe Exeter stabbed a man in the back!"

  Stringer pulled a face. “Not what they taught at Fallow in my day! The investigation was thoroughly botched, you know. Some country bobby who'd never dealt with anything worse than poaching. The Home Office sacked the general over it. That wasn't the story, but it's true. He should have called in Scotland Yard or shouted for aid from the next county."

  But what did they do now?

  "Just as well,” Stringer said, glancing at his watch. “No fingerprints on file. So Mrs. Bodgley tells me. I have to make my rounds right away. We'll have the man in here after and talk it over. You can manage for a half hour or so?"

  He smiled quietly and eased the file across to the other side of his desk. Then he stubbed out his cigarette, rose to his feet, and pranced out the door in his fifty-guinea suit. Smedley's mouth was still hanging open.

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  6

  HAD SMEDLEY REALLY THOUGHT ABOUT IT, HE WOULD HAVE SAID that he could no more sit still for half an hour in that cramped little office than his battery could have shelled Berlin from Flanders. Yet he did not go off his rocker. The walls did not fall on him. The willies stayed away, although it was probably nearly a whole hour before he was interrupted.

  He had serious planning to do. He must devise a way to smuggle Exeter out of Staffles. After a while he decided that could be arranged. But where could the fugitive run to once he was outside the walls?

  He considered Chichester and his gorge rose. In theory an empty house with no tattling servants around would be an ideal hideout, but there would be recurring plagues of aunts. Worse, the guv'nor had no use for Exeter. He blamed Exeter's father for the Nyagatha massacre, claiming the man had gone native. He'd accepted the son's guilt in the Bodgley case right away. Scratch Chichester!

  There was Fallow. Term did not start for another ten days. Ginger could arrange something.

  So that was settled. Now he had to think of a way to pass the information to Exeter when he was brought in, and right under Stringer's nose, too—another midnight expedition to the west wing would be tempting the gods. He found paper in the desk drawer. Writing left-handed was a bugger. Do not begin, “Dear Exeter!"

  Tomorrow night will set off fire alarm. Try to slip away in the confusion. Left at bottom of stair. The yard wall is climbable. Go right. Look for Boadicea's chariot at crossroads, half a m
ile. Good luck.

  He added: God bless! and felt a little shamefaced about that.

  Even folding a paper one-handed was tricky, but he wadded the note small and slipped it in his trouser pocket. Then he sat back to examine the file Stringer had so generously left for him.

  Boadicea's chariot was Ginger's Austin roadster. Smedley could write a quick letter and catch the evening post with it. It would reach Fallow in the morning—perhaps. If it did not arrive until the afternoon, that would cut things very fine. He had better walk down to the village after dinner and telephone.

  He realized that he was staring blankly at some appalling handwriting and medical jargon. He pulled his wits together—what was left of them—and began to read. He was not much wiser when he got to the end than he had been at the beginning, except on one point. The doctors knew that John Three was a shirker. He would certainly be thrown in the clink very shortly.

  Two points. The stretcher-bearers who had witnessed his arrival all swore he had dropped out of the sky.

  Smedley jumped as the door swung open. It swung a long way, hiding him from whoever was outside.

  "Hand me that chair, would you, Miss Pimm?” Stringer's voice said with breezy authority. In a hospital, a surgeon ranked just above God. “I am not to be disturbed. You needn't wait, Sergeant. We'll send word when we need to ship him back. Come in here, Three."

  There was barely room for another chair and two more men and a closing door. Exeter had not expected Smedley. His blue eyes flickered anger for a moment and then went stony blank. He was wearing flannels, a tweed jacket, and a shirt with no tie. He stood like a tailor's dummy as the surgeon squeezed past him to reach his desk.

  Stringer sat down and gazed up fishily at the patient.

  Smedley shrank back on his seat.

  Exeter just stood and looked at the wall. He was tall and lean, as he'd always been. In daylight his cheekbones still bore the inexplicable tan. But his chin and ears ... long hair like a woman's? Exeter?