Present Tense [Round Two of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  He was making sure the two of them had no chance for a private word. But that did not matter. The plan he had been told was not the one Exeter would learn from the note inside his shirt. And already Smedley was drawing up Plan Three in his mind. Other worlds!

  He mumbled something and rose, holding out his hand. Exeter stood up also, to clasp it in an awkward grip.

  "See you on Friday, old man!” Smedley said, nudging foot on foot.

  "Good of you. Damned grateful."

  By good luck, the formidable Miss Pimm was absent from her desk, probably having lunch, and Smedley walked away along the hall. He would have to change back into uniform if he expected to eat at the King's expense.

  The big hall was almost deserted. Everyone must be in the mess.

  Yes, the plan would have to be changed. Stringer was a nark, no question about it. Even if he was not quite low enough for the shot-while-trying-to-escape villainy, he was at least a nark. Exeter caught walking out the gate in a stolen uniform would be exposed as a scrimshanker and the jig would be up. Stringer thought the escape was going to happen on Friday morning, so it must happen sooner. Tonight!

  Which was cutting things very fine indeed. Smedley must hare down to the village and phone Ginger to get the chariot fired up right away. How many hours would it take to drive from the West Country to Kent, even supposing the car did not break down completely or have too many bursts?

  "Ah, there you are, sir! Been looking for you."

  Smedley's eyes came back into focus, seeing the wan face of his roommate Rattray.

  "Lieutenant?"

  "Couple of visitors for you, sir."

  Smedley turned to look, and caught a wave.

  Alice Prescott! And Ginger Jones!

  Oh, hell! That's torn it!

  He put his good arm around Alice and kissed her cheek. Despite her astonishment she did not bite him. He could tell she was tempted, though. Quite a gal, Miss Prescott. He laid his stump across Ginger's shoulders and propelled both visitors toward the door.

  "I say, darned good of you to come! You haven't eaten yet, have you? Let's trot down to the Black Dragon and grab a bite.” Then he had them outside.

  It was raining and his greatcoat was upstairs. Oh, well.

  "What was all that about, Captain Smedley?” Miss Prescott demanded as they walked down the driveway, footsteps crunching on the gravel.

  "All what?"

  "I have never been thrown out of a pub, but I imagine the sensation would be somewhat similar."

  "Edward. He'll be brought through there in a couple of shakes, and seeing you two might rattle him."

  "You've talked to him?” Ginger demanded.

  "Yes. He's well."

  "No amnesia?"

  "No, he's in tip-top shape, actually."

  What else could Smedley say? He's been to visit another world, where he has magical powers. The magic took him there because it was prophesied it would, and he was tricked into coming back by people who want to kill him, who happen to include the doctors here. And after that, of course, Smedley could explain that he was inclined to believe most of this. You'd look neat upon the seat of a straitjacket built for two....

  "He's slinging it, then?” Ginger demanded.

  "Ah, yes. Odd thing, though. Stringer, the surgeon, knew who he was! Met him at the Eton match, apparently. He's been covering for him. Old School Tie and all that."

  The rain was merely a drizzle. The fresh air smelled wonderful, all leafy and earthy. They walked hurriedly, and Smedley told the Fallow part of the story. He left out the Olympus bit altogether. He was asked, of course. He hedged: “He just dropped a few hints."

  By the time he had finished, they had reached the Black Dragon. It was a favorite outing for the walking wounded from Staffles, serving good English ale and quite respectable lunches. The lounge was packed with patients and visitors, of course, with more men waiting hopefully on the sidelines, but luckily a group vacated a small table right under Smedley's nose and he grabbed it. Before his claim could be disputed, Miss Prescott sat down and the challengers angrily withdrew.

  "My favorite table!” Smedley said with satisfaction.

  "I wish I knew how you do that,” Ginger muttered.

  "Do what?"

  "Never mind. A drink, Miss Prescott?"

  She requested a sherry. Smedley ordered mild and bitter. Ginger went to fetch them.

  Alice had changed very little. Her face had always been a little on the horsey side and still was, but not hard to smile at. Edward had been head over heels back in ‘14. She was not wearing a ring. How did she feel about Edward? How had she ever felt about him, for that matter? She was two or three years older. She was even older now, and Edward...

  Recalling how oddly youthful Exeter still looked, Smedley suddenly recalled the remark about curing cavities in teeth. Was that why he still seemed young? He was still young? He had not aged at all on his other world. Hell's bells!

  "Something wrong, Captain?” Miss Prescott inquired coldly.

  He had been staring right through her. “No, nothing..."

  Ginger laid a foaming tankard on the table; Smedley grabbed for it, cursed, switched arms, and drank. Son of a bachelor!

  The fact was, he believed in Nextdoor and Olympus! That a man of twenty-one still had rosy cheeks was a very flimsy piece of evidence. Lots did, although lately they had been aging much faster than usual. But it was another piece in the puzzle. There had to be some explanation for that tropical tan turning up in Flanders.

  "All they have left is the Melton Mowbray pie.” Ginger had brought a beer for himself, but was still standing.

  "It's usually pretty fair,” Smedley said.

  Alice nodded acceptance. Ginger went off to order lunches. Service was something else that had gone to hell since the war started. Now Smedley had his chance to hobnob with a girl and see how often he could make her smile.

  "Having a good war, Miss Prescott?"

  "You used to call me Alice."

  "Horrid little bounder, wasn't I? You called me Spots, as I recall."

  "And now I ought to call you Gongs! Well done! I hear you're going up to the palace for..."

  Oh, God! His eye had begun to twitch. He leaned his face on his head to hide it. No good—he was starting a full-fledged attack of the willies. He wanted a drink, but he couldn't lift the beer with his stump, and ... Hell and damnation! He scrambled to his feet and blundered toward the door.

  The cool rain helped. When the tears stopped and he could breathe again, he went back inside. The other two were quietly eating pork pie, discussing the terrible price of food in the shops. They did not say a word as he sat down again, ignoring him as if all grown men had hysterical fits all the time, perfectly normal. He did not try to apologize, for that would just set him off again.

  What was the use, now? How could they trust anything he said after that performance? He struggled to cut the hard crust with a fork, keeping quiet in his misery. His companions made small talk across him. As they finished eating, the adjoining tables suddenly emptied and stayed that way. So it was time to talk about the business of the meeting, and he wondered if he could do even that much without foaming at the mouth.

  "First,” Alice said, as matter-of-factly as if jailbreaks were all in her day's work, “we must get him out of Staffles. Second, we must get him up to London before they bring out the bloodhounds.” She had finished her food, but she was still nursing her drink. “And third we must find him a safe refuge so he can stay at liberty. Have I omitted anything?"

  She glanced at Smedley. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  "I think that's enough to be going on with.” Ginger was scratching at his beard. His expression suggested that he was wondering how he had ever managed to get himself involved in such lunacy.

  "Good!” she said. “Item one: Can we get him out of the building?"

  Smedley nodded again.

  "That's your part, Julian,” she said. “But how?"
/>
  "Two plans,” he said hoarsely, clenching his fist under the table, struggling not to let his voice quaver.

  "Why two?"

  "Because we can't trust Stringer! He was altogether too inquisitive. I think he wants Edward to give himself away by trying to escape."

  "I see."

  He knew what she was thinking.

  "I know it sounds crazy.... “Oh, what was the use? He was crazy! They both knew that as well as he did.

  Ginger grunted. “You say Stringer said he knew Exeter?"

  "Shook his hand the day he got the hat trick."

  "No, he didn't."

  "What?"

  Ginger removed his pince-nez and wiped it on his sleeve. It was a trick of his when he was upset. “Short Stringer never had any use for games. It was his brother who was the cricketer. Long Stringer was the one who was there that day at Eton. I know. I was there too. I sat right behind him. I remember Exeter being mobbed. I know there were dozens of admirers around him, but I'd swear Short Stringer wasn't there."

  An unfamiliar sensation around his mouth told Smedley that he must be smiling. Another piece of evidence sliding into place! If distrusting doctors was proof of insanity, then Ginger Jones belonged to the club too.

  "Long Stringer's the soldier?” Alice said. “Could he be involved in this? Could he have recognized Edward in Belgium and tipped off his brother?"

  "I don't think we can trust anyone,” Smedley said. “Just the three of us.” That was funny, asking them to trust a babbling lunatic.

  "I agree! Tell us your two plans."

  Keeping Plan Three to himself for the time being, Smedley outlined Plan One, the blind for Stringer's benefit, and then Plan Two, the fire alarm.

  His audience did not leap to its feet and applaud.

  "Hardly cricket,” Ginger said dourly, “to shout ‘fire!’ in a hospital full of disabled men."

  "It's damned near a public service! They haven't had a fire drill since I got there, and the place is a death trap. I just hope the alarm works, that's all.” Truth to tell, Smedley was uneasy about the ethics of Plan Two, perhaps trying to convince himself as much as his listeners.

  "You're sure it will work?” Alice demanded.

  "Certain. There will be chaos unlimited! The yard wall's only head high. Exeter could vault it one-han—easily."

  She shrugged and did not argue. “Good. You've taken care of the first problem. How about the second, the manhunt? Spiriting him up to London?"

  "That's Ginger's part. He'll have to be waiting with the getaway car. There's a concealed gateway..."

  He was facing two stares of dismay.

  "What car?” Ginger growled.

  "Boadicea's chariot."

  "The Chariot's out of commission. Up on blocks. There's no private motoring now."

  "I—I didn't know!” Smedley felt a surge of panic and struggled against it.

  "It's not quite illegal,” Alice said quickly. “Not yet. I'm sure it soon will be. There's all kinds of restrictions."

  "And the price of petrol!” Ginger added. “It just went up to four and sixpence a gallon! Nobody can afford that!"

  Smedley cursed under his breath. He should have thought of this. Bicycles? Horses? No, Plan Two had just sunk with all hands. Oh, God, did that mean he would have to go through with Plan One?

  "How much time will he have?” Alice asked.

  "He'll be missed pretty soon. I can't cut the telephone wires, or I would. If he can just get up to London, he'll be in great shape, but he's got to go through Canterbury or Maidstone.” The coppers could set up roadblocks and picket the railway stations. Kent was a dead end in wartime, with the ports closed. Stringer must have seen that.

  "An hour?"

  "At the most."

  "The same problem would arise with Plan One, wouldn't it?"

  Smedley shivered. Cold torrents ran over his skin as he thought of himself lying bound and gagged in the little summerhouse—that tiny, walls-falling-in, trench-sort-of suffocating summerhouse. “If Stringer snitches, Plan Two's a dead duck. If not, then my paybook and chits will get Exeter clean away. Just depends how long until they find me.” Find a screaming, eye-rolling, mouth-foaming lunatic...

  Alice eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. She laid down her glass. “I think Plan Two is better. You'll do it tomorrow?"

  "Tonight would be even better, but—"

  "I know a car I can borrow."

  "You do?” Smedley wanted to hug and kiss her. The expression on her face sobered him.

  "But I can't drive."

  He opened his mouth and then closed it. He felt a twinge of the willies and suppressed them. He would never drive a car again.

  "Edward can't,” Alice said, “unless he's learned how in the last three years."

  "I don't think that's too likely. And it doesn't get the car here, anyway."

  "I've only ever driven a little bit,” she said, “and I'm certainly not up to driving in London."

  They looked at Ginger.

  He pawed at his beard, alarmed. “Neither am I! Strictly a back roads driver, I am! And I've never driven anything except the chariot. My license is back at Fallow anyway."

  "Come on, old man!” Smedley said. “It's only fifty miles to London from here, and the A2's the straightest damned highway in the country, Watling Street. The bloody Romans built it."

  Ginger glowered at Alice. “Where is this vehicle?"

  "Notting Hill."

  "Don't know London. That's north?"

  "West."

  "So it's on the wrong side!” The old chap was scowling ferociously, but he had not quite said no—not quite.

  Alice drummed fingers on the table. An old, familiar glint shone in her eyes. “Captain Smedley, can you suggest anyone else who might be qualified and willing to assist us in rescuing my cousin?"

  "Dozens of chaps, Miss Prescott. All the fellows in his class at school would jump at the chance."

  "And where can I find them?"

  "Ask around in Flanders. Most of them are there, still fighting the lousy Boche or filling up the cemeteries. The ones back here in Blighty have all had their legs blown off. So they can't help you. Frightfully sorry."

  Ginger snarled. “Damn you both! What sort of car?"

  "A Vauxhall, I think,” Alice said. “Bloody great big black box on four wheels. You won't get wet."

  "Does it have electric lights?"

  Alice pursed her lips, a gesture which definitely did not improve her appearance. It suggested hay. “I'm not sure. I've never been out in it in the dark."

  "Time, gentlemen!” called the landlord.

  "We must go,” Smedley said.

  Jones did not budge. “You're sure the owner will be willing to lend us this vehicle?"

  "He would not mind!” she said firmly. “I have the key to the lockup."

  "And what will he say if I ram a taxi in the Strand?"

  "I am sure it is insured.” Her face was bleak. Best to ask no more, obviously.

  Ginger polished his glasses vigorously. “Tomorrow night?"

  The old chap was not short of courage and definitely long on loyalty. How would Fallow react if one of its senior masters was caught driving the getaway car in a jailbreak?

  "Good man!” Smedley said. “But not tomorrow. Tonight! We must get the jump on Stringer and his gang."

  Ginger flinched. “Tonight?"

  "This is Plan Three! I tried to hint to Exeter that it would not wait until Friday. Even if he didn't understand my hint, though, he'll know as soon as the alarm goes off. I'll bring some spare togs along, in case he has to run in his pajamas.” Smedley sighed happily. “I'm coming too, you see."

  Other worlds!

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  9

  SUDDENLY THERE WAS URGENCY. SMEDLEY RECALLED THAT THE NEXT bus was almost due, so the three of them ran. Jumpy and chattery, he waited at the bus stop with them until the bus arrived, a creaky old double-decker. Alice and Jones both fo
und seats, but not together, so they had no chance to talk.

  Alice was beside a verbose middle-aged lady with pronounced—loudly pronounced—opinions on the Germans, the war, prices, food shortages, the need for rationing, and many, many other topics. Letting this blizzard of complaint drift around her, Alice sat back and marveled at the sudden emergency that had disrupted her life.

  She had met Julian Smedley four times previously, with a lapse of years between each encounter. He had always been one of Edward's closest friends at Fallow, and always more of a follower than a friend. It might be more accurate to say that Edward had always been Smedley's friend, for Edward was one of those people who had friendships thrust upon them. Her memories of Smedley were like photographs in an album. Weedy little boy on page one, then pimply adolescent, and now wounded hero on page five. Each memory was strangely different. He had been shy and owlish, yet mischievous and quietly witty. Moreover, as Ginger had pointed out on the train down, Julian Smedley had always possessed a gift for falling on his feet. When the cake was passed out, the largest piece would usually land on his plate, yet nobody ever disliked him.

  Perhaps even a missing hand counted as a largish piece of cake in 1917. He had been buried alive by a shell burst and dug out in time. Now he was out of the war, which was what mattered. Ginger said he had medals galore, although she would never have marked Julian as a potential hero. Why had she made that stupid, stupid remark about them? Buried alive!

  Shell-shocked or not, Julian Smedley had talked Jones and herself into this madness very slickly. She might lose her job over it, although jobs were no problem now. She might even go to jail, although that prospect was sufficiently improbable not to trouble her unduly. She was not the one in danger. If things went wrong, the police would want to know by what right she had taken a motorcar belonging to Sir D'Arcy Devers. The danger was scandal.