The Old Vengeful (10 page)

“I can’t say I’ve really ever thought of it, Mr Audley.”

“No … of course, they were all gone before your time—and your mother too, when you were a baby—very sad!” Audley commiserated insincerely. “Which just left you and the Commander, and in somewhat straitened circumstances when he was invalided out, I take it?”

She had been right to feel uneasy: it was the money he was working towards. But how much could he know about that, beyond what she had blabbed yesterday to Paul. But how much more could old Mr Lovell add to that?

“Father had his writing, Mr Audley.” Her apprehension increased as she thought of Mr Lovell. If she was now a most valued client he was nonetheless a pillar of the Establishment, and if the Establishment leaned on him he might well bend his ear to it. Yet, at the same time, her own backbone stiffened: if they thought she was going to give in easily, they were very much mistaken. “He made a new career for himself with his books.”

“Yes. Just so!” He flicked a look at Paul Mitchell, who seemed to be busy studying the pattern on the carpet. “But Dr Mitchell and I have some small experience of the writer’s trade, Miss Loftus … and the fact is, your father didn’t write many books over the years—good ones, I’m sure, but not many … and not best-sellers.” Audley’s voice harshencd. “Or, to put it another way, I’ve spoken with his publishers, and I don’t think his royalties matched his tastes.”

Now Elizabeth knew where she was, and what she was: she was the USS
President
making a run for it off the Long Island shore in 1815, straight out of Father’s article for the
British Naval Review
…
heavily laden, and damaged below the water-line while crossing the bar off Staten Island, and with half the British fleet in hot pursuit. But a run for it she was going to make, nevertheless!

“Mr Audley, I really don’t see what this is leading to—or what business of yours my father’s royalties are—or his tastes.” She had to get the mixture just right, with equal parts of incomprehension, irritation and innocence. “And I certainly don’t see what it’s got to do with that document I signed.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Paul Mitchell half-smiling at the carpet, as though he had noticed a joke in the pattern.

“Are we going to play games after all, Miss Loftus?” Audley gazed at her. “You disappoint me.”

“
I
’
m
not playing games—“

“Mitchell.” Audley ignored her. “The box!”

It was the
Vengeful
box, of course—and Audley made his point by emptying a cascade of five pound notes on the carpet in front of her.

Audley looked at her. “And if you’re about to tell me that your father was a gambling man …” he shook his head “… please don’t, because I’m not about to believe it.”

It wasn’t going to be a 36-hour stern chase after all, thought Elizabeth desolately—she was going to strike her colours long before Decatur had done. But it wasn’t really Audley who had beaten her.

“I know you told Mitchell that—and when he might have believed you … that was resourceful, Miss Loftus—I grant you that.” They both knew she was going to surrender, she saw that in his face, as he looked down at the money, and then back at her. “There’s more than this, isn’t there? You’ve got safe deposit keys lodged with your solicitor—oh yes,
your
safe deposits, I don’t doubt that … the Commander was resourceful too—like daughter, like father, I don’t doubt that either.”

Mr Lovell had talked. But, what was worse, Mr Lovell had been much more observant than was good for her.

“Your safe deposits—but
his
loot.” He had her in range now. “And this is just the tip of the iceberg.”

She felt cold enough for it to be just that. And she couldn’t fight him any more because she had never in her heart really believed the gambling story, but had simply chosen never to question it.

A token resistance, for form’s sake if not for honour’s, was all she could make. “What makes you … so sure … that he didn’t win it?”

“My dear—practically everything.” He gazed at her with a suggestion of sympathy which she found humiliating. “Like, for instance, retired naval officers of an academic persuasion aren’t often given to gambling … or, if they are it’s usually common knowledge. And the house would have been full of bits of evidence, from bookies’ phone numbers in his address book to old race-cards shoved behind the cushions … And if it wasn’t horses, then he’d be known around the clubs—especially if he was a big winner, believe me.” He paused. “Which, of course, he wouldn’t have been—he’d have been a loser. And that’s almost the clincher by itself. He just didn’t have the right form.”

Of course, they would be experts on this sort of thing, reflected Elizabeth, because gamblers would always be security hazards. And, anyway, if Father’s story had never really convinced her, it would be no match for them, just as she was no match for them.

“Apart from which there’s your statement—Mitchell!” Audley passed the stapled sheets to her—not the original, she noted, but a photo-copied copy. “This is your account of what happened yesterday, between the time you left the village fête and … Mitchell’s second coming, if I may call it that—as witnessed by Aske and written and signed of your own free will?”

He was closing in on her now. But however disastrous the revelation of the safe deposits might be, that wasn’t her real worry, not now.

“Yes.” Being the only daughter of a new-deceased hero and an unworldly schoolmistress ought to count for something; and she might as well start rehearsing that role as of this moment. “Actually, Mr Aske said I couldn’t have the Sunday papers until I’d written it.”

If Father hadn’t won it,
where on earth had it come from
?

“Very well. Page two, towards the bottom of it.” Audley had his own copy of the statement. “You offered him what was in the box, and he said ‘I don’t want your money’.”

She saw that he had produced the spectacles he had worn for his photograph, and had perched them in the same ridiculous place. “Yes. That’s what he said.”

“Uh-huh. And that’s also what you said to Mitchell—‘he didn’t want my money’. So what was he after, Miss Loftus?”

“I don’t know.” Elizabeth blinked at him. “I said that to Dr Mitchell too.”

“But it had something to do with France, and your father … and HMS
Vengeful
—you told him that also.”

“Yes …” What had been rather vague and disjointed in her memory came back to her suddenly with disconcerting clarity. In the state in which she’d been, and with both the brandy and Paul Mitchell egging her on, she’d said much more than she needed to have done. “But it didn’t make any sense—I told Dr Mitchell that too.”

“Why not?”

She gestured helplessly. “How could anyone possibly be interested in the
Vengeful
?”

“Your safe deposits aren’t in France, by any chance?”

“No—no, of course not. They’re in London.”

“All of them?”

“Yes—there are only four …” Elizabeth faltered as she realised that this was the line of questioning the snake-man should have pursued yesterday, instead of fruitlessly pursuing Father’s
Vengeful
research trips.

Audley nodded. “So we come to the big question, Miss Loftus: what have you got in those precious boxes of yours?”

“I’m sorry?” She looked at him in surprise, then at Paul Mitchell.

“Come on, Elizabeth,” said Paul Mitchell. “Get it over with. We’re bound to find out, one way or another.”

She frowned at him. “Well—money, of course. I told you!”

“Money?” Audley returned the frown.

“What did you expect?” Now they were frowning at each other, as though she’d given an unexpected answer.

“Just money?” Audley persisted. “In all four deposits?”

“Yes.” She shared her own bewilderment with them.

“Look, Elizabeth …” Paul Mitchell abandoned his position by the suitcase, coming round the bed to squat on his heels in front of her, among the bank notes “…we don’t want your money—okay?”

“Well—what
do
you want?” It ought to have been an angry question, but the way it came out there was a pleading note in it.

Paul Mitchell’s encouragement slowly changed to doubt. Then he swivelled towards Audley. “What the hell
do
we want, David? That’s a good question!”

Audley was watching her over his spectacles. “Tell me about the safe deposits, Miss Loftus.”

“There isn’t much to tell.” All the stuffing had gone out of her. “Father gave me a parcel one day, and told me how to open a deposit—what to do …”

“In your own name?”

“That’s the only way you can do it. And then he gave me other parcels … and there were other accounts … And I gave him the keys each time, of course.”

“Of course!” He thought for a second. “And you always do what you’re told—you didn’t ask what was in them?”

Put like that it hurt, and she couldn’t bring herself to answer it directly. But somehow it had to be answered.

“David—“ began Paul Mitchell.

“No. Let her answer.” Audley waved him off. “Weren’t you at least curious?”

There was no way of answering that without humiliation. “You never met my father, Mr Audley?”

“No. That pleasure was denied me, Miss Loftus.”

The funeral came back to her: the rain gusting across the churchyard in sheets and falling through the saturated summer leaves of the trees on to the mourners—the smell of the wet earth and damp uniforms.

“He should have commanded a battle-squadron, Mr Audley— that’s what they said. But all he had was me.” She managed to look him in the eye. “After he died there was a letter in his deed-box at the solicitor’s, with the keys. It’s still there, so you can see it for yourself. And the keys, too.”

Paul Mitchell stirred. “But he didn’t say where he’d got it?”

“He said he’d taken a gamble. And he said that it was now all rightly mine, and no one else’s. That’s all.”

Audley nodded slowly. “How much?”

It was the inevitable question. “I don’t know—not exactly. There are gold coins as well as bank notes … sovereigns, and also those South African coins.”

“Krugerrand,” murmured Paul. “Nice!”

“Roughly—how much?” Audley wasn’t letting her go.

“In bank notes … about £100,000. I don’t know what the coins are worth. But there are a lot of them.”

“And the tax-man doesn’t know about any of it!” Paul grinned like a schoolboy. “
Very
nice!”

“I don’t know whether I should have reported it…” When it came to the crunch, pretending to be an unworldly schoolmistress lacked credibility, decided Elizabeth. But if she was to salvage something from the wreck she had to do her best. “But if you think I ought to, then I will, Mr Audley.”

“Good Lord—I wouldn’t!” exclaimed Paul. “She doesn’t have to, does she, David? I mean … can’t we declare her prize-money between ourselves, as it were?”

Elizabeth’s heart warmed to him. But also, at the same time, she had the impression that Audley was reading her like an open book.

“What you do with it isn’t our business, Miss Loftus—as Mitchell said, we don’t want it.” Audley closed the open book. “But where it came from
is
our business.”

They were back to the unanswerable question.

“The notes will have numbers,” said Mitchell. “Are they new ones, Elizabeth?”

The look on her face answered him even before she shook her head.

“Pity.” Almost unwillingly, he turned to Audley. “That amount of money in used notes … means it’s been professionally laundered, David.”

“It’s not the money that matters.” Audley studied her. “Tell me, Miss Loftus … did the parcels come to you after the trips to France?”

“I don’t know … no, I don’t think so …” Her memory sharpened as she realised the point of the question. “No … there were more of them—he didn’t go nearly that often … and … and they started before he went the first time—“ she stopped suddenly as the absurdity of the connection became apparent.

“Yes?”

“He went to France to research the book, Mr Audley.”

“So?”

“It’s absurd—it makes no sense.”

“It makes sense to someone, Miss Loftus.” He echoed Mitchell’s words from the previous evening. “That’s why we need your help, you see.”

“My help?” Elizabeth was so grateful he’d dropped the subject of money that she didn’t frown.

“You’re the expert on his book—you did all his typing, Mitchell tells me.”

“Yes—no …” Caution re-asserted itself. “I only typed the chapters when they were complete, he never discussed them with me or told me what he was doing. And he kept most of his notes in his head, it seemed to me.”

Audley nodded. “But he was re-writing one particular chapter, I gather?”

They were back to the absurdity. “Yes, but that was to do with Number Seven—the old
Vengeful
—“ She didn’t want to discourage him, but it was no good pretending to knowledge she didn’t possess “—and I really don’t know why, or what.”

Another nod. “Perhaps not. But if we do come up with anything new, then you’ll be able to advise Mitchell here. You can be his technical adviser, in effect.”

She looked at Paul Mitchell. She could hardly refuse to help
him
now, Audley himself had made sure of that. And even apart from that moral obligation there was her money to be considered—they had made that her
prize
-money, and prize-money had to be earned in battle.

And that left her no choice at all.

“Very well, Mr Audley.” As she came to her no-choice decision it occurred to her that she’d been manoeuvred into this surrender by Paul Mitchell and Mr Aske and Mr Bannen just as surely as
Endymion
and the
Pomone
and the
Tenedos
had brought Decatur’s
President
within range of the
Majestic
’
s
seventy-four guns. But Decatur had struck his flag then without loss of honour, so she could do the same.

Paul Mitchell smiled at her. “It’ll take you out of circulation too, Elizabeth. And that’s probably just as well at the moment.”