The Old Vengeful (26 page)

“Clever Lieutenant Chipperfield, rather.” She could see that Paul was pleased with her, so this was the moment for becoming modesty. “But he died at Coucy, Paul—how?”

“Just damned bad luck, that’s how, Elizabeth.” His pleasure turned instantly to Chipperfield—identifying regret. “The cart broke down at Coucy, and they tried to repair it with what they could scrounge. But while they were working on it there was an accident of some kind … Tom Chard’s a bit vague about what actually happened, but it looks as though something gave way, and Chipperfield was crushed underneath …” he trailed off for a moment “… not killed, but very badly injured. Fatally injured, as it turned out … which is … rather sad, when you think about it.”

He was no longer looking at her, but just staring into space as though he could see pictures inside his head.

And that, thought Elizabeth, was what he
was
seeing:
rather sad
concealed the same insight which had informed his account of the last efforts of the British and German soldiers locked in mud and exhaustion on the muddy slopes above the Aisne—he had been there with them in their embryonic trenches, just as he was there now, dying by inches under the cart at Coucy-le-Château.

All those years ago, and long forgotten, it had been first relegated to one old man’s memories, and to a few pages in a commonplace book which had become an old lady’s family heirloom until Father’s letter in
The Times
had re-animated it. But once it had been a Great Adventure until
rather sad
—she could almost love Paul for that understatement of the unendurable truth it concealed: that this almost anonymous third lieutenant of the
Vengeful
had brought his comrades so far, in safety against all the odds, with pursuit long out-distanced, only to die slowly and painfully by cruel accident almost within sight of home.

“So what did Chard actually say, then?” Aske was quite oblivious to
rather sad
.

“Oh … he was still angry after all those years about the cart breaking down that second time.” Paul snapped himself back to reality. “He said, if they’d used seasoned ash instead of green elm it would have been okay, and Abraham Timms said that in his country there’d have been plenty of hickory-wood for the taking, which would have been even better—that was what Chard thought was interesting, because that was what he remembered all those years after.” He looked at Elizabeth, seeing her again. “Which was all quite meaningless until your father saw it, and after ‘fire-weed’,
hickory
was the clincher—and our experts zeroed in on it too … because hickory is the American equivalent for ash—‘
Carya ovata
, or
Carya cordiformis
, which is frequently confused with walnut, was rare in Europe in the early nineteenth century, but common in North America, from New York State to Florida’.” He smiled lop-sidedly at her. “When you spend most of your time interpreting security tip-offs and Russian tit-bits a query about the origin of hickory-wood is like a breath of fresh air… But that’s where your father picked up his final American clue—and why he went off at half-cock, following Abraham Timms for so long, instead of Colonel Suchet … not that Timms isn’t a fascinating character, as I said.”

“What’s so fascinating about him?” inquired Aske.

Paul shook his head. “He doesn’t really matter. It’s Suchet who matters … all that matters about Timms—and Tom Chard—is that they had to bodge up the cart with inferior material, and it broke again while Chipperfield was underneath. And that was still bugging Tom Chard twenty-five years after—I think he felt that somehow he’d been responsible for his officer’s death. He was a good man, was Tom Chard.”

“But not quite good enough,” murmured Aske, reaching down towards the dashboard. “Let’s have some music.”

Elizabeth had just started to think
but what happened next? Because if
Tom Chard came safe home, what happened to
—and then a sudden burst of pop music drowned her thoughts.

“For God’s sake, man—“ Mitchell leaned forward towards the radio.

“No!” Aske restrained him. “Leave it on, Mitchell—not quite good enough—and we’re not quite good enough either, it seems, old boy. Because we’ve got a tail.”

“What—“

“Don’t turn round! Yes … I think the great Dr Audley may have been careless somewhere along the line.”

“What do you mean, Mr Aske?” asked Elizabeth.

“I mean, Miss Loftus, that we’re being followed,” said Aske calmly. “And don’t you look round, either—and don’t shout—I can see behind us perfectly well, and I can hear you well enough … The music’s just in case they’ve got us bugged as well as bracketed … and there is still just a chance, with that and all the rigmarole I’ve been through, that they may not be quite sure I’m on to them—just a chance.” He looked at Paul. “Well, Mitchell? What is your pleasure, then?”

Paul thought for a moment. “What sort of a tail?”

“Ah … now as to origin, I cannot tell you, except that it is undoubtedly professional, as one would expect—never right behind us, in clear view … But as to content, that’s easier, because they had to turn off after passing us when I stopped, and pick us up again when we continued … and then one had to overtake us—he’s in front now—just to make sure we hadn’t switched cars, or anything tricky like that.” He paused, and then half-turned towards Elizabeth. “I had this feeling, you see, Miss Loftus, not long after we left Laon … this pricking in the back of the neck … that we were not
altogether
alone. But I couldn’t be sure, not until now.”

“What sort of tail?” repeated Paul. “What vehicles?”

“One Renault 20 saloon, blue, with driver and passenger. And one unmarked Citroen van, grey, with driver only. Though what’s behind the driver—what wealth of ingenious gadgetry—I also cannot tell, of course … Hence the disgusting French equivalent of the Top of the Pops, Miss Loftus—just in case.”

Paul leaned closer to Elizabeth. “He means we could be bugged— with a voice pick-up as well as a directional indicator …
Damn!
”
He turned back to Aske. “Didn’t you check out the bloody car?”

Aske sighed. “Don’t be silly, old boy. If these are pros I could strip it down, and still not find anything—you know that.”

“Damn!” murmured Paul. “Damn, damn, damn!”

“I admit I maybe didn’t take things quite seriously enough,” conceded Aske. “But then we haven’t been doing anything terribly serious, have we?”

“Damn!” said Paul again.

“Don’t fret, old boy. This is what I’m here for—to keep you safe and sound. So long as they don’t try anything crude we’re in no danger … and with all this traffic around us I can’t think that they have that in mind. And I’m sure I’m a
much
better driver than either of them … There’s a passenger seat-belt in the back, Miss Loftus—put it on, please … Just in case … though one should always wear one’s belt, in
any
case, of course.”

“Can you lose them?” asked Paul.

“Yes.” Askc leaned forward again. “I think we’ll have a
leetle
more background noise … Yes … But not here.”

“Where then?”

“Oh, Paris is the place. Lots of nice fast traffic, lots of different lanes … They have us boxed in, so I shall lose them on the
périphérique
—the one in front at the Saint Ouen intersection, or at Clignancourt… and then I’ll get the one behind into the wrong lane just before Clichy, and I’ll slip out there. We’ll need a little luck, but not a lot.”

Elizabeth began to feel almost reassured.

“I can only give you a few minutes, though,” went on Aske smoothly. “Because if they know their business—if there’s a directional bug on this car, which I assume there is—they’ll be on to us again quick enough … and if they’ve got more back-up waiting for us, that could be awkward … You can never be absolutely sure of losing a well-organised tail—I know, because I’ve outsmarted my Bulgarian friends more than once … But I can put you down round a corner near the Avenue de Wagram, and then I can ditch the car further on … So not to worry, eh?” Aske checked his mirror. “Here he comes now, tucking himself nicely behind that Saab …”

Elizabeth fought the desire to look over her shoulder. “Who are they, Paul?”

“Ah … now that’s the interesting question, Miss Loftus,” said Aske. “But it can hardly be the French just watching over us, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?”

“What have we done to annoy them?” Aske’s shoulders lifted.

“Nothing, so far as I am aware—certainly nothing to justify this VIP treatment … even if our Dr Mitchell has something of a record … No—if they didn’t like us they’d simply pick us up and boot us out, without much ceremony. That’s more their style, you see.”

“It could be the French, Elizabeth,” said Paul.

Aske snuffled. “You’re making pretty pictures, Mitchell. Pretty pictures to suit yourself—what they tell us never to do!”

“Pretty pictures, Mr Aske?”

“That’s right.” Aske nodded at the road. “To be spotted by the French—that’s just bad luck … But to be picked up by the KGB …” He shook his head sadly “… that’s both good and bad, I suppose.”

Elizabeth couldn’t for the life of her see how being pursued by the KGB could be good.

“Shut up, Aske!” snapped Paul.

“She has a right to know, old boy. It’s
bad
, Miss Loftus, because it means our security is bad—or because theirs is too damn good, alternatively … But it’s also good, because it means that we’ve got the swine worried enough to take all this trouble—which means that Audley knows what he’s doing, however odd it may seem to us.” He turned to Paul. “So do tell us what happened next in 1812, Dr Mitchell—do tell us more about the old
Vengeful
and All That—“

THE WEIGHT OF
scholarship surrounding them in the ante-room to Professor Louis Belperron’s study was at once reassuring and oppressive: the room was high-ceilinged, almost a square box, and every inch of it not taken by its two doors and single window consisted of shelving crammed with old books. And from these, in the absence of the slightest breath of fresh air, there emanated a dry smell of old paper, ancient leather and glue, and of the dust of ages which had gathered on that combination.

“Well, if Professor Belperron doesn’t know about Colonel Suchet, then no one does,” concluded Paul from his reconnaissance of the shelves.

Elizabeth stared out of the window, down into the bustling avenue below. The contrast of that bustle, after their dodge’em car drive through the maelstrom of the peripheral motorway, and their final rush from the car into this old apartment building, with this sudden peace and quiet … that contrast ought, she felt, to be calming, but somehow it wasn’t—it was more like the uncalm stillness of an examination room before the exam.

“Can you see Aske?” asked Paul.

“No.” It didn’t seem likely to her that she would be able to spot Humphrey Aske in that throng, but the unlikely gave her the lie even as she spoke. “Yes.”

“Where?” He craned his neck over her shoulder.

“Down by the corner of that side-street.” Perhaps it was because, in all that movement, that one slender figure was unmoving at the apex of a corner-shop window—unmoving except for his head, as he switched his attention through the points of the compass.

“Well, at least he’s keeping his wits about him,” said Paul ungraciously, turning away again.

Aske completed his survey, but instead of crossing towards the entrance into the building he then walked quickly a few yards up the street, to disappear under the awning of a cafe.

“He seems to do his job rather well,” said Elizabeth.

“Adequately, yes.” Paul was studying the shelves again.

“Even though you’re horrible to him.”

“Hmmm …” He seemed more interested in the books. “I cannot bring myself to love Mr Aske, certainly … or trust him either, come to that.” He lifted a volume out carefully, and blew the dust from it. “And the prospect of travelling with him to Alsace, which could have been a pleasure … that frankly appals me, Elizabeth. And not least because he brings out the worst in me …” He opened the book. “Which I would prefer you not to see.”

This, Elizabeth realised suddenly, was the first time they had been completely alone since last night—since last night a thousand years ago. And Aske hadn’t reappeared yet.

“You mean … going to Alsace with me … you wouldn’t have minded that?”

“Yes.” He closed the book, put it back, and selected another, not looking at her. “I’d enjoy showing you the Lautenbourg. And I’d show you the battlefield at Le Linge, that’s fascinating … And we could come back
via
Verdun, and the ossuary at Douaumont, and the woods at Mort Homme … and then I’d show you the Somme, and the canal at Bellenglise, where my grandfather was killed in 1918, with the glorious 46th Division—he commanded his battalion that day, September 29th … and Vimy Ridge, and Loos … you’d enjoy all of that, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth looked at him in a state of emotion beyond surprise, almost into shock, at the prospect of being dragged from one hideous battlefield to the next—“ossuary”, if she had it right, was only one degree short of “charnel house”, or “bone-yard” even … But he was quite oblivious of that; rather, he was probably doing her the greatest compliment he could think of in offering to share his obsession with her—
where my grandfather was killed in 1918
even … and Loos, so far as she could recall, was a miserable flat landscape of ugly mining villages pock-marked with old overgrown coal-tips, which he was offering to her like some fabulous beauty spot, the Lake District combined with Salzburg.

“I’d like that very much, Paul.” As she pronounced the lie, another shock hit her, crumbling her preconceptions into rubble:
that it wasn
’
t a lie
—that she would willingly and happily tag along in his wake, learning why the 46th Division was so glorious, and admiring the dreariness of Loos—that if that was what turned him on, then it would damn well turn her on too. “I’d like that.”