A Prospect of Vengeance (21 page)

Was that a creak on the stair
—
?

‘And so has Reg Buller, Jenny.’ Almost, she had weakened his confidence with her Tully-Fielding heart-of-the-matter intelligence safely garnered while he’d been skirmishing so dangerously in Rickmansworth and Lower Buckland. But the ghost of Reg Buller shook his head at him—
and there was blood on Reg
’
s face
…
and that had been a sound on the stair
. ‘And I think I came damn close to following him, just this afternoon, what’s more—‘

‘What—?’ Without any matching distraction, she had taken in every word after he had hit her below the belt with
Reg Buller
.

He strained his ear into a sudden unnatural silence: even the pots and pans in the busy kitchen below them seemed to have stopped clattering, and the whole of Dad’s ancient
Eslingastun
seemed momentarily still.

‘Two men came after me, Jen. At least, I think they did—‘

Tap-tap
—
the soft double knock on the door cut him off decisively. And then, as though the silence had been released by it, the pans started clattering again, and a car driver changed gears inexpertly and revved his engine outside. But Jenny was already turning towards the first sound.

Damn
! thought Ian. ‘And this man probably saved my life then—
Come in, Mr Mitchell
!’

In the stretched seconds during which the door opened, Jenny came back from it to him, with an angry expression he was glad he couldn’t see clearly.

‘Hullo there! Ian—?’ Mitchell saw Ian first, and smiled hesitantly at him; then took in Jenny, holding the smile in place; and then swung round, away from them both. ‘Thank you, gentlemen—for your help … ’ The smile began to droop as he got it back to Ian. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d tell the Indian Army out here that I’m friendly. Because they’re beginning to frighten me.’ He opened the door wider, to reveal Mr Malik’s fearsome brother at his shoulder and the equally terrifying cousin at his other side.

Ian nodded at them. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’

Mr Malik’s brother stood to attention. ‘You want anything, sir—you just ring.’

‘Phew!’ Mitchell closed the door with evident relief. ‘They were waiting for me outside the phone-box. I thought they were going to mug me. Then one of them mentioned your name … But he still looked as though he’d rather thump me—even after I’d told him I was a friend of yours.’

‘And are you a friend of ours?’ Jenny had recovered her glass but not her temper, from the cold hostility in her voice. ‘Mr Mitchell, is it—?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Mitchell smiled at her uneasily. ‘Miss Fielding-ffulke, I presume?’

‘Plain “Fielding” will do, Mr Mitchell.’

‘Not “plain”, Miss Fielding. And my friends call me Paul. That being my name.’

‘Is that so? And we are friends?’

‘I would have thought so—yes. I’m undoubtedly
your
friend, Miss Fielding. And you certainly need friends.’ Mitchell was no longer smiling.

‘But I already have friends, Mr Mitchell. Lots of them. And in high places, too.’

‘Ah … yes.’ Somehow, as Jenny had become less angry and more confident, Mitchell seemed to have become the opposite. ‘But now you may need one in a low place, perhaps—don’t you think?’

‘Meaning you, Mr Mitchell?’

‘Meaning me, Miss Fielding.’ Mitchell gave Ian a slightly puzzled glance.

‘But I really don’t know you, Mr Mitchell. I don’t know who you are. And I don’t know what you do.’

Mitchell’s head inclined slightly, as though from weariness. ‘Oh, come on, Miss Fielding—I know I was only away for five minutes. But I can’t believe that you’ve been discussing the menu with Ian here. Or the weather. Or your last joint royalty statement. Or … even your next advance, on the book you’re planning to write.’

‘How d’you know we’re planning to write a book?’ Jenny knew she was winning.

‘Isn’t that what you do?’ By the same token, Mitchell seemed to think that he was losing. ‘You dig the dirt … or should I say pan the gold—?’

For the first time, Jenny smiled at Mitchell. But not sweetly. ‘Isn’t that where gold is found—in dirt? But we don’t make the dirt, Mr Mitchell. People like you do that. We merely
find
the gold—‘ Then she gestured abruptly. ‘—I’m tired of metaphors, though … In answer to your question, Mr Friendly-Mitchell—
yes
, we are going to write a book. Because that is what we do. So what?’

‘Unless someone stops you.’

‘Stops us? Who’s going to stop us?’ Jenny seemed delighted that he’d picked up her gauntlet so quickly (Ian felt the metaphor shift from gold-mining to single combat: and that would please her, of course!). ‘Not you—you’re a friend of ours, you said.’

‘Not me, no.’ Mitchell nodded towards Ian. ‘He does the writing, doesn’t he? And someone damn nearly wrote “The End” to his book this afternoon, Miss Fielding. Ask him if you don’t believe me.’

‘I see.’ She didn’t even look at Ian. ‘Would you like a drink, Mr Mitchell?’

Thank you.’ Mitchell didn’t relax. ‘I would like a drink—yes.’ He watched her pour a generous glass of Mr Malik’s plonk.

‘So you’re just here to frighten us—is that it?’ She thrust the glass at him, spilling it as usual in the process.

‘Am I?’ Mitchell drank thirstily, swallowing and then making a face. ‘I think you ought to be frightened.’

‘But you don’t mind us writing, though? And publishing—?’

Mitchell considered the question and the wine together, and neither seemed to his taste. ‘It all depends on what you write, I suppose.’ But he drank, nevertheless.

‘Usually we settle for the truth, Mr Mitchell. Our lawyers find that less complicated to defend.’ Jenny watched the man drink again. ‘And we try not to be too economical with it.’

‘Then, you’ve been fortunate to find such a lot of it. I’ve always found it somewhat elusive, myself.’

‘Like gold?’ Her mock innocence was transparent. ‘Another drink—?’

‘Sometimes like fool’s gold, Miss Fielding. And even the real stuff … since we’re into metaphor again … it can be just like a little knowledge—dangerous.’ He nodded towards Ian as he presented his glass. ‘As Ian here surely must have told you—thank you … I can’t really believe that you haven’t told Miss Fielding about our adventures of this afternoon.’ Then he frowned slightly over his glass at Jenny. ‘Or has she had even more traumatic adventures of her own, maybe—?’

Ian felt himself frowning. The man was fishing, unashamedly. But he was also behaving as though he still didn’t know about Reg Buller. So … who the devil had he been phoning from the box outside, who also didn’t know? Could Intelligence really be so uninformed—so downright incompetent—?

‘Only very briefly.’ The voice inside his head giving the obvious answer seemed louder than his own voice.

‘Yes. Too briefly.’ Jenny followed him up quickly. ‘So perhaps you would elaborate on what Ian said, Mr Mitchell. As a friend?’

‘Ah … ’ Mitchell acknowledged the turning of the tables on him with the ghost of a smile. ‘What did you tell her, Ian? No point in repeating … the truth, eh?’

‘He thought you might have saved his life, that’s all.’ Jenny refused to give up her advantage.

‘All?’ Mitchell sounded a little pained. That seems quite a lot to me.’

‘He wasn’t sure it was what you did, though. Maybe not the truth?’

‘Oh, it is—I did. And rather heroically too, I thought. Or, as some might say—foolishly?’ He shook his head at Ian. ‘You didn’t tell her about Father John’s gun—?’

‘He did not.’ To her credit Jenny resisted this irresistible red herring. But then weakened. ‘There were two men—?’

‘Ah? So he did say more!’ But then Mitchell weakened in turn. ‘Actually, there were three—‘

Three?’ Since no one had offered him a drink, Ian had been heading for the alcove. But the number stopped him in his tracks.

Three, including me.’ Mitchell took his nod from Ian back to Jenny. ‘We were all following him. But I was … ’ He shrugged.

‘The cleverest?’ Jenny put her knife in with a sweetly inquiring smile.

‘Undoubtedly—and fortunately.’ Mitchell considered the proposition seriously for a moment before continuing. ‘But I was actually going to say “better informed”. So I got to Lower Buckland ahead of everyone else, from Rickmansworth. There’s a little back road—‘

‘Why were you following him?’ More red herrings bit the dust.

Mitchell frowned. ‘Why—to see where he was going, Miss Fielding. Why else would I follow him?’ Then he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry—‘

‘Sorry?’ Jenny had been about to snap at him. ‘Why?’

‘Yes. It was a silly answer.’ He half-smiled at her. ‘ “Why did the chicken cross the road?”—“To get to the other side” … But we’re past the childish Christmas-cracker jokes, I think. And … the chicken had other reasons, of course.’ Mitchell twisted the smile downwards. ‘But the joke was certainly on this chicken, Miss Fielding: I had no idea how dangerous the road was going to be. And
that
is the truth, believe it or not.’ Then he lifted his empty glass. ‘Could I have a proper drink, please? Like whisky, say?’

Jenny stared at the man for a moment, almost as though she was seeing him properly for the first time, before taking the glass and turning to the alcove. And Ian felt himself sharing the instant, and also seeing more clearly what he had glimpsed before: that, whatever and whoever he was, Mitchell was also flesh-and-blood, and no superman; and that in Lower Buckland they had both of them come upon their own life-and-death, equally unexpectedly. And that was certainly no joke.

‘I think Jenny meant … how did you get on to us?’

That was a fair question, with a useful answer—if Mitchell was so foolish as to give it. But also, after this afternoon and what he’d just thought, he felt obligated to Mitchell.

‘Is that what she meant?’

‘What?’ Jenny looked from one to the other suspiciously as she handed him a new glass.

Thank you.’ Mitchell drank a little of his whisky. ‘Well, if I may answer you with an ancient truth … “
when you sup with the Devil, you need a long spoon
”
—
is that right? I can’t remember where it comes from. But your spoon just wasn’t long enough, it seems.’

Jenny squared up to him. ‘What the hell is that meant to mean, Mr Mitchell?’

Mitchell looked at her for an instant. ‘I mean … at least, I think I mean … that if you ask particular questions … of
particular
people, about
other
people—?’ He cocked his own question at Ian. ‘Then someone’s going to start asking questions about
you
—
quite naturally, wouldn’t you think?’ Then he smiled at Jenny. ‘And we don’t want any harm to come to you, of course.’

The square shoulders lifted, as Jenny took a deep breath.

‘We’re talking about Philip Masson—and David Audley, of course.’ Having been offered an olive branch, the Honourable Miss Jennifer Fielding-ffulke hit Mitchell in the face with it. ‘Or is this another Christmas-cracker joke?’

Ian saw Paul Mitchell flinch as the branch slashed him—just as the Syrian major in Beirut had done, when he’d been expecting gratitude and had received the rough side of her tongue instead; the only difference was that the Major had saved her life, whereas Paul Mitchell had only saved
his
—

‘Jenny! For heaven’s sake!’ He saw Mitchell unflinching. But that didn’t blot out Major Asad’s pilgrim’s progress from incredulity to bitterness, which had soured their comradeship into contempt at the last. ‘
Jenny
—
‘

‘No, Ian.’ Jenny shook her head obstinately. ‘Don’t be wet. He’s starting to bull-shit us now.’

‘No I’m not.’ Mitchell’s jaw tightened. ‘You asked me why I followed Ian. I followed him because
you
had been asking questions—and you asked one too many, of the wrong person. And about the wrong person.’

‘Meaning Audley?’

‘So I drew the short straw. Meaning Ian here. Fortunately.’ Mitchell ignored the latest question. ‘Because it would seem that you actually flushed out someone else from the undergrowth with your questions—someone who really doesn’t want
any
questions being asked.’ He stared at her for a long moment. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’ve been doing today, Miss Fielding. But, if our experience is anything to go by, you’ve been bloody lucky, anyway. Because you’re still alive.’

Jenny licked her upper lip, and a trick of the light revealed to Ian that there were beads of sweat above it. Which, since she knew about Reg Buller, was fair enough: whether Mitchell knew as much or not, those last words of his had hit her where it hurt.

Then she resisted the blow. These other two men—the ones who followed you, Ian—‘ but she wasn’t interested in him: it was Mitchell she was looking at ‘—you know them—?’

‘I knew one of them.’ Mitchell frowned at him. ‘God! You really didn’t tell her much, did you?’ He shook his head. ‘Yes, Miss Fielding—Jenny: I
knew
one of them, from the old days. And that makes us all lucky—and maybe Ian and me luckiest of all. Because Paddy MacManus was a hard man when I knew him … Or, more accurately, knew of him, back in Dublin in the late ‘70s. A real
hard
man—even too bloody hard for the boyos, in the end, when they started to wonder who he was working for.’ He drew a breath. ‘You see, when you keep a tiger, you’ve got to feed him regularly, because he gets hungry … And when he’s a man-eater, and he gets the taste for it … that’s okay when you’re in a killing-phase, because then you can feed him. But when you want to lower the profile—maybe for political reasons, or just for public relations in America, for
financial
reasons, say … then you’ve got a problem—‘ Mitchell opened his mouth to continue, but then closed it. ‘Mmm … well, let’s put it like this: when the postman comes up the drive, then he’s delivering letters. And when
you
start asking questions, then you’re thinking about writing a book—or writing for the newspapers … or both.’ Another breath. ‘But when you see Paddy MacManus striding towards you in the middle of nowhere … then he isn’t writing a book. And it’s not the post he’s delivering. Will that do?’