A Prospect of Vengeance (35 page)

‘You don’t fancy the truth?’ Against Audley’s sudden unpleasantness and the sense and the thrust of his own question, Ian was as respectful as a curate with a bishop nevertheless.

‘My dear fellow! I’ve spent two-thirds of my life looking for the truth. But only in relation to other people, of course—just like you. The truth about
myself
… and my many wicked deeds … is quite another matter.’ Cutting his losses, Audley became pleasant again. ‘But you must forgive my bad temper—or make allowances for it, anyway. Because I am on holiday. And with my family—‘ He raised a big blunt-fingered hand ‘—and
yes
—I do realize that Dr Goebbels and many other villains—probably Attila the Hun, too—were good family men, who loved their children, and their wives, and also went on holiday … I realize that, Mr Robinson!’ He smiled a terribly ugly smile, not at all sweetly, in spite of his best efforts. ‘But … would you like all your little secrets dragged into the harsh light of day? Or
of print
—
in some book, or some yellow tabloid rag?’

‘No.’ Ian shook his head, still curate-respectful. ‘Especially if they involved the death—or the murder—of another human being, Dr Audley …
No
—
I certainly wouldn’t like that.’

‘I didn’t mean that, Mr Robinson. I meant exactly what I said.’ Audley twisted slightly, peering down beside the monument where there was a gap in the rocks, as though to make sure that his wife and daughter were not within earshot. ‘As it happens I have been “involved”, as you put it so delicately, in the death of a number of human beings over the years. Since before you were born, in fact, Mr Robinson.’ The sneer was back. ‘I started young, when I didn’t know any better, with anonymous Germans in Normandy, saying “shoot” to my gunner—second-hand work even then, you might say.’

He was that old
! thought Jenny. But of course he was, and Cathy Audley had said as much; and even Philly himself had been killing Chinese—anonymous Chinese in Korea only a hand’s-breadth of years after Audley’s war; and Audley hardly looked older than Philly had done, that last time, when he’d turned up out of the blue at the end of her Finals—
Philly! Oh Philly
!

‘Ian—Mr Robinson—isn’t talking about ancient history, Dr Audley,’ she said sharply.

‘Neither am I, Miss Fielding.’ Audley almost sounded hurt by her sharpness. ‘But … old men have a habit of remembering the wounds they had on Crispin’s day.’ He shrugged. ‘As it
also
happens … I had no hand in your godfather’s death, for what it’s worth—‘ He raised his hand as her mouth opened ‘—oh yes: I know all about him … And by “all” I do mean
all
, Miss Fielding. Because I investigated him, once upon a time … Or, rather,
twice
upon a time: first, before he died, because we needed to know who he really was … and then afterwards, when we wanted to know
why
—
or
what
…
and then
who
and
how
, as well as
why
.’ He stared at her for a moment. ‘He was quite a man, was your godfather … But, then, you know that already.’

He was quite a man, too
! She started to think. But then she fought against the thought, amending it mutinously:
whatever he was, he was also a clever man
—
and even that instant of mutual recognition might
be part of his cleverness, like a python hypnotizing its prey before swallowing it! So now he was trying to make her think what he wanted her to think, perhaps
?

‘I know it suited you when he died, Dr Audley.’

‘Did it? Well … perhaps it did. And perhaps it didn’t. Who can tell?’ He shrugged again. ‘What I know is … that it doesn’t suit me now to be bothered by you. Because I have other work to do—more important work than having to worry about you.’ Now, at last, she got his purely-ugly face. ‘Which is why I asked “whose side are you on?”, Miss Fielding.’

‘But you’re on holiday now, Dr Audley. So we’re not wasting your official time, are we?’ Ian came in again, playing uncharacteristically dirty.

‘I don’t suppose it would do any good if I told you I have an alibi?’ Audley ignored Ian. ‘I flew back to Washington the Tuesday after we killed O’Leary—the Tuesday after the Saturday when my very dear Frances died—?’ He switched to Ian suddenly. ‘No—?’

It was the wrong appeal, to the wrong person.

‘No.’ Audley nodded. ‘I didn’t think it would.’ He sighed. ‘And you’re quite right, of course! It’s like an old friend of mine is always reminding me, about what the centurion said to Christ, according to St Matthew: “I am also a man under authority, having soldiers under me; and I say to this
Go
! And he goeth”.’ He gave them both a twisted grin. ‘It’s what he calls “one of the hard sayings”. Meaning that authority and action and responsibility are all the same thing in the end. So that won’t do will it?’ He smiled at her. ‘So we have a problem. Because you won’t believe me unless I tell you what I’m not at liberty to tell you. And even if I do tell you, then you may choose not to believe me. So I’m into a Catch-22 situation, it seems.’

‘And so are we, Dr Audley.’ If Ian had liked the St Matthew throwaway line, he didn’t show it. ‘Didn’t he say—on the telephone?’

‘Oh yes!’ Audley bowed slightly. ‘You’ve “raised the devil”—? And now he’s after you—is that it?’

Suddenly Jenny wanted Reg Buller badly. Audley was playing with them, and Ian was still too screwed-up about Frances Fitzgibbon to think as straight as he usually thought. And even she was having trouble with Audley’s sharp image imposed on her memory of Philly.

‘Where’s Reg, Ian?’ What they needed was Reg Buller’s no-nonsense brutality: Reg had no hang-ups about Philly or Frances, let alone Audley.

‘Yes—‘ Ian raised his binoculars again ‘—he has rather taken his time. But—yes, he is coming now, Jen—see?’ He lowered the glasses and pointed at a distant dust-cloud in the valley between the Greater Arapile and the lower ridges opposite, across the intervening cornlands which had once been another foreign field that was for ever England. ‘Actually … we’ve begun to think that it may not have been you, Dr Audley—see there, Jen—?’

‘What?’ The information casually dropped after Ian’s advice to Jenny, that Buller was approaching at last, caught Audley flat aback. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘Mrs Fitzgibbon—‘ Ian squared his shoulders, while pretending to concentrate on the foreign field, like a French general watching the advance of the British Army ‘—she was Paul Mitchell’s girl, wasn’t she, Dr Audley?’

That couldn’t be the question—there had to be more than that!

‘What?’ Audley frowned.

It
couldn
’
t
be the question—even though it fulfilled the ‘I-already-know-the-answer’ criterion.

‘Frances Fitzgibbon was Paul Mitchell’s girl—was she, Dr Audley?’ But Ian stuck to his gun like a brave Frenchman with the dragoons upon him, nevertheless.

‘No.’ Audley shook his head slowly. ‘Actually, she wasn’t. Although he would have liked her to be. But … she wasn’t anybody’s girl. Not even her husband’s, I rather suspect … But … I don’t really see what Frances Fitzgibbon has to do with you, Mr Robinson.’

‘Or Paul Mitchell, Dr Audley?’ Jenny came in on his flank.

‘You asked us which side we’re on, Dr Audley.’ Ian came back on cue. ‘But we don’t know for sure whose side
anyone
is on, now. All we know is that we’re in trouble—like Miss Fielding said. And we think you’re the only person who may be able to help us.’

That really was the truth. And, of course, who better than Ian to pronounce it?

Audley relaxed, suddenly. ‘
Mitchell
—
Paul Mitchell
—
?
’
Then he laughed, but not happily. ‘Oh yes—that would be it, of course! We laid the trail—and you picked it up … even after so many years … is that it? Now I see! You think that Mitchell—? Because of Thornervaulx—?’ He completed the unhappy chuckle. ‘It’s what my dear wife always says: “too-clever-by-half”—and not half clever enough!’ He looked at Ian, and then Jenny, and then away from both of them, down the hillside.

Jenny waited.

‘Well, Miss Fielding—Mr Robinson—‘ Audley came back to them, with a slow shake of the head ‘—if you think that, then I think you’re both in big trouble now.’ He pointed down the hillside. ‘So now we’ll see?’

And then there was suddenly Reg Buller, stamping up out of the dead ground among the rocks.

And then there was Paul Mitchell with him
—

REG BULLER
was puffing like a grampus, from his climb: Reg would be sweating now, even worse than she had done before the sun had dried her, here on the summit of the Greater Arapile.

But Paul Mitchell wasn’t puffing: he was striding easily, swinging up a long black case—half briefcase, half violin-case—as he surmounted the last of the rocks.

‘Paul.’ Audley seemed neither surprised nor pleased. ‘You took your time.’

‘David!’ Mitchell trod disgracefully into the midst of the crocuses, quite regardless of them. ‘I’m sorry, David—‘ He cradled the not-violin-case in his arms, to his breast, still crushing the flowers. ‘Where’s Faith? Where’s Cathy, David—?’

‘They’re down below.’ Audley nodded back towards the monument. ‘Among the rocks. Sunbathing and reading. And possibly topless … Faith, anyway. Do you want me to call them?’

‘No. They’ll do well enough where they are.’ Mitchell clambered up on to the uneven rocky platform on which the monument had been raised, setting the case down at his feet. ‘No problem, David.’

‘No problem,’ Audley growled the words. ‘You’d better be right.’

‘Now, David … ’ Mitchell continued to scan the landscape, quartering it segment by segment ‘—when have I ever let you down?’

Audley stared at him, then shook his head resignedly.

And finally came back to Jenny. ‘You’ve caused us a lot of trouble, Miss Fielding.’

‘Correction: she’s caused
me
a lot of trouble.’ Mitchell stepped down from the platform. He looked untroubled, but decidedly rough and quite unlike his previous rather smooth self, thought Jenny unhappily: unshaven, with the beginning of a pronounced designer-stubble and an open-necked shirt inadequately tucked into a pair of shapeless old trousers, he might just have passed for a local. And, oddly enough, the net effect of this was to make him look younger and much more sexy (at least, for those who might be into younger men; but still not in the same class as Audley). ‘You’ve caused
me
a lot of trouble, Miss Fielding-ffulke—and that’s a fact!’

‘I’m sorry, Dr Mitchell.’ It was hard to think of this ragamuffin as
Doctor
Mitchell. ‘But … you caused
us
some trouble, too. In fact, you frightened us.’

‘So I gather.’ Mitchell flicked a glance at Reg Buller, who was mopping his face with an enormous and very dirty handkerchief. ‘So—I—gather!’

Jenny looked at Buller accusingly. ‘Mr Buller—?’

‘Don’t blame me, Lady!’ Buller wiped his face even more vigorously. “E caught me on the road, not long after you left me. An’ … ’e was very nasty, I tell you.’

‘Oh yes?’ There would be no help from Reg Buller now, that wonderfully authentic whine indicated: Reg knew which way the wind was blowing, and he always adjusted himself to his circumstances, which was the secret of his survival from many past disasters. So, in his new role as their unwilling employee he could no longer be relied upon. But that, in turn, freed her from employer’s responsibility. ‘So, do you still think Dr Mitchell is a murderer, Mr Buller?’

‘I never said that, Lady—I never did!’ Buller rolled his eyes, driven to over-play his role even more by such a direct accusation. ‘It was Mr Robinson, more than me: I just reported what I found out—like you told me to.’

That shifted the whole weight to Ian, who hadn’t said a word since the world had changed for them.

That’s not true, Mr Buller—‘

‘It’s all right, Jen.’ Ian watched Mitchell.

‘It was Mr Buller, Ian—‘

‘It’s all right.’ He dismissed her, having eyes only for Mitchell. ‘And it’s true, also.’ He blinked for an instant. ‘Maybe we made a mistake. Or …
maybe we didn
’
t
—
?
’
He faced Mitchell unashamedly. ‘What was she really like, Dr Mitchell? Tell me?’

Mitchell stared at him. Then he turned away and reached for the case.

‘What was she really like?’ Ian pursued Mitchell remorselessly.

‘Let him be, Mr Robinson.’ Audley took a step down from his eminence, to join them. ‘This isn’t the place—or the time.’

‘Isn’t it?’ Ian didn’t look at Audley: he watched Mitchell apply his thumbs to the two catches on the case, still concentrating on him. ‘What was she like?’

‘She was quite a girl—quite a woman.’ Audley annexed the question gently, but firmly. ‘But we didn’t kill Philip Masson, Mr Robinson. I didn’t give the order—and Dr Mitchell didn’t carry out the order I didn’t give.’

All the same, Audley was frowning: Audley was frowning, and Mitchell was working on the contents of the case—the bits of dull metal, which
clicked
and
screwed
and
snapped
together, as they had been carefully turned and crafted to do—the bits (which were worse than useless by themselves: just bits of metal) became the usual
things
, custom-built and delicate and ugly: a long-barrelled rifle, slender and deadly.

‘But you’re quite right: she was something special.’

Audley saw that he was losing, and raised the stakes accordingly. ‘But how the devil do you know that? You never met her—did you?’ He shook his head. ‘No! You couldn’t have done.’

Mitchell had completed his work. It was designed to be completed quickly, and he knew his job.

‘No.’ He lifted the completed thing up, and squinted through the telescopic-sight which had been its last attachment, staring first up into the sky, and then away across the valley, towards the railway station. ‘I’ll never hit anything with this—not at any sort of range, with the first shot.’ He took another squint, and then selected a little screwdriver from the case and made an adjustment. ‘I ought to have a couple of sighting-shots, at five-hundred, and a thousand.’ He looked up suddenly, and smiled at Jenny. ‘But you can’t have everything, can you?’ He lowered the rifle, resting it carefully on his thigh, and picked out a long steel-nosed, brass-jacketed bullet from a compartment in the case, and opened the breach and snapped the bullet home. Then he set the rifle down and stood up.