A Prospect of Vengeance (39 page)

‘And then it was easy’, just as he had said: it was like the scales falling from her eyes, in the Bible story she’d once had to learn by heart, to take her O-level Religious Studies exam.

He saw that she understood. ‘The irony is that dear Frances deceived us both: because of her we both had blinkers on: we couldn’t think of anything except her—and Jack Butler. And we weren’t getting any answer because we were asking the wrong question. But we got there at last, anyway.’ Audley nodded. ‘Your “Philly” was a great guy, Miss Fielding: we did him over after that, right from his birth to what we no longer believed was his accidental death. Although we still believed that he’d been drowned, of course—we never expected him to turn up again. And it took us a long time, I can tell you … Because we couldn’t ask any of our questions obviously—in case we alerted the Other Side.’ Nod. ‘Because, either way—if he was
theirs
, or if he wasn’t—we didn’t want to let them know that we were on to them. Because that would have given the game away.’

Jenny felt her mouth fall open.

‘No—he wasn’t on
their
side, my dear.’ Audley reassured her quickly. ‘Your “Philly” was absolutely on
ours
, you have no need to worry.’

She wasn’t worrying; it was insulting even to suggest that.

They simply didn’t want him to see one of our most secret files—that’s all, Miss Fielding.’ He accepted her silence gently. ‘And it took three of us—Mitchell and me, and someone I cordially detest—four months to find that file: three of us, and four months of hard labour … So that I know all about you, and your father as well as Philip Masson—all about the Korean War, and how he won his Military Cross … I know all about that … And about his career, after that. And his hobbies—and his girl-friends … and the girls he took on that boat of his—the
Jenny III
was it? … And when he took you for a holiday in France, that time—in that cottage in the Dordogne—?’ The next nod was expressionless. ‘Because your father was worried about that: because you were only fifteen years old, and he thought his old friend might just fancy you—? And his tax returns—
everything
, Miss Fielding.’

Jenny felt the sun burning her head, but a dreadful chill far below, where it hurt. ‘That’s ridiculous—‘

His mouth twisted again. ‘That’s what we thought at the time, Miss Fielding.’

God! They hadn
’
t quite got it right, even though they were clever
—
and even though Daddy had appeared then, out of the blue! Because it had been her
—
almost-sixteen-year-old-Jenny
—
who had had hot-pants for him, without knowing how to take desire further, when he
’
d discouraged her
—
God
!

But she didn’t even want to think about that now. ‘Who killed him, Dr Audley?’ She felt empty as she rammed the question at him. ‘Who killed him?’

He relaxed. ‘Oh, come on, Miss Fielding! You know I can’t answer that!’

He was also like Mitchell: of course he was like Mitchell! But … she would never have a better chance than now. ‘Then I’ll have to work harder, Dr Audley—to find out for myself. With or without Ian. And it may not be such a good book without him. But there are other writers who’ll work for me.’

‘Whatever the risk?’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe I’ll write it myself.’ She put on her obstinate face. ‘Someone had him killed. And I’m going to ruin the bastard—whoever he is.’

He nodded. ‘You really did love him.’ The nod continued. ‘And not just like a good god-daughter, of course!’ The nodding stopped. ‘Well, then I shall have to tell you the rest of the story, Miss Fielding.’

He was too sure of himself for comfort. ‘I’m listening, Dr Audley.’

He stared at her in silence for a moment. ‘It hasn’t occurred to you that your revenge has already been accomplished?’

Somewhere in the stillness of the valley an engine started up. Jenny was drawn towards the sound: the armoured personnel vehicle with the little turret-gun had started up; nearer to them, at the foot of the plateau in the gap in the fence beside the track, Paul Mitchell was in earnest conversation with one of the Spanish civilians; and the shapeless wreck of the little 2-CV was smoking now, rather than burning.

She felt quite empty. He hadn’t mentioned a country, let alone a name. And of course he never would. And it didn’t have to be a Russian name, or any one of half a dozen of their East European surrogates. Or it could be an Arab name. Or even an Israeli name. Or it could just conceivably be some clean-cut, crew-cut American. Or, as an ultimate possibility, a Savile-Row-suited Englishman.

‘Are you saying that he’s dead, Dr Audley?’

‘No, Miss Fielding. That’s a lie I’m not prepared to tell you. Because we’re not into that sort of vengeance: it’s not what we’re hired for.’

She remembered what Reg Buller had said. ‘You don’t do wicked things like that—?’

A curious expression passed across his face. ‘No, Miss Fielding. We don’t do wicked things like that. Killing is too simple for us: we want more than that. Killing wouldn’t give us our proper satisfaction.’

‘More?’ She couldn’t read his face at all. ‘Proper—?’

‘Oh yes. When you’ve been deceived—as we
were
deceived … and for a long time before Philip Masson was killed—the trick is to continue the deception. But you turn it round the other way.’ He smiled with his lips. ‘It’s like, if you find a traitor in the ranks, there’s no point in arresting him. He’ll only get a successor—probably someone you don’t know. So you leave him where he is.’ The not-smile widened. ‘Ideally, of course, you turn
him
around—that’s what Masterman did during the war, with his Germans … But that’s very risky these days, when a man can be ideologically bent … So you leave him. Or you promote him, even: you make him even more successful, even more valuable to them … But this wasn’t quite like that—‘ He raised his hand. ‘—no, Miss Fielding! That’s as far as I can go there. So don’t ask.’ The not-smile became even uglier. ‘Our first problem was to make them think that we were still deceived, back in ‘78—or ‘79, as it soon was … So we put out rumours that the wicked Dr Audley had maybe had your godfather pushed off his little boat, suitably weighted. And had then stifled any sort of investigation by pretending to investigate the matter himself.’ He nodded. ‘All to ensure Jack Butler’s promotion, of course … And you, of course, duly came upon those rumours … nicely matured by the years?’

She nodded. But the devil in the back of her brain leered at her. ‘But I mustn’t believe them now—is that it? Because I must believe
you
now?’

‘You must believe what convinces you, Miss Fielding.’ His mouth set hard.

She had cut deep, justly or not. ‘I believe that Philly—that my godfather was murdered nine years ago, Dr Audley. And I also believe that John Tully is dead. And I need a much better answer to John Tully.’

‘Ah … that’s fair enough.’ He agreed readily, almost like a judge taking an objection. ‘As to poor Mr Tully, I can’t answer you with any certainty—I can only hazard a guess there, Miss Fielding.’

‘A guess?’ The devil shook his head warningly.

‘Yes … I think maybe we’ve not been as clever … or as clever for as long … as we thought, perhaps.’ He made a face. ‘Nothing lasts forever. And … we’ve been running our Masson deception for a long time, now.’ One huge shoulder lifted philosophically. ‘They may have tumbled to it … Or, they may suspect, honestly I don’t know. But I rather fear I’ll be working on that when I get back to London—while my dear wife and daughter are spending my money in Paris—?’ The great once-upon-a-time rugger-playing shoulder rose again. ‘Did they teach you seventeenth-century poetry at Roedean, Miss Fielding?’

‘Poetry—?’ The man was dangerous.

‘No! It was biology, wasn’t it!’ Audley grinned. ‘I remember … No—there was this seventeenth-century poet, writing his love-poem to chat this girl up—Andrew Marvell, it was … And he said, when you can’t delay things, then you ought to hurry them up: “
Thus, though we cannot make our sun stand still
…
yet we will make him run
”
—
or something like that—?’ He blinked disarmingly. ‘It could be that they want to make a dirty great big scandal of it now, with questions in the House of Commons—? Because we’re not going to reveal what we’ve been doing—never in a month of Sundays! So … your Mr Tully was a paid-up member of the National Union of Journalists. And you can kill soldiers, or you can kill “innocent bystanders” … But when you start to kill
journalists
—
paid-up NUJ freelances, no less! That really puts the cat among the pigeons, Miss Fielding.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘And your Ian would have been worse than Tully. Because he’s well-liked … So “Heads, we don’t win—tails we lose”?: the media will love another Intelligence scandal too, after Peter Wright and
Spy-catcher
. And the other side’s disinformation-people know just how to feed in a tit-bit or two of genuine scandal. Plus our original rumours, too. And, of course, the word will be out that Jennifer Fielding is preparing a shock-horror revelation—right? But not Ian Robinson—?’

He was playing dirty. So she could play the same game. ‘Whereas in fact you were very clever? Is that what I’m supposed to say?’

He looked down at her, almost proudly. ‘Not
very
clever, Miss Fielding. But we did take your revenge for you even if we didn’t kill him. Because we made a fool of him for a few years. And when his masters found out about that—which they’ve either just done … or maybe it was a year or two back … then he would have gone down a very long snake on the board, I rather think.’ He shrugged. ‘We can never do what we’d
like
to do. We have to settle for what we
want
. So our satisfaction is usually somewhat muted, you see. But we have assuredly ruined him, you can depend on that. And maybe worse.’

She saw. ‘And I must believe all this—?’

‘You must believe what suits you. Or … you can ask Mr Robinson what he believes, if you prefer?’

Jenny thought of Ian suddenly. ‘Ian asked you a question, didn’t he? About Mrs Fitzgibbon, was it—?’

‘Yes.’ She was rewarded with another of his odd faces. ‘I must say that you did very well there: I’m surprised—and a little disturbed—that you got so close to her, after all this time. Because you wouldn’t have got it from Paul … of that, I’m sure.’ He frowned. ‘But … you’re certainly in the right job, anyway.’

He was flattering the wrong partner, thought Jenny grimly. ‘What was the question?’

‘The question?’ He frowned again. ‘Don’t you—‘ A slight sound, as of a stone dislodged somewhere behind her, cut him off. ‘Ah! I think that’s my wife coming—‘

‘What was the question, Dr Audley?’

Audley looked at her. ‘He wanted to know who Frances Fitzgibbon shouted at, that day at Thornervaulx: whether it was at the man O’Leary, or at Paul Mitchell, Miss Fielding.’

‘At—?’ The scene Reg Buller had described suddenly came back to her, and with all the more vividness for its contrast, here on the top of the Greater Arapile: not fierce Spanish sunlight, in the midst of a brown rocky wilderness only softened by autumn crocuses, but the pouring rain, and the sodden grass and fallen leaves, and the great grey ruins of Thornervaulx Abbey.

‘Yes.’ He misread her expression. ‘He knew the answer, of course. But it was still a good question. With a rare answer.’

The two places had nothing in common.

‘When she saw O’Leary at Thornervaulx that day, she must have thought he was going to kill one of them—Paul, or Jack Butler … And Jack Butler for choice, maybe. But, of course, we don’t exactly know what she thought. Because she died in Paul’s arms, without saying anything.’

Or, maybe, there was something: there was violent death—here, today and long ago, and at Thornervaulx, nine years ago, on a wet November afternoon.

‘But, even though she didn’t have a gun, she was safe enough, anyway—‘

Philly was the link
—
Philly and Audley
—

‘Only, if she shouted at Paul, that would have alerted him too late—either for himself, or for Jack Butler. Because O’Leary had a clear view of them both, by then—‘

Mrs David Audley was tall and blonde, and a lot younger than her husband: obviously, she liked older men too, even though she was smiling at Ian as he helped her up across the rocks from below—

‘So she shouted at O’Leary, Miss Fielding. And she must have known that he’d think she had a gun.’ Audley glanced towards his wife for a second, to make sure she was far enough away. ‘I didn’t actually see it happen. But I saw something like it happen in the war, once … It’s not a thing you forget: one human being dying for another, in cold blood.’ He nodded slowly at her. ‘She was quite a woman, was Frances. But I think she’d prefer not to have any publicity now.’

‘
David!
’
Mrs Audley didn’t sound too pleased.

‘Hullo, love!’ Audley looked at Jenny for one last fraction of a second after acknowledging his name. ‘What you must decide, Miss Fielding, is what your godfather would have wanted you to do. That’s all.’ He turned back to his wife. ‘Love—I don’t think you’ve met Jenny Fielding—? She’s a friend of Willy Arkenshaw’s, and she’s dying to meet you.’

Jenny saw Ian behind Mrs David Audley. And, behind Ian, Miss Cathy Audley, bright and pointy-eared as the fox in the rocks down below.

And Reg Buller, finally.

And Reg Buller, knowing everything and nothing, had eyes for her only. Because she would sign his account, and agree his expenses. And they were both still alive.

‘Lady—?’

Tomorrow was another day, he was saying.

ANOTHER CONVERSAT
ION
which never took place:

‘
I
’
m not at all pleased with the way this wretched affair finally turned out, Latimer
.’