Here Be Monsters (14 page)

‘Losing tanks is boring.’ Audley took the first volume of Powicke’s
Henry III and the Lord Edward
from her, and replaced it beside its comrade. ‘Tell her about 1958, Peter.’

‘But you know more about that.’

Audley adjusted the books in the shelf. ‘I can tell her my version any time. But mine is the official record. And who believes the official record?’ He trued-up the line of books, until they were like guardsmen on the Horse Guards, waiting for the Queen to inspect them. ‘Yours is how it really was.’

Sir Peter Barrie presented a suddenly-different face to her—not his remembered Tavistock Street face, but his Xenophon Oil one. ‘Why d’you want to know, Miss Loftus?’ He blinked, and the friendly Tavistock Street face was back again. ‘After all these years—?’

‘Because it’s her job, Peter.’ said Audley.

‘Let her answer for herself then. Always assuming that I can recall such far-off events—why, Miss Loftus?’

‘You can remember,’ said Audley.

‘Not if I don’t choose to.’ Sir Peter Barrie pronounced the threat mildly, but he knew that he had let her see through the gap in this curtain. ‘You know, I do seem to recollect some of the questions
he
—
‘ Without taking his eyes off her he indicated Audley ‘—
he
once asked me. Do you want the same answers—if I can remember them?’

She had to get away from their old games. ‘I’d much rather you told me why you’ve got a bad conscience about Squadron Leader Thomas than David did. Then I can draw my own conclusion.’

‘I see. So I must believe him, when he said you knew “sod-all” about old Haddock, must I?’

She was in there with a chance. ‘Not quite “sod-all”. But I would rather like to know why you both keep calling him “Haddock”, for a start. Is that really his name?’

‘Indeed?’ It was a hit—a palpable hit, she could see that from the way he suddenly shifted to Audley at last. ‘Why was he called “Haddock”, David? It wasn’t because he kept being shot down into the sea, and then swam ashore—was it? Because I don’t think it was—because he was “Haddock” long before that, wasn’t he?’

Audley was back among the books. ‘You know why. And you want to talk to her, not me—so you answer her then.’

Sir Peter Barrie frowned. ‘I know about “Caradog”—or “Caradoc”, or whatever it was … And even
Caractacus -
is that it? But how did it—metamorphose—“metamorphose”—? Was it at school?’

‘God Almighty!’ Audley slammed back the book he’d half-removed from the shelf. ‘He was your friend—
ex-
friend
—
not mine! And you ask me?’

‘Oh yes … he was my friend.’ It was niether the Tavistock Street face nor the Xenophon Oil one now, but a painfully-assumed mask which was perhaps midway between the two. ‘Or ex-friend, as you are so pleased to remind me -‘

‘Not “pleased”.’ Audley chose another book. ‘Pleasure doesn’t come into it. Just fact.’

‘But you investigated him. I never did that.’

‘I investigated you too.’ Audley looked up from his book. ‘Did you have a nickname? I never established that!’

‘Where is he now?’ Sir Peter Barrie brushed the question aside. ‘What’s he doing now?’

Audley switched to Elizabeth. ‘
Thomas
—
Squadron Leader,
—
T. E. C.
—
RAFVR
—
QBE, DFC, MA
—
“Royal Air Force Volunteer Reserve, Order of the British Empire, Distinguished Flying Cross, Master of Arts, Jesus College, Oxford”—
Thomas, T. E. C.
—
“Thomas, Tegid Edeyrn Caradog”—and you can’t get more bloody Welsh than that, short of scoring a try at Cardiff Arms Park, against England. And the funny thing about that, Elizabeth, is that he never did score a try, and he hasn’t really got a Welsh accent. And he accounted for more British planes than German … and for a lot more women in his time than either British or German planes, if he ever bothered to log his score.’ He appraised her momentarily.
’Though you should be safe there, because he must be rising seventy now, nearly. But I wouldn’t bet on it, all the same, because he had a weakness for brains as well as blondes—and brunettes, and red-heads, and whatever came to hand.’ He nodded. ‘Like the man says—I investigated him.’

Whether it was deliberate ‘tactics’, or whether it was because he was fed up with proceedings which he wasn’t supposed to be running, Elizabeth didn’t know. But what she did remember now, which was much more comforting, was why the Deputy-Director had summoned Audley of all people to help her unravel Tegid Edeyrn Caradog Thomas. Who better than Audley?

‘Then answer the question,’ Sir Peter pressed him. ‘Why “Haddock”?’

Except—
who better than Audley
? thought Elizabeth.
So why Elizabeth Loftus
? That wasn’t nearly so comforting.

Audley misread her expression. ‘I can only give you a partial answer to that, Elizabeth. Because nicknames are often only partly amenable to logical explanation.’

‘That’s true.’ Sir Peter nodded. ‘When I was in the RAF—‘ he half-turned to Elizabeth ‘—which was after the war, and I was a wingless wonder in the engineering branch, so I didn’t destroy any aircraft, British or German … But I remember this very distinguished Group Captain who was always known as “Padre”, not because he’d once had to say grace in the mess at dinner, but because the only grace he knew was his school grace, and that was in Latin, Elizabeth.’

Latin
! remembered Elizabeth.
Ugh
!

And—
why hadn
’
t the Deputy-Director chosen Audley
?

But she would think about that later. ‘Why “Haddock”, David?’

‘It was when he was at Oxford, before the war. He was at Jesus from 1936 to 1939—scholarship from Waltham School, then First in Greats.’ He continued to misread her. ‘It’s all to do with the way “Caradog” is pronounced, more or less, in Welsh, and then anglicized—it comes out as “Craddock”. So he was “Crad” at school. But at Oxford, which has always been more flippant than Cambridge and the rest of the civilized world, it somehow became “Haddock”. And that followed him ever after—to the RAF, and back to Oxford after the war, and then into the Civil Service. And finally back to Waltham, where it displaced the original “Crad” immediately.’

That was more of an answer than she’d expected. And, cutting away the irrelevant fat of the nickname, it left her with a curious circular odyssey, beginning and ending with Waltham—and with one strong prejudice she shared with her late headmistress.

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Sir Peter. ‘He went back to teach at the old school, didn’t he!’ He caught Elizabeth’s expression. ‘You’ve heard of Waltham?’

‘I have.’ This, at least, was something she didn’t have to think twice about, to pretend ignorance or any bland non-committal knowledge.

‘You don’t approve of it?’ He read her face accurately. ‘I thought it was a very good school. In fact—in fact, I believe we took two Old Walthamites in our last graduate-trainee intake. A bio-chemist from Cambridge, and an economist from Bristol University—both high-flyers.’

That figured, thought Elizabeth grimly. ‘It’s a very good school.’

And that was the unarguable truth: Waltham had always been a first-class public school, disgustingly well endowed with money.

‘And the present headmaster is a brilliant man. We’ve had him to lunch here—and we bought him an IBM computer, for his computer studies centre, Miss Loftus.”

That also figured. Not the least of Waltham’s unfair advantages was that it was blessed with a Board of Governors who knew their business, and had both the prestige and the money to tempt and buy the best—the best staff, from the headmaster downwards, and the best pupils, with their generous scholarships, picking and choosing their elites.

Sir Peter was beginning to look a little lost. ‘And one of our trainees was a girl—I beg your pardon, if that sounds male-chauvinist … but we have had difficulty, recruiting high-flying women into Xenophon. And we’re rather pleased with this one.’

She didn’t doubt it—that was the final insult, added to the injury: it was not so much that Waltham was among the boys’ public schools which had jumped on the band-waggon of poaching sixth formers from girls’ schools; it was that, where most of them did the girls very little good, but merely stole their fees and decimated their old sixth forms, Waltham probably
did
actually sharpen them up, with its celebrated university-entrance expertise. Because Waltham did everything well—all too bloody well!

But that had nothing to do with this, she admonished herself. ‘Tell me about Haddock Thomas, Sir Peter.’

‘I will—in a moment, in just a moment.’ He saw that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her. ‘Where did Haddock go, after Waltham, David?’

‘He didn’t go anywhere. He stayed on there until he retired. That was two or three years ago.’

‘Oh.’ Sir Peter drew a long, slow breath. ‘I see.’

‘You didn’t know he went to Waltham?’

‘I knew he went there. I didn’t know he stayed.’ Sir Peter stared at Audley. ‘He wrote to me from there. Twice.’

‘But you didn’t reply.’ It was a question.

‘I did, actually.’ For a moment he stood on the edge of continuing, then he drew back from it.

‘Yes?’ Audley pushed him with uncharacteristic gentleness. ‘The second time being … ?’

‘Yes.’ Sir Peter nodded, but left the second time equally unelaborated. ‘Was he … happy? Eventually?’

This time Audley was slow to reply. ‘It would seem so, by all accounts.’ Still the same gentle voice.

‘Yes?’ For the first time Sir Peter’s voice was without colour, as carefully neutral as Switzerland. ‘No, I didn’t know.’ Sir Peter’s face weakened very slightly. ‘No, it wouldn’t have done. And I take it that his work … he taught the Classics—Latin and Greek—?’

Audley nodded. ‘Very successfully. I’m reliably informed that Waltham took more of the top scholarships to Oxbridge—and Bristol and Durham—than Winchester, proportionately. And as for university entrance … they say that just being in his Classical Sixth was like being given the key to the door.’ Another nod, with a cynical smile. ‘He used to make the rounds, keeping up his contacts—with his old pupils, as well as the professors and the dons … And with a girl in tow, somewhere, very often. But always discreetly, of course.’ The smile vanished.

Sir Peter frowned. ‘Where did he get them? Waltham’s a bit out of the way, surely?’

Elizabeth heard herself sniff. ‘Waltham has girls in its sixth form now—‘ She caught Audley’s eye ‘—bright girls.’

Audley grinned wickedly. ‘But Haddock himself was dead against that, Elizabeth. In fact, my reliable informant says he damn nearly resigned prematurely when he was out-voted.’

‘Oh yes?’ She fought her prejudices.

‘He let himself be out-voted?’ Sir Peter was less unhappy now. ‘But he was always rather against democracy—ever since the Athenians voted for the death of Socrates.’

‘They stopped his mouth with gold, was what he’s alleged to have said afterwards.’ Audley was happier too. ‘They gave him a grant to entertain his sixth formers in his house in the South of France. And they increased his salary.’

Sir Peter cocked his head. ‘I didn’t think the Classics had so much clout these days?’

‘They don’t, my dear chap,’ agreed Audley. ‘But your old friend had a lot of influence—not just on account of his university results … or even because he was an ex-president of the Imperial Classical Association … which has a few rather well-placed fellows and members in the higher reaches of power, even now.’ He shook his head suddenly. ‘Come on, Peter—I can tell Miss Loftus about Haddock any time. It’s that twenty-six-year-old bad conscience of yours she’s interested in. Or would you prefer my version of events?’

‘Isn’t that in your record—your version of them, David?’ Sir Peter switched to Elizabeth without waiting for an answer. ‘Very well, Miss Loftus. I suppose I should be glad of the opportunity of speaking for myself, even though I’m not particularly proud of what I did.’ He paused. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear, David?’

But Audley didn’t seem to have heard him: he seemed to be concentrating on the books he had last seen in 1958, to the exclusion of everything else now.

‘What did you do, Sir Peter?’ Since the Master of Xenophon Oil was waiting for comfort which Audley was clearly not about to give him, she had no choice but to push him forwards.

‘I destroyed his career.’ He accepted Audley’s refusal, coming back to her, to meet her eyes without blinking.

‘Squadron Leader Thomas’s career?’

‘Squadron Leader?’ In spite of all their talk about aeroplanes—planes British and German, crashed or shot down or ‘ditched’—the rank was meaningless to him. ‘Yes, if you like, Miss Loftus—Squadron Leader Thomas—Caradog Thomas—
Haddock
Thomas—‘ He shrugged ‘
- whoever you like, it’s the same man. And it’s the same thing:
I
shot him down
, Miss Loftus. And he didn’t bale out, or walk away … or swim ashore … not after I’d got him in my sights.’ He almost looked at Audley again, but held himself steady in the end, on her. ‘Or maybe he did -I don’t know now, Miss Loftus.’

‘What did you do?’

‘What did I do?’ He drew a breath. ‘We were both career civil servants. Or … I was in the process of resigning, actually. Because … it was after Suez. Because it was different, after Suez—‘ another breath, taken in slowly ‘—or, that was my excuse anyway, at the time, to myself. But you could interpret it quite differently: you could say that I was a second-class honours man, with second-class prospects … But with the prospects in oil, after Suez—that’s in ‘56, that was—and with what I knew … I suppose you could say that I knew where the first-class prospects might be. What I was doing in the Civil Service suddenly seemed … unprofitable to me, in more sense than one, at any rate.’

‘And Mr Thomas?’ It didn’t seem right to refer to the man by his nickname when she’d never met him. ‘How did you—?’

‘Destroy his career?’ He half-looked at Audley again, as though for confirmation. But the big man was still pretending to browse among the books. ‘I did—didn’t I, David?’