The Old Vengeful (25 page)

“Paul—please come in with me,” she whispered. “I’m so frightened.”

EVERYTHING WAS JUST
fine until Humphrey Aske turned on the car radio for no apparent reason, and then refused to turn it off, and finally started to talk nonsense. And—

“Yes,” he said finally. “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 Humphrey Aske.

Actually everything hadn’t been altogether fine even before, not really. But everything had been different; or, if not exactly recognisably different, at least not quite the same because she felt it had no right to be as it had been before.

Although
actually
…
but then it might just have been the presence of Humphrey Aske at the breakfast table with them which had spoilt everything—and an unbearably bright and talkative Humphrey Aske, not in the least blear-eyed from night-watch—even, it was Aske who behaved as she so desperately wanted Paul to behave, noticing and complimenting her on the second of her elegant summer travelling suits, which Paul had studiously ignored in preference for one quick glance, which had almost been a stranger’s frown, at her face.

And there, she had had to admit to the mirror already, the wear and tear of the last almost-24-hours had done Monsieur Pierre’s original work of art no good at all, which she had lacked the expertise to restore as it had been: what she had seen in the mirror was the truth of the fairy story, she had realised now—that Prince Charming simply hadn’t recognised Cinderella the morning after, it had only been the size of her foot for the glass slipper which had identified that happy ending.

“Paris—no problem,” said Aske to Mitchell. “There’s hardly any mist this morning. I filled the car up last night, before I went to bed. Straight down the N2, through Soissons—the last bit’s motorway, and we can whip round the
peripherique
and come off at the Pointe d’Asnieres for the Avenue de Wagram—no trouble at all.” He smiled at Elizabeth. “Be there in time for coffee, then M’sieur Bourienne’s professor … then a nice elongated lunch at a little place I wot of… then the airport and the great Dr Audley himself… Then another motorway, with the foot down on the pedal, and supper in Alsace, Miss Loftus.
No Problem
!
”

On Paul Mitchell’s face, Elizabeth observed out of the most oblique corner of her eye, there was a look of the purest hatred.

“What one
would
like to know—“ either Aske couldn’t or wouldn’t observe the same storm warning “—
is
… if the great Dr Audley is coming to take the reins from your capable hands, Mitchell… which means that we are on to something highly promising … is—what is it? Isn’t it time now that one was told why one may be required to do and die?”

It occurred to Elizabeth that, after the events of the last three days since the church fête, and more particularly after the events of last night which were already beginning to become unreal, she had some rights. So, just as Paul’s mouth opened in a snarl, she kicked him hard on the ankle.

“Fff-aargh!” exclaimed Paul.

Aske looked at him curiously. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not sure that Dr Mitchell knows any more than we do, Mr Aske,” said Elizabeth.

Humphrey Aske transferred his curiosity to her. “Ah … now
that
hadn’t occurred to me, you know—“

Paul grunted explosively. “The fact is, Aske … I’m not permitted to tell either you or Miss Loftus everything that’s going on—for obvious reasons, which you should understand better than she does.”

What Miss Loftus understood, thought Elizabeth, was that Paul Mitchell was never going to admit to Humphrey Aske that he didn’t know what he was really doing, and didn’t like it either.

“But if David Audley wants you to do and die …” Paul reached down to rub his ankle “… I’m sure he’ll tell you.” He straightened up. “If it suits him.”

“Which it probably won’t—I know!” Aske shook his head ruefully at Elizabeth. “The occupational temptation of our profession, Miss Loftus, is to confuse essential secrecy with inessential secretiveness … with the predictable result that the left hand rarely knows what the right hand is doing. But a trip to Paris is better than nothing, I suppose.” He smiled suddenly and disarmingly at her again. “We must just hope that the great Dr Audley is right, and we aren’t simply wasting our time, however agreeably!”

She couldn’t kick Paul again—she had kicked him a bit too hard the first time. All she could do was smile and nod, and hope for the best.

And the best was that Paul drank his coffee, and pushed back from the table. “If you’re packed up, Elizabeth, then let’s go,” he said. “Get the car, Aske.”

But Aske, once he had manoeuvred them through the narrow streets of the old city, and round its descending hairpin bends, was still hell-bent oh needling Paul into talking, even if his undeterred approach to the problem was as tortuous as their departure from Laon—

“I’ll book the hotel when we get to Paris,” he began innocently.

Paul grunted.

“In Lautenbourg? Or will nearby do?”

“Suit yourself.”

“There’s a place about ten kilometres away that does
glâce au miel de sapin
, according to the Michelin.”

No reply.

“How many rooms shall I reserve?”

“What?” The question caught Paul unguarded. “What the hell d’you mean—how many rooms?”

“Don’t take on so! Is Audley coming alone?”

Paul subsided. “Yes … alone.”

“Four rooms then. And for how long?” Aske probed gently. “And where after that?”

Again Paul didn’t reply, and Elizabeth knew that this approach wasn’t going to work either. All it would produce was another explosion.

“We are retracing the escape route between Lautenbourg and Coucy-le-Château, I take it?” persisted Aske.

There was only one way to defuse Paul, and she had to risk it. “We do actually know the route then, Paul? Would that be from Father’s notes or from Tom Chard’s story?”

He drew a breath. “A bit of both, actually. We’ve traced three places where he stayed, and they fit in well enough with Chard’s account.”

“Yes, but—“ began Aske.

“Father got it right, did he?” Elizabeth blotted out Aske deliberately.

“Oh yes …” Paul gave her an uncharacteristically shy look “… he got it right. He was slow … and he let himself be side-tracked into investigating Abraham Timms, the quartermaster’s mate, when he should have been concentrating on Colonel Suchet. But he was right.” He paused. “And, to be fair, Abraham Timms sounds an interesting character.”

“Yes?” She didn’t want Aske to break in.

“But then they were all interesting characters—“

“Hold on a moment,” said Aske. “I want to pull in here.”

The signs of a garage came into view suddenly.

“You said you’d filled up last night,” accused Paul.

“Yes.” Aske unstrapped himself. “Won’t be a moment.”

The bonnet went up, and Paul fumed silently until Aske came back.

“All interesting characters, you were saying?” Elizabeth stepped between them again as the car pulled on to the road.

“Chipperfield was a natural born escaper—he thought one jump ahead all the time, it looks like, reading between the lines.”

“How—one jump ahead?”

“Well … first, he reckoned there’d be a big search, with all the stops pulled out—this is drawing conclusions from what Tom Chard remembered. And he did exactly the right thing, so our experts say.”

“What was that?”

“He had four or five hours’ start, until daylight. They could have made five or ten miles before they had to go to ground. So if Suchet knew his business, he’d draw a ring round the fortress, maybe ten to fifteen miles out, and move in from there. Can’t you go faster than this, Aske?”

“This is fast enough. So what did Chipperfield do?”

Paul sniffed. “He went to ground in a vineyard half a mile from the fortress. They had scraps of food they’d hoarded, and four bottles of water, and they stayed put there for three days and two nights, not moving.”

“Ah! I like that,” murmured Aske. “So the ring moved in for the first day—but after that it would move out, on the assumption they’d broken through? Is that it? And then, of course, he’d keep inside the ring, never trying to break through it as it expanded? That’s good thinking.” He half-turned towards Paul. “And then what?”

“He moved in the least expected direction—southwards.”

“And why was that unexpected?”

“The obvious direction was east—across the Rhine into Germany. That was the way many of the escapers went from the other fortresses, because they reckoned the Germans wouldn’t give them up so easily. And the most direct route to England was north-west—or they could have headed due north, and then turned west when they reached the Low Countries.”

“So they went southwards. And you think that was deliberate?” Aske sounded unconvinced.

“They were sailors, Mr Aske,” Elizabeth could see that Paul chafed under Aske’s interruptions. “They would always have known the points of the compass, with the sun or the stars overhead.”

Paul nodded. “That’s exactly right, Elizabeth. Chipperfield and Timms were both professional navigators. And all Tom Chard’s recollections of their route are full of bearings and distances, as well as descriptions … like ‘we bore southward that day five leagues, which, for nature of that country, was very wearisome by reason of the steepness of its many hills and valleys’.”

Aske considered the evidence briefly. “So that would mean they were in the Vosges, would it?”

“The Upper Vosges. ‘Great trees, tall and straight, enough to spar mighty navies’ is how Tom Chard remembered it—and the humming of the insects up above in the tree-tops, and the crickets in the high pastures … and the goats with bells round their necks—Chard was country-bred, and he noticed all the differences between Sussex and Alsace. Although in fact he was much more surprised by the presence of familiar things from home—the jays and the magpies and the robins, and the cranesbill and harebells and foxgloves …
and
the rose-bay willow herb, which tipped off your father about Abraham Timms, Elizabeth.”

“Tipped him off… to what?”

“That Abraham Timms was country-bred like Tom Chard, only much better educated—Chard said he knew the name of everything that lived, and what was edible and what wasn’t… It’s even possible that Chipperfield took Timms along because he knew how to live off the country. But most of all that he was an American.”

“An American?” Aske pursed his lips, and then nodded. “Yes … well, there were a lot of Americans pressed into the Royal Navy—that was why they went to war with us. But where does the willow herb come in?”

“Which in his country was called by the savages ‘Fire-weed’, according to Chard. ‘His country’ and ‘savages’ and ‘fire-weed’ was what tipped Loftus off—not only that Timms was country-bred, but it was a
different
country. And the clincher that he was an American was when the waggon wheel broke, and Timms had to find wood to repair it—“

“What waggon wheel?” Elizabeth frowned.

“What waggon?” echoed Aske.

“The waggon in which they crossed half of France,” said Paul. “They came down out of the Vosges somewhere near Gerardmer, so far as we can estimate. And first they bought a horse—Chipperfield had money. Tom Chard doesn’t say how, but he had it—“

“PoWs always have money,” murmured Aske. “And they often let the officers keep their personal possessions. Go on.”

“Then, a bit further on, they bought a farm cart. And a day later they filled the cart with hay, and Chard and Timms hid under the hay whenever they came near a village, because they couldn’t speak a word of French.”

“Nice—very nice!” said Aske admiringly. “Nothing stolen—so no hue and cry … and nobody suspects a couple of farm labourers with a hay cart when the word’s out for four desperate characters! I like it.”

“Not even a couple of farm labourers,” said Paul. “Chipperfield was smarter than that, Aske.”

“Yes? I’m going to stop again soon—at that garage in the distance. So just sit tight.” Aske slowed the car. “A man and a boy, of course, I’d forgotten the little mid-ship-mite—“

“What?” Paul sat up irritably. “For Christ’s sake, Aske—what are you playing at?”

“It’s like yesterday, old boy. You are doing the talking and I’m doing the driving—okay?”

The previous halt was repeated, with the additional detail of a few litres of petrol to top up the tank.

“Off we go again—just let me do up my seat-belt,” said Aske. “So … the little mid-ship-mite, and the waggon, and the mysterious Timms … who was an American cousin far from home, eh?”

“What the hell’s wrong with the car?”

“Nothing that need worry you, Dr Mitchell … A man and a boy, you were saying?”

The air, which had warmed up during their five-minute delay, crackled between them in the ensuing silence, and Elizabeth looked at Paul unhappily. “A man and a boy, Paul?”

With an effort Paul tore himself away from Aske. “Not a man and a boy, Elizabeth,” he addressed her deliberately. “Don’t you remember?”

It came to her then, suddenly but quite easily, out of nowhere … no, not out of nowhere—out of the far distant memory of an owl flapping noiselessly across a college garden unreasonably disturbed by strange lights and stranger noises, disappearing into the darkness.

It had been a weird open-air production, by some smart undergraduate who had gone on from Oxford to great things in television—
A Midsummer Night
’
s Dream
, with Titania and Hippolyta and Hermia and Helena all cast from the sixth form of a local prep school—

“The girl, of course.” It was simple when you knew the answer. “They dressed the midshipman as a girl.”

“Of course!” Humphrey Aske chided himself. “Thirteen years of age, so the childish treble … or that delicious half-broken husky alto—no wonder no one spotted them!
Clever
Miss Loftus!”