… ’ But he was quite unabashed, of course. ‘Now … where were we—?’
It didn’t really matter what she said, because nothing would deflate his self-esteem. ‘I think we were in the sea, four miles off the Pointe du Hoc. And was that the start of a beautiful friendship?’
‘What? Between Parker and Thomas? Good heavens, no!’ He sat back. ‘Does that surprise you?’
It did surprise her. Because there had to be a relationship between these two men, if David Audley and Major Turnbull had not been wasting their time. And it had to start with that heroic rescue.
‘It does, a bit.’ But then suddenly it didn’t. Because it hadn’t really been an heroic rescue at all, merely an accident of war, albeit a happy one: simply, among the thousands of random chances which had decreed life or death that morning, the vagaries of wind and tide had drifted one half-drowned British pilot into the arms of a handful of weary Americans who were themselves beating a delayed retreat from a hostile shore. In the midst of greater events and more pressing business the pilot would have been just a lucky survivor.
‘Yes?’ He waited for her to finish thinking.
‘Maybe not.’ She frowned. ‘But they did meet.’
‘They did. June 7th, 1944—that was the first time. And the second time was last week.’
‘Last week?’ Well, it certainly hadn’t been a friendship, beautiful or otherwise, Elizabeth agreed silently; the forty years’ interval precluded that.
Latimer nodded. ‘So far as we have been able to establish. Just the two meetings. Although they did exchange Christmas cards for a few years, apparently. But even that stopped after a time. So … just those two meetings, Miss Loftus. 1944, 1984. The first, pure chance—the second, quite deliberate.’
Elizabeth remembered the Parker cutting. ‘On the cliffs at the Pointe du Hoc, would that be?’
‘No.’ He gazed at her almost blankly. ‘Major Turnbull will tell you about the Pointe du Hoc. But … no, Miss Loftus—Elizabeth … Thomas was nowhere near there at the material time, as our constabulary would say.’
It had hardly been likely, for they must both be old men now. Yet he must be giving her the coordinate of the latitude of truth, if not its longitude.
‘So why are we interested in them?’ Parker and Thomas ! She wondered. Or was it Parker or Thomas? Or, since Parker was dead—Thomas?
‘Thomas, Elizabeth.’ He forestalled her. ‘Squadron Leader Thomas, pilot that once was—Dr Thomas, retired schoolmaster, that is. A most distinguished teacher of the classics—Officer of the Order of the British Empire, no less. Plus a couple of honorary fellowships and the Gold Medal of the British Classical Association, awarded for leading many a likely young lad into the realms of gold.’
He gave her a hopeful look. ‘You haven’t heard of him by any happy chance? From your teaching days?’
Elizabeth shook her head mutely.
‘No? Well, you’re not really a classicist—I appreciate that.’ He smiled his non-smile at her again. ‘But, anyway, our Dr Thomas wasn’t always a classical teacher. He was a civil servant in the Foreign Office for ten years, after he came down from Oxford the second time, with his doctorate, after the war. A little eccentric for the embassy lot—he might have done better in the Treasury … Anyway , he was there, and one day his name turned up on this list of ours, you see, Elizabeth.’
She nearly said ‘What list?’. But it was a redundant question, because there was really only one sort of list that ever got as far as R and D. ‘He was a security risk, you mean?’
‘No.’ His hand strayed towards the Thornton’s box. ‘No. Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly?’ It occurred to her that all this had to be a long time ago, ‘this list of ours’, if since then Dr Thomas had not only changed horses in mid-stream, but had had time to ride his new mount to a very different winning post. ‘When was
It didn’t really matter what she said, because nothing would deflate his self-esteem. ‘I think we were in the sea, four miles off the Pointe du Hoc. And was that the start of a beautiful friendship?’
‘What? Between Parker and Thomas? Good heavens, no!’ He sat back. ‘Does that surprise you?’
It did surprise her. Because there had to be a relationship between these two men, if David Audley and Major Turnbull had not been wasting their time. And it had to start with that heroic rescue.
‘It does, a bit.’ But then suddenly it didn’t. Because it hadn’t really been an heroic rescue at all, merely an accident of war, albeit a happy one: simply, among the thousands of random chances which had decreed life or death that morning, the vagaries of wind and tide had drifted one half-drowned British pilot into the arms of a handful of weary Americans who were themselves beating a delayed retreat from a hostile shore. In the midst of greater events and more pressing business the pilot would have been just a lucky survivor.
‘Yes?’ He waited for her to finish thinking.
‘Maybe not.’ She frowned. ‘But they did meet.’
‘They did. June 7th, 1944—that was the first time. And the second time was last week.’
‘Last week?’ Well, it certainly hadn’t been a friendship, beautiful or otherwise, Elizabeth agreed silently; the forty years’ interval precluded that.
Latimer nodded. ‘So far as we have been able to establish. Just the two meetings. Although they did exchange Christmas cards for a few years, apparently. But even that stopped after a time. So … just those two meetings, Miss Loftus. 1944, 1984. The first, pure chance—the second, quite deliberate.’
Elizabeth remembered the Parker cutting. ‘On the cliffs at the Pointe du Hoc, would that be?’
‘No.’ He gazed at her almost blankly. ‘Major Turnbull will tell you about the Pointe du Hoc. But … no, Miss Loftus—Elizabeth … Thomas was nowhere near there at the material time, as our constabulary would say.’
It had hardly been likely, for they must both be old men now. Yet he must be giving her the coordinate of the latitude of truth, if not its longitude.
‘So why are we interested in them?’ Parker and Thomas ! She wondered. Or was it Parker or Thomas? Or, since Parker was dead—Thomas?
‘Thomas, Elizabeth.’ He forestalled her. ‘Squadron Leader Thomas, pilot that once was—Dr Thomas, retired schoolmaster, that is. A most distinguished teacher of the classics—Officer of the Order of the British Empire, no less. Plus a couple of honorary fellowships and the Gold Medal of the British Classical Association, awarded for leading many a likely young lad into the realms of gold.’
He gave her a hopeful look. ‘You haven’t heard of him by any happy chance? From your teaching days?’
Elizabeth shook her head mutely.
‘No? Well, you’re not really a classicist—I appreciate that.’ He smiled his non-smile at her again. ‘But, anyway, our Dr Thomas wasn’t always a classical teacher. He was a civil servant in the Foreign Office for ten years, after he came down from Oxford the second time, with his doctorate, after the war. A little eccentric for the embassy lot—he might have done better in the Treasury … Anyway , he was there, and one day his name turned up on this list of ours, you see, Elizabeth.’
She nearly said ‘What list?’. But it was a redundant question, because there was really only one sort of list that ever got as far as R and D. ‘He was a security risk, you mean?’
‘No.’ His hand strayed towards the Thornton’s box. ‘No. Not exactly.’
‘Not exactly?’ It occurred to her that all this had to be a long time ago, ‘this list of ours’, if since then Dr Thomas had not only changed horses in mid-stream, but had had time to ride his new mount to a very different winning post. ‘When was
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