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Authors: Anthony Price
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wasn’t too sure who ‘us’ were. Apart from that comparison with the Service de Documentation Presidentielle, which obviously wasn’t what it sounded like anyway, he had disappeared in a cloud of vague generalities every time they had approached the subject.
‘And here he is - on time to the minute,’ observed Audley triumphantly. ‘We’ll leave my car here and let him do the drive, come on.’
As they crunched across the granite chippings which covered the surface of the lay-by towards the dark grey Rover Mitchell reflected that any event which delivered him from Audley’s driving couldn’t be all bad. It wasn’t so much that the big man drove dangerously - and at least he drove slowly - as that he gave the impression of someone who was determined to give only a quarter of his mind to a job which required at least half of it. Colonel Butler might not be brainier, whatever Audley claimed for him, but he was bound to be more competent in this.
For a moment he thought Butler must feel the same way and was simply waiting for them to join him, but as they approached the car the driver’s door clicked open. He could see at once and exactly what Audley had meant by appearances. In the Institute the day before the colonel had worn a countryman’s city suit and a look of even-tempered neutrality; now, in tweeds and deerstalker and with an expression of apoplectic anger on his face he resembled the very pattern of the Angry British Officer disguised thinly as a civilian.
‘Audrey, what the hell are you up to?’ he exploded.
‘Good morning. Jack,’ said Audley brightly. ‘Have you got the reports and the maps?’
‘Maps be damned!’ Butler stabbed a blunt finger towards Mitchell. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Audley grinned.
‘This is Captain Paul Lefevre of the 15th Royal Tank Regiment, Jack.’
‘Lefever - ?’ Butler gagged on the next word.
‘Spelt “Lefevre” but pronounced “Lefever”,’ added Audley helpfully. ‘A good French Huguenot name anglicised by three hundred years of English speaking - since the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, to be precise. In the year 1685 - ‘
‘Damn the year!’ Butler spluttered. ‘You’re up to your old tricks - you can’t do it. Not again.’
‘I can and I will - and I have,’ said Audley. ‘And I don’t think you’re in any position to quibble. Jack. Not with your record.’
Butler’s eyes flashed. ‘That was - ‘
‘Different?’ Audley pounced on the momentary hesitation. ‘Necessary, I would have said. And it’s necessary now - necessity has once more been the mother of invention. I have invented Captain Lefevre.’
There was something like pain as well as anger in Butler’s eyes now, as though he could see a defeat ahead which was being inflicted on him by a dirty trick.
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Audley stared at Mitchell for an instant, then turned back to Butler. “Where’s the village of Mametz, Captain Lefevre?’
‘East of Albert, and just east of Fricourt.’
‘Who took it on July ist, 1916?’
‘The ist South StaHbrds and the list Manchesters.’
‘What division were they?’
‘The 7th.’
‘ What corps? ’
‘ XV - Fifth Army. ’
Audley paused.
‘Who took Vaux-le-Petit on July i4th?’
‘The West Mercians.’
‘All right!’ Butler barked. ‘You’ve got yourself a Somme expert. But there are books on the Somme.’
‘I haven’t finished. Who owns Vaux-le-Petit Wood?’
‘Monsieur Pierre Ducrot.’
‘And Sabot Wood?’
‘Madam Grenier, who lives in Bapaume. Number 14, Rue Palikao.’
‘There are directories too,’ Butler snapped.
‘But not walking ones.’
‘Tchah!’ Butler turned to Mitchell. ‘Man - do you know what you’re letting yourself in for? Apart from wearing the Queen’s uniform, which you’ve no right to?’
‘I still haven’t finished,’ said Audley, his voice suddenly taking on authority. ‘Why do you think I arranged to meet you here - because I like the
‘And here he is - on time to the minute,’ observed Audley triumphantly. ‘We’ll leave my car here and let him do the drive, come on.’
As they crunched across the granite chippings which covered the surface of the lay-by towards the dark grey Rover Mitchell reflected that any event which delivered him from Audley’s driving couldn’t be all bad. It wasn’t so much that the big man drove dangerously - and at least he drove slowly - as that he gave the impression of someone who was determined to give only a quarter of his mind to a job which required at least half of it. Colonel Butler might not be brainier, whatever Audley claimed for him, but he was bound to be more competent in this.
For a moment he thought Butler must feel the same way and was simply waiting for them to join him, but as they approached the car the driver’s door clicked open. He could see at once and exactly what Audley had meant by appearances. In the Institute the day before the colonel had worn a countryman’s city suit and a look of even-tempered neutrality; now, in tweeds and deerstalker and with an expression of apoplectic anger on his face he resembled the very pattern of the Angry British Officer disguised thinly as a civilian.
‘Audrey, what the hell are you up to?’ he exploded.
‘Good morning. Jack,’ said Audley brightly. ‘Have you got the reports and the maps?’
‘Maps be damned!’ Butler stabbed a blunt finger towards Mitchell. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Audley grinned.
‘This is Captain Paul Lefevre of the 15th Royal Tank Regiment, Jack.’
‘Lefever - ?’ Butler gagged on the next word.
‘Spelt “Lefevre” but pronounced “Lefever”,’ added Audley helpfully. ‘A good French Huguenot name anglicised by three hundred years of English speaking - since the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, to be precise. In the year 1685 - ‘
‘Damn the year!’ Butler spluttered. ‘You’re up to your old tricks - you can’t do it. Not again.’
‘I can and I will - and I have,’ said Audley. ‘And I don’t think you’re in any position to quibble. Jack. Not with your record.’
Butler’s eyes flashed. ‘That was - ‘
‘Different?’ Audley pounced on the momentary hesitation. ‘Necessary, I would have said. And it’s necessary now - necessity has once more been the mother of invention. I have invented Captain Lefevre.’
There was something like pain as well as anger in Butler’s eyes now, as though he could see a defeat ahead which was being inflicted on him by a dirty trick.
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Audley stared at Mitchell for an instant, then turned back to Butler. “Where’s the village of Mametz, Captain Lefevre?’
‘East of Albert, and just east of Fricourt.’
‘Who took it on July ist, 1916?’
‘The ist South StaHbrds and the list Manchesters.’
‘What division were they?’
‘The 7th.’
‘ What corps? ’
‘ XV - Fifth Army. ’
Audley paused.
‘Who took Vaux-le-Petit on July i4th?’
‘The West Mercians.’
‘All right!’ Butler barked. ‘You’ve got yourself a Somme expert. But there are books on the Somme.’
‘I haven’t finished. Who owns Vaux-le-Petit Wood?’
‘Monsieur Pierre Ducrot.’
‘And Sabot Wood?’
‘Madam Grenier, who lives in Bapaume. Number 14, Rue Palikao.’
‘There are directories too,’ Butler snapped.
‘But not walking ones.’
‘Tchah!’ Butler turned to Mitchell. ‘Man - do you know what you’re letting yourself in for? Apart from wearing the Queen’s uniform, which you’ve no right to?’
‘I still haven’t finished,’ said Audley, his voice suddenly taking on authority. ‘Why do you think I arranged to meet you here - because I like the
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