inclined to agree with you, Oliver. Audley is a tricky blighter. And, what is more germane to our present problem, there was an attempt made to recruit him again shortly after he came down from Cambridge. And it failed abysmally—it was bungled, wouldn’t you say, Fred?”
“It was none of my doing.” Clinton pointed his muzzle at Roche. “This time we must know what we are about, Roche—“
“The hair’s all gone now,” said Roche carefully.
“It has?” Willis flicked a glance at him, and then returned to the far distance. “That’ll be the effect of the sweat, I shouldn’t wonder … I’ve seen the same thing with some of our old boys, coming back for Reunion Night—crowning glories smooth as billiard balls—yes! And what is he now—a full general? He was just Major Clinton then—‘Freddie’ to his betters … or his elders, anyway, if not his betters …”
Another major. The whole world was full of majors today: majors gone up, like Clinton; majors in the balance, like Stocker; majors long dead, like Nigel Audley, cheated of his destiny; and majors ossified in wartime memories, like this little schoolmaster before him. And even one other potential major too!
And yet … once upon a time this garrulous schoolmaster had crossed Clinton’s path, which neither he nor Clinton had forgotten; though there was nothing remarkable in that, any of it, for Clinton must have made a lot of men sweat over the years, and he hadn’t finished yet.
“He’s not a general…”He left the end of the statement open, as though there was more to come.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll bet he tells the generals what to do! He wasn’t above telling ‘em a thing or two when—“ Willis stopped suddenly, cocking his head knowingly at Roche “—but that’s another story … It’s a small world, though—a small world … All those years ago, and now this— out of the blue—a damn small world!”
He lifted the paper, but didn’t offer it to Roche. Instead he fumbled in his pocket, producing first a pipe, which he stuck between his teeth, and then a gunmetal lighter.
“And he’s still foxy, too,” he muttered, snapping the lighter and applying the flame to the edge of the letter. When it was well alight he looked up at Roche, the twist of a smile lifting the opposite corner of his mouth to that which held the pipe. “Instructions!”
Roche watched the flames consume the paper right down to the last finger-hold, which the schoolmaster abandoned just in time. The charred remains floated to the ground, where they lay for a moment still in two complete and almost recognisable pieces; then the breeze shivered them, and lifted them, and finally broke them up, drifting them away across the field.
Willis put his pipe back in his pocket. “Maybe I should be a little bit frightened, instead of merely obedient—and very grateful he didn’t order me to chew it up and swallow it instead. It would have been most uncommonly indigestible.”
Whatever there had been between them, it was wind-blown ashes now, and all that could be recovered from it was whether or not it had served its purpose, decided Roche philosophically. It would have been nice to know more, but it didn’t really matter apart from that.
Willis looked at him again. “Very well, then—I think your last meaningful question was ‘Did I know David Audley quite well?’ And the answer to that is ‘Yes, as well as anyone did, and probably better than most’—and certainly a lot better than Nigel Audley ever did, although that’s not saying much, in all conscience—so, yes is the answer to that one, David Roche.”
So the paper had been the right key, and doubly the right key, if they were right about Audley—
“This time we must know what we are about, Roche,” said Clinton. “Because some fool, whoever it was, went at it bald-headed last time, in ‘49—you’re right…” He nodded at Sir Eustace.
“Yes …” Sir Eustace accepted the nod
“It was none of my doing.” Clinton pointed his muzzle at Roche. “This time we must know what we are about, Roche—“
“The hair’s all gone now,” said Roche carefully.
“It has?” Willis flicked a glance at him, and then returned to the far distance. “That’ll be the effect of the sweat, I shouldn’t wonder … I’ve seen the same thing with some of our old boys, coming back for Reunion Night—crowning glories smooth as billiard balls—yes! And what is he now—a full general? He was just Major Clinton then—‘Freddie’ to his betters … or his elders, anyway, if not his betters …”
Another major. The whole world was full of majors today: majors gone up, like Clinton; majors in the balance, like Stocker; majors long dead, like Nigel Audley, cheated of his destiny; and majors ossified in wartime memories, like this little schoolmaster before him. And even one other potential major too!
And yet … once upon a time this garrulous schoolmaster had crossed Clinton’s path, which neither he nor Clinton had forgotten; though there was nothing remarkable in that, any of it, for Clinton must have made a lot of men sweat over the years, and he hadn’t finished yet.
“He’s not a general…”He left the end of the statement open, as though there was more to come.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll bet he tells the generals what to do! He wasn’t above telling ‘em a thing or two when—“ Willis stopped suddenly, cocking his head knowingly at Roche “—but that’s another story … It’s a small world, though—a small world … All those years ago, and now this— out of the blue—a damn small world!”
He lifted the paper, but didn’t offer it to Roche. Instead he fumbled in his pocket, producing first a pipe, which he stuck between his teeth, and then a gunmetal lighter.
“And he’s still foxy, too,” he muttered, snapping the lighter and applying the flame to the edge of the letter. When it was well alight he looked up at Roche, the twist of a smile lifting the opposite corner of his mouth to that which held the pipe. “Instructions!”
Roche watched the flames consume the paper right down to the last finger-hold, which the schoolmaster abandoned just in time. The charred remains floated to the ground, where they lay for a moment still in two complete and almost recognisable pieces; then the breeze shivered them, and lifted them, and finally broke them up, drifting them away across the field.
Willis put his pipe back in his pocket. “Maybe I should be a little bit frightened, instead of merely obedient—and very grateful he didn’t order me to chew it up and swallow it instead. It would have been most uncommonly indigestible.”
Whatever there had been between them, it was wind-blown ashes now, and all that could be recovered from it was whether or not it had served its purpose, decided Roche philosophically. It would have been nice to know more, but it didn’t really matter apart from that.
Willis looked at him again. “Very well, then—I think your last meaningful question was ‘Did I know David Audley quite well?’ And the answer to that is ‘Yes, as well as anyone did, and probably better than most’—and certainly a lot better than Nigel Audley ever did, although that’s not saying much, in all conscience—so, yes is the answer to that one, David Roche.”
So the paper had been the right key, and doubly the right key, if they were right about Audley—
“This time we must know what we are about, Roche,” said Clinton. “Because some fool, whoever it was, went at it bald-headed last time, in ‘49—you’re right…” He nodded at Sir Eustace.
“Yes …” Sir Eustace accepted the nod
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