had to face what he already knew, but hadn ’ t faced: that Fred was getting old now, and that the generation-gap between those who had felt the heat, and never wanted to feel it again, and those who hadn ’ t, but who wondered endlessly about what it had been like, was becoming a problem to him.) ‘ It ’ s like it was with my late unlamented father-in-law, Fred: so long as the guns were firing, he was a hero. But once they stopped, he began to get bored. And then he got up to all sorts of mischief —
“A daring pilot in extremity … “
“ … but for calm unfit … “
— so it ’ s probably just as well. Because he ’ d have got up to all sorts of mischief, if he ’ d stayed with us .’
‘ Haven ’ t we got enough mischief for him? ’
‘ More than enough — 1 agree !’ (But that had been exactly the right moment to hit Fred with what he’d been worried about himself, at that time so long ago: that memory was still sharp, by God!) ‘ But he ’ s the sort of chap who might get involved with politics, Fred. And … de-stabilizing the Government isn ’ t what we ’ re into — is it ?’
‘ He isn ’ t into that. ’
‘ No .’ (Fred wasn’t over the hill yet. But he was no longer sitting on the top of it quite, either.) ‘ But some of the people he knows are … or, let ’ s say, I ’ m not sure about them, anyway. And … I have rather got the impression that intelligence research bores him — when we have to advise others when to risk their necks out there — ?’
That was it: whatever Mitchell might question as unlikely, he wouldn’t argue with that. Because Mitchell and Richardson were brothers-under-the skin; only Richardson had been flawed, and Mitchell wasn’t. ‘He wasn’t a research man, at heart.’ And, also, there was that other difference—which would wound Mitchell deeply. But it would also stop his mouth, too. ‘He was a soldier, you might say. And we didn’t have a proper war for him. So that’s why he resigned—from the army, as well as from R and D, Paul.’
‘Yes. He resigned.’ Unexpectedly, Elizabeth hit him from the flank. ‘But he also retired , David—from everything? Just like that—from everything?’
‘Uh-huh?’ Once the man had left R and D, that had been the end of him, was all he could recall. Fred had helped him back, of course: it had been Fred’s influence which had promoted him from captain to major … if not to keep him on his career-track, then maybe not to discourage their next recruit. So that had been merely prudent, never mind keeping faith with Richardson himself.
He shrugged. ‘Well … that was afterwards.’ All he could recall from afterwards was the office gossip in which he hadn’t been interested. Peter Richardson— Major Richardson now—back with his regiment had been of no consequence whatsoever: he had smashed up one of his sports cars (and been smashed up in it, with it … but that was no great surprise!); and then his adored Italian mother had died, on whom he had doted. (And that had been sad, maybe … but that was the way the world was: kings and queens and chimney-sweepers all had to die sometime; and so did mothers: mothers, and kings and queens and chimney-sweepers were dying all the time. And, anyway, the Principessa had died loaded with lire , to pay for a great big Italian hearse, drawn by four black horses through Amalfi, to solace her loving son in his grief in his inherited palazzo.)
‘That was when he retired—resigned?’ It was Elizabeth again, not Mitchell. But, where Mitchell had merely questioned him about the sequence of events, Elizabeth was frowning at the events themselves.
So now he wasn’t so sure of himself. But what he remembered wasn’t in doubt, nevertheless. ‘That was when he sent in his papers—yes. Because then he had all his inheritance to manage. All the family estates, up and down the coast, Elizabeth—‘ What made that doubly-sure was that one of Fred Clinton’s
“A daring pilot in extremity … “
“ … but for calm unfit … “
— so it ’ s probably just as well. Because he ’ d have got up to all sorts of mischief, if he ’ d stayed with us .’
‘ Haven ’ t we got enough mischief for him? ’
‘ More than enough — 1 agree !’ (But that had been exactly the right moment to hit Fred with what he’d been worried about himself, at that time so long ago: that memory was still sharp, by God!) ‘ But he ’ s the sort of chap who might get involved with politics, Fred. And … de-stabilizing the Government isn ’ t what we ’ re into — is it ?’
‘ He isn ’ t into that. ’
‘ No .’ (Fred wasn’t over the hill yet. But he was no longer sitting on the top of it quite, either.) ‘ But some of the people he knows are … or, let ’ s say, I ’ m not sure about them, anyway. And … I have rather got the impression that intelligence research bores him — when we have to advise others when to risk their necks out there — ?’
That was it: whatever Mitchell might question as unlikely, he wouldn’t argue with that. Because Mitchell and Richardson were brothers-under-the skin; only Richardson had been flawed, and Mitchell wasn’t. ‘He wasn’t a research man, at heart.’ And, also, there was that other difference—which would wound Mitchell deeply. But it would also stop his mouth, too. ‘He was a soldier, you might say. And we didn’t have a proper war for him. So that’s why he resigned—from the army, as well as from R and D, Paul.’
‘Yes. He resigned.’ Unexpectedly, Elizabeth hit him from the flank. ‘But he also retired , David—from everything? Just like that—from everything?’
‘Uh-huh?’ Once the man had left R and D, that had been the end of him, was all he could recall. Fred had helped him back, of course: it had been Fred’s influence which had promoted him from captain to major … if not to keep him on his career-track, then maybe not to discourage their next recruit. So that had been merely prudent, never mind keeping faith with Richardson himself.
He shrugged. ‘Well … that was afterwards.’ All he could recall from afterwards was the office gossip in which he hadn’t been interested. Peter Richardson— Major Richardson now—back with his regiment had been of no consequence whatsoever: he had smashed up one of his sports cars (and been smashed up in it, with it … but that was no great surprise!); and then his adored Italian mother had died, on whom he had doted. (And that had been sad, maybe … but that was the way the world was: kings and queens and chimney-sweepers all had to die sometime; and so did mothers: mothers, and kings and queens and chimney-sweepers were dying all the time. And, anyway, the Principessa had died loaded with lire , to pay for a great big Italian hearse, drawn by four black horses through Amalfi, to solace her loving son in his grief in his inherited palazzo.)
‘That was when he retired—resigned?’ It was Elizabeth again, not Mitchell. But, where Mitchell had merely questioned him about the sequence of events, Elizabeth was frowning at the events themselves.
So now he wasn’t so sure of himself. But what he remembered wasn’t in doubt, nevertheless. ‘That was when he sent in his papers—yes. Because then he had all his inheritance to manage. All the family estates, up and down the coast, Elizabeth—‘ What made that doubly-sure was that one of Fred Clinton’s
Similar Books
