' Excuse me, madam . . . but my name is Robinson — Ian Robinson, of Fielding-ffulke, Robinson . . . And I'm just researching Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon, who used to live here, just across the Green, in Gardener's Cottage — Captain Fitzgibbon's widow — perhaps you remember her — ?
Only . . . there are these two men, just on the other side of the Green — one of them is wearing a check sports jacket, and he's tall. . . and the other is short and plump, in a grey dummy2
suit . . . But I think they may have been following me. And now I think they may want to kill me—I know that sounds silly, but they may just have killed my associate, Mr Reginald Buller — formerly of the Metropolitan Police Force . . . So, do you think that I might use your telephone —
or your lavatory — ? Or could I please cower in one of your attics, perhaps? Can I take sanctuary with you — ?'
One of them was moving left, round the Green. And the little fat one was advancing across the grass, towards him—
Sanctuary — ?
He did know someone in Lower Buckland: the old priest, in his long black cassock — the Vicar? the Rector? — had spoken to him. And the church was right behind him — and the Vicarage — Rectory? — was just somewhere behind that, through the churchyard: he had glimpsed it round the back
— and the priest himself had indicated it at the end of their encounter, after he'd pronounced on the Fitzgibbons, beneath their stone in his churchyard, and very lovingly —
With Check Sports Jacket and Grey Suit converging on him purposefully, the thought of knocking on strange doors and seeking safety no longer embarrassed him: it was no longer a question of feeling foolish, but of which door — ? And Check Jacket decided that for him by accelerating towards the silver Volvo and thereby eliminating the door behind it (which might not, in any case, have opened up quickly enough). But Grey Suit (who was not so much short and plump as dummy2
menacingly thickset and powerful at close range) had already reached the furthest end of the churchyard wall, not far from the lych-gate in it.
Ian ducked under the overhanging yew-tree branches and sprang on to the top of the wall with an agility which surprised him — it was as though his arms and legs, once released from their brain's indecision, knew damn well what to do when it came to physical self-preservation —
He landed awkwardly in a pile of grass-cuttings, but the arms adjusted his balance and the legs kicked strongly, launching him out and away at immediate top-speed among the gravestones. At the same time, nevertheless, his brain cautioned him that perhaps even now he was piling up mistake on mistake: back there, on the edge of the Village Green, he had at least been out in the open, where there might have been watching eyes in the houses on its other three sides to see whatever might have happened next. But here, among the stones — Richard Glover, 1810-1894 —
Edmund Chapman, 1785-1847 — Martha Chapman, 1821-1867 — William Thomas Eden, 1712-1790 — this could be where Ian Drury Robinson might end up — 1958-1987 —
and no one the wiser: this might even be where Check Jacket and Grey Suit had been quite deliberately driving him —
God!
He jinked round an ancient weathered gravestone, and skidded to a halt, steadying himself on its finial, the gritty surface of which sandpapered his hand —
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A grinning skull-and-crossbones, spattered with yellow-grey splodges of lichen, mocked him: George Wellbeloved, beloved husband —
They were both almost inside the churchyard now, so there was no question that he had been imagining persecution where there was none: he was their target, whatever their final intention — and, with this obscene confidence of theirs, half-hurrying, half wnhurrying, he wasn't going to wait to find out what might be on their minds, in this too-private graveyard.
He pushed himself away from George Wellbeloved's stone, twisting on one heel in the soft rough-cut grass, and took three strides. And stopped.
He was trapped —
He swayed, beginning to half-turn. And then stopped the turn as its purpose became irrelevant: he knew what was behind him, because he had assessed it only a moment before. So now he knew what it was in front of him — and understood why Check Coat and Grey Suit had been so confident.
He was caught — pin-pointed as a collector's butterfly: not pursued, but caught, beyond all hope of escape!
To Check Coat and Grey Suit he added Combat Jacket: a third style, naturally, so that there had been no uniform appearance to register among the followers he might have noticed, if he'd been more observant — if he hadn't thought dummy2
himself so clever, and so lucky. Or ... or, if he'd taken poor old Reg more seriously, maybe — ?
But now he was caught, anyway. And caught finally and more obviously than before, and quite unarguably. Because, where Check Coat and Grey Suit concealed their weapons, Combat Jacket carried his own openly — openly, albeit casually, in the crook of his arm. But then, in Lower Buckland on a wet September evening, a shotgun was as good as a Kalashnikov and more easily explained.
He straightened up, accepting the inevitable even as he tried to reject it as something which didn't happen in real life, to ordinary people.
Or... not to Ian Robinson — ?
Or ... not to Reg Buller — ?
Combat Jacket straightened up, too. But, as he did so, his free left hand came up, to steady the shot-gun even as his casual right hand slid back to slip its trigger-finger into position.
'Hullo there!' Combat Jacket smiled at him, even as the double-barrels swung from their safe downwards-point into the shooter's-readiness position, for the clay pigeon, or the rabbit, or whatever sport was in prospect — whatever game: feathers-and-two legs, fur-and-four-legs — or skin-and-Ian-Robinson —
This time his legs betrayed him: he wanted them to run, but his knees had thrown in the towel, and it was all he could do dummy2
to stop them buckling, to bring him down to grass-level.
'Mr Ian Robinson, I believe?' The gun was coming up.
And Combat Jacket was smiling psychopathically, with enjoyment —
It would be an accident: one of those tragic shot-gun mishaps —
Ian closed his eyes. There would be a terrible impact. And then there would be ... whatever there was after that: probably pain, until communications broke down; but that wouldn't take long, with a shot-gun at five yards. And then . . . everything? Or ... nothing?
Nothing happened.
Or perhaps time was standing still for him, in his last second of it?
Only, time wasn't standing still: all he had felt, before that last thought, was blank fear filling his chest. But then he realized that he had breathed in deeply as he'd closed his eyes, and now he couldn't hold his breath any longer: it was the discomfort of that which was filling him —
He breathed out and opened his eyes again simultaneously, to find that there was no one in front of him any longer: there were only the greens and greys of the churchyard, swimming slightly for an instant and then coming sharply into focus as he blinked the sweat away.
He had been stupid, he began to think. And then the confusion in his mind cleared, just as the sweat had done, in dummy2
another eye-blink, as he remembered that the man with the gun had called him by his name.
He turned round clumsily, grasping at the nearest gravestone for support as his legs threatened again to give way under him, making him stagger slightly.
Combat Jacket was still in the churchyard, but was way past him now, up by the wall midway between the yew-tree and lych-gate and staring out across the Village Green, shot-gun still at the ready. For the moment he seemed quite uninterested in Ian.
But . . . ' Mr Ian Robinson, I believe?' was there between them, validating the man's presence, making it not-accidental — and reconvening all Ian's fears in a clamorous disorderly crowd in his brain: the man was real, and his shotgun was real. And those other men had been no less real —
Check Coat and Gre
y Suit — but where were they now — ?
Combat Jacket turned towards him suddenly, beckoning him.
There was no arguing with the invitation. If there had been a moment to run, and continue running, it was past now. And, anyway, the weakness in his legs dismissed the very idea as ridiculous, never mind that shot-gun in the man's hands.
The rough-cut churchyard grass was soft and springy under his feet, and there was a different cross-section of memorials to the long-dead inhabitants of Lower Buck-land all around him. But he only had eyes for Combat Jacket now, as he dummy2
approached the man.
Combat Jacket was no longer smiling (and maybe he'd never been smiling: maybe that smile had been inside his own imagination?).
'Well, I think they've gone.' Combat Jacket nodded at him, then re-checked the Village Green, and then returned to him.
'They've gone?' Ian's husky repetition of the words betrayed him. But . . . Combat Jacket was fortyish, for the record: young-fortyish, but a little haggard; brown hair, short-cut but well-cut; brown eyes, regular features ... the sort of man, if he'd been ten years older, whom Jenny might have looked twice at, once he'd acquired a touch of grey (older men, not younger, were Jenny's preference — ) —
(Philip Masson maybe? Is that it, Jenny? Is that it?) The thought of Jenny made him want to look at his watch.
But he mustn't do that!
'Didn't you hear the car?' Combat Jacket was studying him just as carefully.
'No.' It was just possible that this man had saved his life. But, if he had done so, he had only been obeying orders, just like that Syrian major in Beirut. And it was Jenny who mattered now — and Jenny's orders. So he must keep his head and not let foolish sentiment get in the way of necessity. 'Who are you?'
'My name is Mitchell. Paul Mitchell — ' Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell took another look over the churchyard wall: dummy2
whatever Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell was, and whoever ... he was a careful man. 'Paul Lefevre Mitchell. Almost exactly three hundred years ago one of my Huguenot-Protestant ancestors fled from Louis XIV's France, to England . . . and just a minute or two ago I rather wished he hadn't, Mr Robinson.
But now, I think it's time for us to go, too.'
That was curiously interesting. Because a few years back (and after Jenny had vetoed the idea of it, in preference for the more saleable Middle East) he had proposed a book on that anniversary of King Louis' expulsion of his Protestants, which had given England the Bank of England and Laurence Olivier; and Paul Revere to the United States.
But that was all also quite ridiculously beside the point now: the point was ... he had to get to Abdul the Damned's Tandoori Restaurant. And to Jenny.
But the point also was that he mustn't seem to eager —
however desperate he felt. So he must ignore the more important second statement in preference for the first. 'You wished he hadn't, Mr Mitchell? Why was that?'
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. 'You are a cool one, aren't you!'
Then a hint of that original not-smile returned. 'But then, of course, you were a cool one in Beirut, weren't you? When they snatched your lady-friend, and you negotiated her release — ? That was cool — yes!'
Mitchell was Intelligence, not Special Branch: it might be MI5 (it could hardly be MI6) but it was one or the other, to know so much . . . even though he'd got it quite pathetically dummy2
wrong, about the coolness. But he mustn't spoil the illusion.
'Oh — ?'
'I wondered why you didn't duck down behind the nearest convenient cover!' Mitchell nodded. 'But, of course . . . you weren't surprised, were you?'
He had to get away from this total misreading of events. 'You seem to know a lot about me, Mr Mitchell.'
'I know all about you, Mr Robinson: Miss Fielding-ffulke asks the questions, and has the contacts, and negotiates the deals . . . and you sort out the sheep from the goats she brings you, and write the actual books. You are the brains, and she is the brawn . . . unlikely as that may seem.' Mitchell took another look over the churchyard wall. 'Shall we go, then?'
With Mitchell here beside him he was physically safe; that shot-gun, if not Mitchell himself, proclaimed that. So, with this Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell in a mood of indiscretion, he must forget Jenny and get all he could, while he could get it ... no matter how his guts were still twisting. 'If I'm "the brains", Mr Mitchell. . . then I'd be obliged if you'd tell me what's going on — ?'
Mitchell cocked his head. 'Are you going to be difficult? After what has just happened — ?' Again he looked towards the Village Green. 'I think they've gone . . . But let's not push our luck — eh?'
dummy2
Because Mitchell wasn't happy, Ian began to feel unhappy.
'But I still don't know who you are, Mr Mitchell — any more than I know who they were, actually.'
'But you ran away from them?' Mitchell's mouth twisted.
'You are being difficult — '
'Not difficult — ' Actually, not difficult: for this instant he could be at least partially honest ' — who were they?'
Mitchell stared at him for a moment, as though deceived by that partial honesty. 'You don't know him? Well. . . maybe you don't at that! But. . . you ran like a rabbit, across the Green — ?' The moment of credulity faded into suspicion.
'Oh — come on, Mr Robinson! I've just gone through a very bad time on your behalf: this isn't when you should be playing silly games with me, for God's sake!' He lifted the shot-gun meaningfully across his chest — and then broke it, thrusting it towards Ian. 'See — ?'
What Ian saw was that the man's face was breaking up as he offered the gun for inspection, the mouth twisting bitterly.
'Empty.' Mitchell pushed the gun closer. 'See!'
Ian had to look at it.
'Okay?' Mitchell snapped the shot-gun together again.
'Father John — Father John whom you've met ... he lent me his gun. But he couldn't find any cartridges for it — not at short notice, he said — huh!'
That was indeed what Ian had seen: the twin-chambers of the shot-gun had been just like the muzzles which he had dummy2
imagined he'd faced, both black empty circles —
Mitchell nodded. 'I've just pointed an unloaded gun at Paddy MacManus for you, Mr Robinson. And that means that you owe me far more than you can ever repay: I got you one of your nine lives back — but we've both just lost one of our nine lives — okay?'
The empty shot-gun unmanned Ian. He didn't know who the hell 'Paddy MacManus' might be; but Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell knew — and that smile, if it had been a smile, would have been the Syrian major's smile, as they'd finally left the car at the rendezvous, of reassurance-pasted-over-fear, when they still hadn't known whether it was a meeting or an ambush —
He followed Combat Jacket towards the lych-gate.
'My car's across the Green, Mr Mitchell — ' he began. Was it going to be as easy as that, though?
'We're not taking your car.' Mitchell pointed towards the Volvo. 'You come with me.'
He was still following Combat-Jacket-Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell.
But his Rover Vitesse was as much his pride-and-joy as Philip Masson's Folkboat Jenny III had been. 'But what about my car — ?'
'I'll send someone for it. If they followed you here, then they've bugged it. So we'll unbug it for you — not to worry!'
Mitchell remotely unlocked his big silver Volvo. 'And we'll go out the opposite way — just in case?'
dummy2
They had followed him here. In fact, they and Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell had both followed him here, when he'd thought himself so clever.
'How did you follow me here?' He still didn't really know who Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell was. But it didn't seem a time for argument.
'You were easy.' The Volvo rolled forward smoothly. 'At least, after Rickmansworth, you were easy.' The Volvo circled the peaceful square of grass. 'This way's longer . . . but, just in case . . . we'll go the longer way, I think.'
&
nbsp; They passed the post office side-road, and then the side-road in which his own abandoned pride-and-joy lay. And then accelerated.
'What did Father John say to you, when you met him in the churchyard?' Mitchell pre-empted his next question as they began to climb the other side of Lower Buckland's peaceful valley, in which no one had just been killed.
'Father John' must be the old priest whom he'd met, and thought himself so lucky to meet: 'Father John', in his long black cassock, High Anglican and old — old Father John, and old black cassock, as he'd thought . . . But now he had to think of Father John as part of the deception of Mrs Frances Fitzgibbon, of which Mitchell-Paul-Mitchell was another part.
' Can I help you?' (The old priest had appeared out of dummy2
nowhere, so it had seemed to him.)
" Sir?' (He had been caught looking at the Fitzgibbon grave —
Captain Robert Gauvain and Frances; and he'd been looking at it too long for comfort, with all the other graves around to look at.)
' Are you looking for anyone in particular?' (Father John had given the Fitzgibbon stone a little nod — almost a blessing.) (That had shaken him. He had crossed out Captain Robert Gauvain, and concentrated on Frances, beloved wife; because Frances, beloved wife — formerly Marilyn, beloved
'smasher' of Gary Redwood . . . and maybe the long-lost, never-born daughter of Mrs Champeney-Smythe — but who, in reality? Only, whatever she had been, Marilyn/Frances had almost overwhelmed him then, as he'd seen her name on her tombstone.)
(And that tell-tale concentration on Marilyn/Frances had warned him off her, as Father John had looked at him.) ' I was just looking for Captain Fitzgibbon, sir.' (The Father of Lies had jogged his arm then.) ' He was in the regiment, sir.'
(Father John had nodded then, understandingly. ' Ah . . .
Robbie Fitzgibbon was a splendid chap! The bravest of the brave . . . and a good cricketer, too.' (The ultimate accolade!)
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