"Why d'you want to know, Mr Mitchell? Does it matter what he was writing?"
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He shook his head vaguely. "I seem to remember . . . about two or three years ago ... he wrote a letter to The Times trying to get in touch with anyone who served on the previous HMS
Vengeful—the one which fought at Jutland in 1916, or any next-of-kin with letters and suchlike . . . And he also explained then that he was writing a book about all the ships of that name which had ever served with the navy—am I right?"
"Yes, Mr Mitchell." She had typed the letter herself, as always, from that scrawl which only she could read. And there was no point in denying it because there was nothing vague about his memory, it was exactly right.
"So The Times was wrong?"
Elizabeth nodded. But she had asked why and he had answered how, she realised.
"All the Vengefuls." He nodded back. "And there were twelve of them, I believe? Or nearly thirteen, but the Admiralty changed its mind about the last one, and finally called it something else— Shannon, it is now ... so that doesn't qualify.
And your father commanded the penultimate Vengeful, then."
Elizabeth nodded again. "You're very well informed, Mr Mitchell."
"Not really. I just read the newspapers, that's all."
"Then you have a good memory."
He grinned at her. "Especially for letters in The Times.
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Because that wasn't the only one your father wrote, was it!"
The grin started to broaden, then disappeared instantly as he remembered also that such levity was inappropriate to the occasion. "I'm sorry . . ."
"There's no need to be." It didn't suit Elizabeth for him to become inhibited by her bereavement, not now that she understood exactly how he had become so knowledgeable.
"You mean the Vengeful-Shannon correspondence, I take it?"
He nodded cautiously, still doubtful about her reaction to the memory of that long, acrimonious and ultimately hilarious battle of the letter-writers in the columns of The Times.
"You found it amusing?" Elizabeth fabricated the ghost of a smile to take the sting out of her question. She could well believe that outsiders might have considered it so, that passionate and useless controversy about the naming of a warship which the letters editor had headlined variously, tongue-in-cheek, as "The last fight of the Vengeful" and "A hard-fought engagement".
He took encouragement from the ghost-smile. "To be honest... I thought it was the jolliest Times correspondence since those dons got to arguing about how fast and how far the ancient Greeks could row their triremes."
Of course, he couldn't know how she had suffered through it all, with Father tearing into each morning's newspaper and his alternate bouts of rage and triumph as the argument swung this way and that.
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They had shamed her, those letters, for the contempt the recipients must have felt for him; and doubly shamed her, as he made it so very clear that in some twisted way he had come to regard his immortality as descending somehow through the renewed name of his beloved ship, rather than through his unloved daughter, who was plainly useless—very plainly—for such a purpose, and fit only to type his letters and his books, and cook his meals, and wash and fetch and carry and clean for him.
Well—so much for that! It was all flotsam now that time and events had revenged her on the last captain of the penultimate Vengeful— time and events and the Admiralty!
"My father didn't find it so funny." This time she didn't pretend to smile.
"No, I rather gathered that." He took his cue from her. "But to a landlubber like me ships' names really don't have much significance. In fact, they often seem to me to be rather idiotic
—like the names people give to racehorses."
"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Elizabeth found the mention of racehorses slightly unsettling, however accidental it might be, as a reminder of Father's weakness. Except that, judging by the contents of the safe deposit boxes and the cash-box under her bed, it could hardly be called a weakness.
"But didn't they call one of the Flower class corvettes in the last war 'Pansy'?" countered Paul Mitchell. "I can't imagine what the sailors made of that!" He lifted From Trafalgar to dummy3
Navarino. "And what was it Nelson's sailors turned the Bellerophon into . . . because they couldn't pronounce it, let alone spell it—'Billy Ruffian', eh?" The grin came back. "God knows what they made of the Euryalus!"
So the landlubber knew something about ships, Elizabeth noted. But if ships' names drew him out towards his proposition, then so be it.
"Ah, yet that merely illustrates the primacy of the classical education in those days, Mr Mitchell. It was just the same in the French navy—the French had an Hercule at the battle of the Saints in 1782, and a Hector, and a Cesar, and a Scipion . . . and then after the Revolution you have new names like Fraternité and Franklin, after Benjamin Franklin, creeping in—and the Droits de l'Homme, even."
Paul Mitchell nodded. "I see what you mean. Like the Reds renaming the Tsar's dreadnoughts October Revolution and Marat in 1919—Marat to them being like Franklin to the French revolutionaries, of course."
He nodded again. "Education, politics . . . and history too—
naming your ships after the battles you've won, and the men who won them . . . yes— Midway and Coral Sea, and Rodney and Nelson, and that weird dreadnought we had at Jutland, the Agincourt—"
Good heavens! thought Elizabeth. He even knew about Agincourt, which had started life as Rio de Janeiro, then had turned into Sultan Osman I, only to be taken over in the nick of time on Tyneside in 1914 by Churchill, to fire its ten dummy3
salvoes of 12-inch shells—at Jutland. The very mention of HMS Agincourt had always made Father quite dreamy, with a mixture of envy and pride oiling the waves of his bitterness.
But she had never heard anyone else speak of it—she had never met anyone who had ever heard of it—until now, with this strange young man—
"—and religion too . . . Santissima Trinidad, and all the other Spanish saints we blew apart at Trafalgar." Paul Mitchell waved his bargain again. "Yes, I can see that there's a lot more in ships' names than has met my ill-informed eye until now! So I'd better be careful, with an expert like you around, in case I say something stupid."
"I'm not an expert." Elizabeth was resolved not to be caught again.
"Not an expert?" He tried to make his disbelief sound polite.
"But a history degree at Lady Margaret Hall ..."
The contrast between the qualification and the unpaid secretarial work flicked her on the raw. "I mean, I'm not an expert on naval history," she said stiffly. "Just what was it that you wanted to talk to me about, Mr Mitchell?"
"Ah . . . well, about your father's book, Miss Loftus—" he gave her back a direct look "—am I right in thinking that he hadn't finished it?"
He knew the answer. But, although there were plenty of ways he might know it, he knew more than that, and it was still the why which plagued her.
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"No, Mr Mitchell. As a matter of fact he hadn't." To get more she still had to give more, she sensed that. "My father was a sick man—he'd been unwell for a long time ... he behaved as though he wasn't, but he was. And he had his good days, and his good weeks, and his bad ones, therefore. May I ask why you want to know this?"
"How far had he got?"
It was on the tip of her tongue to repeat her question, but she sensed that it might be easier to let him reach the answer in his own way. "He was revising a chapter on one of the earlier Vengefuls. He hadn't really got down to collating the material he had on the last three Vengefuls, if you must know."
He brightened. 'The twentieth century ones, those would be?"
"The ninth Vengeful. That's how far he'd got, Mr Mitchell."
He thought for a moment, and then nodded as though she had confirmed information he already possessed. "The Jutland Vengeful. Improved Admiralty M Class—97
5 tons, three 4-inch, four 21-inch torpedo tubes, 34.5 knots. Built by Hawthorne, Leslie and Company Limited on the Tyne at Hebburn, commissioned at Chatham—1913 -14 Estimates.
Right?"
"If you say so. There was one that fought at Jutland certainly." If she had not already been inclined towards caution his finger-tip facts would have made her so. "But you obviously know all about it already. You wouldn't be a naval dummy3
historian by any chance, would you?"
He shook his head. "No, Miss Loftus, not a naval historian—a military one. Actually the 1914-18 War is my field—the war of the tenth Vengeful. Only it's the Western Front that's my speciality. The trenches . . . if you can call them a field." The corner of his mouth twitched. "I don't suppose you can discern any connection?"
"Is there one?"
"It was the same war, Miss Loftus." He paused for a moment.
"You see ... a few years ago I was re-reading one of my favourite books, Charles Carrington's Soldier from the Wars Returning . . . Charles Carrington being the 'Charles Edmonds' who wrote the best and truest eye-witness memoir to come out of the trenches, Subaltern's War—do you know it?"
"No." But what she did know was that he was what he said he was, she could recognise the glint in his eye, and the dogmatic assertion of the obsessed specialist, from her own experience.
"A pity. But no matter ... At one point, just before he comes up to Third Ypres. . . Passchendaele . . . he lets slip that the British soldiers, in the line didn't know a thing about the French Army mutinies. But they did know about the troubles in Russia and the U-boat crisis. Now ... I'd never really thought of the other two crises going on at the same time as Third Ypres—do you see what I mean?"
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Elizabeth blinked. "I can't say that I do, Mr Mitchell."
Her obtuseness didn't seem to worry him. "Contemporaneity, Miss Loftus, contemporaneity. That's the point."
"Indeed?" What she could still see was that glint. And that was the way it took some men—the pursuit of an idea and the thirst for knowledge. It was related to avarice, but it wasn't the same thing; it was more about finding than keeping, like gold fever.
"The same applies to 1916—Verdun, Jutland, the Somme—to me they'd become isolated events because of my over-specialisation: I knew all about the first and the last, but virtually nothing about the middle one. Whereas in reality the good scholar must look at the whole spread of contemporaneous events, to find out how they interlock, if he's ever to understand the truth about his smaller detail."
He paused for breath. "Did you know that the first convoy system—which was the answer to the U-boat—was developed to get coal from South Wales to France . . . because the German army was sitting on most of the French coal supply?"
She had to humour him. "No, Mr Mitchell, I didn't know that."
"Yes—" He caught himself suddenly, as though he realised that he was about to lose his broad spread in detail "—well, the fact is ... I've been busy for some time familiarising myself with naval history. And when I read the obituary on your father, and I recalled his earlier letter . . . I'm used to dummy3
handling research material and pulling it together—I did as much for Professor Emerson's book on the Somme a few years back, when he died before he'd finished it... it occurred to me that I might be able to finish your father's book for you, Miss Loftus."
Good Lord! thought Elizabeth, frowning at him with a mixture of astonishment and irritation. He had indeed been after something—but it wasn't her money, let alone she herself—it was Father's research he wanted!
She opened her mouth, but he spoke again quickly before she could do so.
"Miss Loftus—let me make myself plain, I beg you!" He had clearly read the expression on her face. "I'm absolutely not interested in either making money or a name for myself—I don't need to do either. The book would have your father's name, and you can have the royalties—you can have your own solicitor draw up any agreement you like. You can even veto the whole thing at any time if you don't like it—or me . . .
providing I can do the same, of course. Because I'd have to see the work that's already been done, naturally . . . My own contribution, apart from any necessary editing, would be to put together the twentieth-century chapters only, because I'm not an expert on the earlier periods . . . But otherwise, you can call the tune absolutely. So don't say 'no' out of hand, without thinking."
That was exactly what Elizabeth was doing—she was thinking very hard indeed, trying to adjust her first reaction and her dummy3
instinct and her prejudices with the apparent generosity of his offer. Because there must be a catch in it somewhere.
"I don't quite see why you want to do this . . . under those conditions, Mr Mitchell," she said tentatively, shying away from the direct rudeness of "What's in it for you?"
He shrugged. "Let's say . . . I'm not a naval historian—I'm not ready to write a whole book of my own on naval matters.
But ... I admire your father's work—I think The Dover Patrol was a fine book . . . and I could do this." He paused. "Also . . .
I'm between books myself at the moment, so I have several spare months."
Well, there was an opening, even at the risk of emphasising her ignorance. "Forgive me for asking. . . but you must understand that I don't read books about the World Wars . . ." It was harder than she'd expected, and she felt the blood rising in her cheeks.
"What books have I written?" The laughter lines crinkled on his face as he came to her rescue, making it older again, where his recent embarrassment had made him seem younger. "Or were you going to ask whether I write under my own name?"
"Oh no—that's the coward's question!" She felt herself melting under such candour. "But honestly, I haven't seen any of your books—and I'm sure that's my fault for being unobservant—"
"I doubt it. But I did have a modest success with my book on dummy3
the Hindenburg Line a few years back. And then there was the one on the battle of the Ancre . . . after which I completed Professor Emerson's definitive work on the Somme, though I can take no credit for that, of course . . . And finally, I have a new one coming out in the spring, about the Irish Guards in the war— Watch by the Liffey, that is ... When the last survivors of the 1st Battalion were hanging on to the edge of Zillebeke Wood on the outskirts of Ypres in '14 they heard a German band playing 'Die Wacht am Rhein', and one of them said 'Well, we'll give the bastards "Watch by the Liffey" in reply'."
On the back of a book in Margaret's shop—was that where she had seen him, his face? thought Elizabeth.
"Plus the obligatory thesis, and the articles on this and that."
He fumbled in his top pocket. "Perhaps I should have given you my card to start with."
She read the card: Paul Mitchell . . . and on one side beneath, The King's College, Oxford, with a telephone number; and, on the other, 21B Namier Street, London WC2E 8QJ, with another number.
"And, if you'd like to check up further . . . I'm really a sort of civil servant, but I have this prolonged sabbatical, and the Hobson Research Fellowship at the King's College to make it economic—for me and the Civil Service both ... In a year's time Whitehall and Oxford and I must decide where my proper home should be." He smiled disarmingly at her. "But in the meantime you can call either the Master's secretary at dummy3
the King's or Sir Terence O'Shea at the Home Office, and they'll each give you the same dull answer. I'm perfectly respectable."
In spite of all her previous second thoughts about him Elizabeth was perversely disappointed. The respectability was all there, but the romance was lost in the safety of such references.
"The only thing is that I'd like to—" Paul Mitchell stopped abruptly, staring past her.
"Ah, Dr Mitchell!" The Vicar materialised at Elizabeth's shoulder. "I see that you have found our Miss Loftus . . .
Elizabeth, I confide that you have had a profitable afternoon?"
For the first time the "propos
ition" became real to her. Since Father's death she hadn't seriously thought about his unfinished book—indeed, she hadn't really thought about it at all. Yet now she realised that in its relatively advanced state and with this man's expertise—alleged expertise, anyway
—it could become a real book, making real money for her . . .
Except that money was now something she didn't need.
But then, she didn't need to keep it: she could easily solve that problem, and even assuage her conscience a little, by assigning the royalties to St Barnabas' tower.
That thought, and the discovery that having so much had not made her eager for more, raised her spirits. "Yes, Mr Bickersteth, I do believe that I have." She swept the piles of dummy3
10p pieces into her cash-box with a flourish so that each of them could take that how he liked.
"I'm glad to hear it." Dr Mitchell's cheerfulness clearly indicated his interpretation. "And I liked that 'confide' too, Vicar. Would that be ecclesiastical usage or something from your naval background? Didn't Nelson try for 'Nelson confides' first before Trafalgar, only his signal lieutenant edited to 'England expects' to save the extra flags?"
The Vicar chuckled, but Elizabeth found herself speculating about Dr Mitchell again. It was reasonable enough that he should have asked the Vicar to point her out, and Crockford's Directory would have supplied details of the Vicar's naval career. But why had he gone to such trouble?
"You've met before, then?" She spread the inquiry between them.
"Only this morning, Elizabeth, only this morning," said the Vicar. "But we have an admiral in common—eh, Dr Mitchell?"
"Hah—mmm . . ." Dr Mitchell appeared not to have heard. "I was just going to ask Miss Loftus, Vicar—but I can ask you just as well, or even better—how long her duties are going to detain her here? I'd very much like at least a sight of the manuscript before I go back to London, Miss Loftus . . .
Perhaps I might call on you early this evening—and then dinner afterwards?"
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