The Labyrinth Makers dda-1

by Anthony Price

  He was tempted to throw in his hand–to insist that the whole idea of tracking down long-lost treasure was a nonsense for which he had neither the aptitude nor the experience. His bouts of confidence seemed in retrospect as misplaced as Stocker's dummy4

  confidence in him — if Stocker ever really had such confidence.

  But even if Stocker's confidence was assumed, there was still the reality of Panin. The Russian's coming was the one sure proof that the treasure existed and could be found. Yet it made no sense–or it meant that he'd been approaching the problem from entirely the wrong direction. In that case what was needed was–what was it the Arabs called it?–a tafsir il aam: the calculated throwing away of the old rule book which stopped one winning the game.

  But to do that would mean returning to London, and then to an unwelcoming home full of electronic eavesdroppers. And it would also lose him the chance of getting into a real bed with Faith.

  That was the one worthwhile product of the whole operation, and he wasn't going to ruin it now. As he climbed into the car he could see that she looked as gloomy as he felt, but that smartly-pinned hair would look better spread on a pillow. So the idea of quitting and the tafsir il aam could both damn well wait, and he would go on as planned.

  They drove off in silence. The last sight he had of Maclean was of the compact man still standing where they had said goodbye to him, deep in his memories. Audley hoped the lifejacket of his clear conscience would keep him afloat. Then a gleaming wing of Wadham Hill cut him off from view.

  They continued without speaking, and for once he concentrated on his driving; Butler's Rover was a car which rewarded effort, very different from his undemanding Austin. But in the end he had to break the silence.

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  'You didn't enjoy that either?'

  'Enjoy it? In a way it was worse than Tierney. You should have been nicer to Tierney and nastier to him–my proxy godfather!'

  'And then I would have got nothing out of either of them. But he wasn't so bad; you've just got a prejudice against headmasters.'

  'Against that one, anyway. He could have stopped my father dead in his tracks if he'd really wanted to. And I think he knew it, too, whatever he said, the sanctimonious bastard.'

  She sighed. 'But then my dear father would have got up to some other murky little scheme, I suppose–gun-running, or something like that. You're right, of course: this way's no worse than any other–and at least I've met you this way, David!'

  She reached over and put a slender hand on his, and then leant across and planted a light kiss on his cheek.

  '"Meet you at the Bull",' she whispered in his ear. 'This way I'm following the family tradition as well!'

  XII

  If there had ever been any ghosts in the Bull, old ghosts or shadows in RAF blue, they were gone now, thought Audley. The central heating would have been too much for them.

  He sat on his luxurious bed and watched Faith double up on hers in helpless laughter. There might be a suggestion of hysterics in it, but it seemed genuine enough even if he was not disposed to share dummy4

  it: the Bull had proved a more daunting experience than he had expected. Worse still, the management evidently took them for honeymooners, if not elopers, and this was its special bridal suite.

  It might have been the way Richardson had booked them in. It might even have been the awkward way Audley had claimed their room. It might very well have been their arrival without a single item of luggage, an oversight which had struck him much too late.

  But he suspected that it had been their actual reaction to the Bull itself which had finally convinced the staff of their romantic status.

  No hardened adulterers or casual fornicators would have behaved so eccentrically.

  Faith had spent the last half-hour of the journey describing the decaying establishment which had been the rendezvous for the Newton Chester air crews, their families and hangers-on.

  Not that the old Bull had been prepared for its sudden wartime prosperity. It had in fact been left high and dry by time until Hitler's rise and renewed friendship with France had caused the migration of the RAF bomber squadrons from their old haunts in the south midlands to a new generation of bases which spread across East Anglia, Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. Newton Chester had been the last and the least of these airfields, a temporary intruder which had never managed to attract the biggest bombers.

  But if the creaking beds and antique plumbing of the old pub had been strained to the uttermost, so too had the stamina of the wives and girl friends who descended on it. Its draughtiness and arctic conditions beyond the two cheerless bars had been a byword; it dummy4

  was a folk legend that the rear upper gunner of a Hampden, who should certainly have been inured to cold, had frozen to death during the winter of 1940 in one of the bedrooms. Circumstantial evidence for this was that his girl had forsaken him for a pilot in the next room–one of the advantages of the place was that it encouraged passionate night-long embraces simply as a means of keeping warm.

  It was famous also–or infamous–for running out of beer, for the landlord's habit of despatching patrons to borrow fresh supplies from a pub in the neighbouring village and for his unblushing overcharging of the Samaritans who had helped him. And his whisky, on the rare occasions when it was available, was so heavily watered that flies falling into it were able to swim to safety and take off at once, cold sober.

  The meals were more reliable; except so far as Jewish aircrew were concerned, for the menu was always a Hobson's choice based on illicit pigs which the landlord fattened on the choicest scraps bribed out of the sergeants' mess at the airfield . . .

  One way or another, from the reminiscences of her grandmother, mother and step-father, Faith knew the Bull inside out, from the decrepit creaking floorboards at the head of the stairs to the notice in the unlockable upstairs lavatory appealing to the users not to pull the chain after midnight because of the noises which then racked the water pipes. She was an expert in every legend, tradition and horror which 3112 Squadron had inherited from its long-suffering predecessors.

  The Bull she raised in Audley's imagination was built of nostalgic dummy4

  wartime gaiety and stark discomfort–'The Way to the Stars' staged in Dotheboys Hall. But as the discomfort was more likely to have survived than the gaiety he began to have the gravest doubts about the night ahead of them. It promised to be even less comfortable than the previous one.

  His doubts were strengthened by the rambling pub's unchanged appearance. It was as beautifully Old English as she had said: what had survived by luck, accident and sheer lack of prosperity since Jacobean times was now its greatest attraction. The lattice of timbers, the uneven plaster and the tiny, irregular leaded windows would be preserved as, long as chemicals and crafty restoration could hold them together.

  But 3112 Squadron's Bull vanished like a dream in warm air, expensive continental cooking smells and deep carpeting the moment they stooped through the low oak doorway. Before Audley had got his bearings, while he was still looking for one of Faith's landmarks, a darkly handsome waiter in a white coat and tight maroon trousers materialised at his elbow.

  Audley unwillingly admitted that he was the Dr Audley who had booked a double room.

  The waiter was joined by an even smoother and swarthier grey-suited manager who expressed his gladness at their arrival and his desolation at their lack of a double bed. Faith, at his other elbow, gave an odd, muffled snort.

  Nevertheless, the manager assured him, there could be no doubt about their comfort, as the beds in every room were of the latest American design, identical with those supplied to the London dummy4

  Hilton. The measurements of these beds—

  Audley hastened to assure him back that what was good enough for the Hilton was good enough for him.

  And the luggage? Well, there had been a silly misunderstanding about their luggage. It had been left behind and a friend was bringing it down later in the evening. U
nderstanding smiles spread from face to face like treacle. A tragedy –but all would be well, assuredly. If Mrs Audley was inconvenienced in any way, the hotel would spring to her assistance.

  They followed the white coat up the staircase–not the narrow alpine climb on which the drunken wing commander had broken a leg in the winter of '44, but a gentle, generous stairway which neither sagged nor creaked–and along the soft-carpeted, well-lit passage.

  Was there anything else the Doctor required?

  The Doctor had already had more than enough. Except for one thing: 'Which way from here to the airfield?' Audley inquired.

  The man looked at him, mystified. Then he grinned like a small boy who has come up with the answer to an unfair adult question.

  'Nottingham,' he said happily.

  Audley shook his head. 'The old airfield here–at Newton Chester.'

  The black curls shook back at him. There was no airfield here. The airfield was near Nottingham.

  As the door closed on the man Faith flopped back on her Hilton-standard bed.

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  'Mrs Audley is inconvenienced,' she murmured. 'No double bed, no toothbrush–no Bull.' She began to laugh. 'And no airfield!'

  Audley watched her slowly give in to the laughter. What spoilt the joke for him was that she could well have added 'no treasure'. But stretched out on the bed, and a generous bed it was–she did take his mind off that unhopeful prospect. She herself was, after all, the only attainable treasure of the operation now. He eyed her long legs speculatively; and an end attainable there and then, for the asking.

  But the compulsion to see the airfield while the light held was still stronger than sex, rather to his regret. He told himself savagely that it was common sense rather than incipient middle age which took business before pleasure.

  'Come on, wench,' he said hoarsely. 'Put on a new face! We've got one more call to make.'

  Faith groaned. 'You're a slave-driver, David! God, there's no romance about your job, is there?'

  'Doesn't staying in a strange hotel with a strange man count as romance?'

  'Camp-followers' duty–I'm just following the family calling. That's not romantic, only patriotic. And which grotty bit of my family history are you about to dredge up this time?'

  'This is merely a courtesy call. RAF Newton Cnester is plain Castle Farm now. We're going to call on Farmer Warren to ask him to let us look round.'

  'Is he expecting us?'

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  'If the First Class mail can be relied on he won't be too surprised by my appearance. What he'll make of you I shudder to think!'

  She had loosened the French pleat, and to attempt to pass her off as a Ministry of Defence secretary on Sunday overtime would seriously impair the public image of Civil Service morals.

  She tossed back the pale mane of hair. 'What the devil am I supposed to be, then?'

  'I think you'd better go on being the first Mrs Audley –keeping an eye on her hard-working husband. I doubt if Farmer Warren will believe it, but it will just have to do.'

  She smoothed down the mini-dress over her hips. 'And what exactly is my hard-working husband doing?'

  'He's leading a survey team examining the condition of abandoned air strips. And don't laugh, my girl, because your taxes have been spent on far less likely things than that. We're just the advance guard, and you've come along for the ride.'

  Faith wrinkled her nose. 'Old Farmer Warren'll have to be a turnip to swallow that. He'll put me down as a shameless hussy–but since that's just about what I am, I suppose I'll have to bear his displeasure.'

  But if Farmer Warren did not swallow the story, equally he did not view Faith with displeasure: Farmer Warren was in his thirties, or mid-thirties, and if he wasn't exactly handsome he was engagingly good-humoured, with white teeth flashing like a toothpaste advertisement in his weather-browned face.

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  'Got your letter, sure enough–and it rather put the fear of God up me. You're not thinking of moving back here, by any chance, are you? My family moved off once, and fair enough with the Germans over there. But I don't reckon to be shifted again,' he said frankly, with the hint of steel in his smile.

  Audley reassured him. 'The runways would never do for jets anyway, Mr Warren,' he lied comfortingly. He hadn't the faintest idea what sort of runways were suitable for jets. 'We just want to see how the temporary wartime strips have weathered in different parts of the country. We won't do any harm.'

  'They've weathered too darn well, if you ask me–wasted a lot of good land. But help yourself. Just don't frighten my silly sheep too much and don't tramp down too much of my rye grass. We're taking the first cut for silage next week. Come and go as you please–you'll have to come through this side because the old airfield entrance is all wired up. There's not much left there anyway.'

  Audley was about to thank him when a diminutive, pretty auburn-haired girl in a mini-skirt far briefer than Faith's joined them.

  'Don't be boorish, Keith! Take them round yourself. You can show them your wonderful Longwools at the same time!'

  'They don't want to see my Longwools,' Warren growled back at her proudly. 'Even if they are worth seeing–better than dead concrete and tarmac. But of course I'll show you round–I should've thought of that. At least show you the lie of the land, that's the least I can do.'

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  He swept aside Audley's protests. 'We'll take the Land-Rover–first bit's too bumpy for that nice car of yours. It's your coming on Sunday that's put me off. Never expected a Civil Servant to work on Sunday like me . . .'

  He prattled on gaily as they shuddered down a rutted track through a belt of young trees. The hedges on either side were thick and overgrown, brushing against the side of the vehicle.

  'I ought to cut 'em back,' shouted Warren. 'Pull 'em out. That's the way with hedges now. But where'd the birds and such like go? And you'll see in a moment why I like a bit of undergrowth.'

  Magically the bumping ceased and the Land-Rover shot forward on a smooth road surface which began without warning.

  'Perimeter!' shouted Warren, and they roared out of the enclosing hedgerows into the open. 'Airfield!'

  A prairie was what it was: an immense unnatural meadow, treeless into the distance where the first blue haze of evening was gathering.

  But it was a prairie with aimless highways on it, highways on to which the grass overlapped and pushed from every crack and cranny.

  'No sheep this end,' said Warren, bringing the Land-Rover in a great careless sweep leftwards, totally disorientating Audley. 'This is one of the main runways. You can really let her go here–just the place for those go-karts. We'll have a couple when my son grows up.'

  Ahead Audley saw a black water tower, with two ugly Nissen huts nearby. Beyond them a series of grassy banks rose unnaturally–

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  blast pens? Sheep pens now, though, with their entrances blocked by straw bales and hurdles.

  Warren brought the Land-Rover to a standstill, but without turning the engine off.

  'This was where the main buildings were. Nissen huts mostly.

  Wooden control tower. Only the concrete bases left now, except for a couple I use as food stores. When the bombers were here they kept the bombs over the other side.' He pointed vaguely across the prairie.

  'You lived round here then?'

  'Born and bred here. Father farmed what was left during the war. I was only little, but I remember them–Hampdens, Beauforts, Bostons and Dakotas. Bostons were my favourites.'

  Audley climbed awkwardly out of the cabin and walked a few paces across the tarmac. A slight breeze had risen–or perhaps there was always a breath of wind across this open land; it stirred the young spring grass, rippling over it in waves. He could smell sheep, and everywhere the runway was marked with their droppings. There was a pervasive loneliness about the place. Not the loneliness of the open downland, which had never been truly disturbed. Men had been very busy here once amid the r
oar of engines, with all the purposefulness of war. Where the downlands were eerie, this was only sad, as though time had not yet been able to wash away the human emotions which had been expended here.

  The airfield was not quite dead yet, not quite one with all the other debris of old wars.

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  He got back into the Land-Rover.

  'Queer old place, isn't it!' said Warren. 'I've sat here of an evening, and I could almost hear the planes. And I've waited for one of 'em to come up from nowhere on the runway down there, like they used to do!'

  Audley exchanged a quick glance with Faith. Her face had a curiously frozen look, as though talking of the past could conjure it up again.

  'That would be down there, towards the old castle?'

  'That's right.'

  'Can we go down that way?'

  Warren nodded, and started the engine. 'Nothing easier!'

  'Do you mind if we get off the runway, though. There should be a taxiing lane to the left somewhere. I'd like to see what that's like.'

  Warren slowed down and turned on to a narrower roadway which curved away from the junction of the runways. As far as Audley could see, the airfield stretched ahead of him, dead level. He twisted himself in his seat to look backwards; the control tower had gone and he would have to use the water tower as his point of reference.

  'If you want to see the old castle, you're going to be disappointed,'

  shouted Warren. ' 'Tisn't a castle at all. It's just a few hillocks on the ground–a Roman camp it was. Not a proper one, either. The archaelogists said it was what they call a practice camp probably.

  You wouldn't know what it was just to look at it.'

  Audley listened with one ear, both eyes on the receding water dummy4