The first thing?
'But I was wrong. It wasn't a clear vision.'
'Have I said that?'
'You've implied it. Sir Frederick.'
'I've implied no such thing. You've doubted your instinct, and that's good. You must never rate it higher than a suspicion - but that's a very different thing.'
'Are you telling me I'm right about Colonel Butler?'
'No, Frances. I'm telling you I think you're right.
I think - and I rate two-point-five - I think that in a few minutes ... a few of your out-of-time minutes, Frances ... in a few minutes you came up with an instinctive certainty which our top personnel selection experts couldn't give me in a year. Because they'd be afraid to - they don't have the equipment to do it, the equipment doesn't exist - so I couldn't require them to do so. Do you understand now?'
Top personnel selection experts.
Personnel selection.
Selection.
They had been watching Colonel Butler.
And it was a matter of internal security -
She had had the right answer, almost. Prompted by Paul, and spurred on by Sir Frederick's presence, she had had the right answer, only she had got it back to front.
'You're going to promote him.'
'Not quite. We may promote him. We are contemplating his promotion. But there are questions to be answered first.' Sir Frederick emitted a sound which she couldn't identify in the dark. Perhaps it was a back-to-front laugh. 'My dear Frances, you are doing something now which the workers of the world want to do ... and what the democratic principle is supposed to do ... although looking at the back benches of the Commons - and the front benches too in places - I have my doubts about that. The only thing you can say for it is that it works better than behind the Iron Curtain, a lot better ...
You are participating in the election of your boss. Indeed, you have the veto.'
'The veto?'
'In effect - very possibly.' The back-to-front sound reached her again. She decided that it wasn't a laugh: whatever he was doing, he wasn't laughing. 'And you'd better get it right, for everyone's sake, including your own.'
'But I don't know - ' Frances was suddenly aware that she was hugging the dressing gown to herself so fiercely that the torch was digging painfully into her left breast ' - I don't know enough about him to make that sort of decision.'
'You haven't finished yet. You've only just started, in fact.'
No, thought Frances. No.
'Sir Frederick...' She had to get it right. 'I don't have the experience - I don't have the qualifications. And sod the instinct.'
'Excellent!'
That wasn't right, then. 'Paul would do it better. He'd enjoy doing it.'
'Enjoying it isn't a qualification. Not enjoying it - that's a qualification. That happens to be one of Jack Butler's best qualifications for the job we may give him, in my opinion: he'll hate doing it,, but he'll do it all the same. And so will you, Frances'. So will you.'
The torch was hurting her again.
'What will I do?'
Acceptance was painful too. It even hurt to know that he was right - that he had been right all along.
How did he know more about her than she knew herself? Was that two-point-five?
And if it was, then what use was four-out-of-ten?
'First you'll read a special report on him. Then you'll decide what you wish to do -
who you wish to see, where you wish to go. All that will be arranged for you. All you have to do is to ring a number which I shall give you.' He paused. 'As of now you're a VIP, Frances.'
Dry mouth, fast pulse, cold back. What clinical symptoms were they?
'To whom do I report?'
'The same number.'
'Can I ask for advice?'
'Whom have you in mind?'
'David Audley.' No question about that. In fact, now she thought about it, it was a mystery why they weren't giving this job to David, rather than to her, because David knew Colonel Butler better than anyone else.
'David's in Washington. He's busy.'
'But I'd like his advice.'
'No. Not David.'
Categorical negative. There was information there, of a sort. She would need to think about that.
'Group Captain Roskill, then.'
No back-to-front sound this time. Just nothing.
'I think you'd better read the report first.'
I don't feel like a VIP, thought Frances. But there was no percentage in asking that question. Come to that, she wished now that she hadn't asked the question about David Audley...
She'd have to be more careful about asking questions in future.
There was one question which couldn't be avoided, though.
'What job is Colonel Butler in line for?'
'Don't you know?' He seemed almost surprised. 'As yet you don't really need to know, anyway.'
So she ought to know. So Paul Mitchell, if he thought about it, was bound to know -
and the sooner she extricated herself from the question, the better, before he embargoed Paul too. She hadn't taken her own advice quickly enough.
'It doesn't matter,' she shrugged the words at him.
'No. But I tell you what I'll do.' He paused. 'What was that thesis you were allegedly writing at North Yorkshire University? Something about Tolkien - ?'
'It doesn't matter.' She switched on the torch. 'Let's go inside.'
He ignored the light. 'Fairyland - that's it. It was Fairyland: From Spenser to Tolkien.'
'"Faerie" actually - "The Land of Faerie", not "Fairyland". There's a considerable difference,' she said pedantically, directing the beam into his eyes and wishing it was brighter.
'Of course - I beg your pardon! You know your Tolkien backwards?' He blinked at her. 'Naturally.'
'Naturally.' She could hardly deny that now.
'Good. Then I can perhaps let Tolkien explain for me much better than I could.' He lifted his hand up into the light, so that for a moment she thought he was shielding his eyes from it. 'The Lord of the Rings, he called his book, didn't he? "Rings" in the plural.'
A flash of gold caught her eye as he lifted one finger from the others. There was a signet ring on it.
'Rings of power, Frances. The Seven, the Nine, the Three ... and of course the One.
Right?'
She could just about remember that, but obviously he had read the book - the three volumes of it - more carefully than she had, so she'd better keep quiet.
'An interesting concept - rings of power.
Fortunately we don't have to contend with the One ... or at least not in the way the other side has to. Because we do still have machinery for changing the hand that wears it... But we do have other rings, Frances. And like Tolkien's rings they confer great power, and not least the power to bring out either the best or the worst in the wearer.'
The gold glinted as he moved his hand in the torchlight.
'So before we give Jack Butler a ring of power we have to know as much about his worst as about his best, that's what it amounts to, my dear.'
'His worst?' The question came out before she could stop it.
'That's right. You see ... we know his best - which is very good, no doubt about that, no doubt at all ... But there is - how shall I put it? - a loose end which does worry us a bit.' He paused, as though 'loose end' was not quite how he wanted to put it. 'It's nothing to do with security, really.'
No more questions. At least, not until she'd read that report, and maybe not even then, decided
Frances.
'A ghost - we want you to lay a ghost from the past, Frances.' He nodded, to himself as well as at her. 'Can you lay a ghost, do you think?'
'I don't believe in ghosts. Sir Frederick.' And in this garden that was just as well, she thought. 'So they don't frighten me.'
'Very sensible. That is, so far as the ghosts of the past are concerned.'
'Are there ghosts of the future?' Damn! 'Oh yes - they are the fri
ghtening ones, my dear. When you get to my age you see tomorrow's ghost in the mirror. Tomorrow's ghosts are still alive, but on borrowed time - your job will be to lay those ghosts too, before it's too late. Let's go inside.'
* * *
After he had gone, which was after she had read and re-read the report, and he had taken it away with him, Frances sat in front of the electric fire, which warmed the sitting room but did not warm her.
There is a loose end which does worry us a bit.
Well, there was a loose end, of course. But there was more to it than that - the very fact that it had been Sir Frederick himself who had come to her, and that he had briefed her in such an eccentric way, so very differently from Brigadier Stocker, aroused her deepest suspicions (the more so as David Audley had always maintained that 'Fred' was the most devious old sod of them all; though, again, since she had never been briefed by him before she had no previous experience there to judge by).
We want you to lay a ghost.
Well, there were ghosts enough in Colonel Butler's file, and not merely his hecatomb of the Queen's enemies either.
General Sir Henry Chesney was an old ghost, rich and benevolent.
And Leslie Pearson Cole was a classified ghost, probably off limits now for ordinary mortals, even temporary VIPs.
But Patrick Raymond Parker was a very public ghost, with a whole string of his own ghosts in attendance; any newspaper morgue would deliver them up to her.
And there were tomorrow's ghosts there too - Trevor Anthony Bond was still alive somewhere. And Major Starinov of the KGB was also probably still alive, though for her purposes he might just as well be dead for all the information he could give her.
But the little Misses Butler would be very much alive, though not so little now. Very much alive, and very promising too.
Sir Frederick hadn't told her everything, they never did. And the file hadn't told her what she most wanted to know about the most important ghost of all.
Madeleine Francoise de Latour d'Auray Butler, nee Boucard.
Frances stared into the uninspiring glow of the electric fire.
Madeleine Francoise had not originally been a loose end - if she had been then Colonel Butler would never have got this far in the promotion stakes. Madeleine Francoise had been tied up to everyone's sufficient satisfaction, and now something (or someone) had untied her - had raised her ghost, which had not walked for nine years...
(A devious old sod, so she had to think deviously too.) (An old man near retirement; but it couldn't be his job Colonel Butler was lined up for, that was out of the Colonel's league, she was sure of that.) (Whatever job it was. Sir Frederick wanted him to get it too, but obviously wasn't prepared to fight openly for the Colonel, to risk trouble for him. Was it Paul who had said the Old Sod was sitting tight for his pension and his life peerage? It was certainly Paul who had hinted that the Old Sod was losing his grip, no longer holding off the Minister and the politicians and the Civil Servants as he had once done.) (She must talk to Paul as soon as possible. Short of talking to David Audley ... short of disobeying orders ... Paul was her best bet. Paul wouldn't be frightened of tomorrow's ghosts.)
* * *
She was tired, but she didn't want to go to bed.
She got up and crossed to Robbie's side of the fireplace, where Sir Frederick had sat while she read the report, and lifted the three Tolkien volumes out of Robbie's bookshelf.
Then she went back to her own side and sat down again, and started reading at random, flipping from place to place, picking out the names from the past of her original reading.
Rings of Power...
It was dead quiet in the cottage, as always.
There was a letter from her Robbie between the pages of the first volume. She felt no curiosity about its contents, they wouldn't be interesting. She wasn't even very surprised that it was still there; she had dusted the book a dozen times, but she hadn't opened it.
Bits of the old days like this were always turning up, she had long since ceased trying to look for them, they didn't matter.
She screwed the letter up into a tight ball and dropped it into the wastepaper basket, and went on reading.
The men of Cam Dum came on us at night, and we
were worsted. Ah! The spear in my heart!
Well, it was still a fairy story - it hadn't changed, and neither had she. There was no spear in her heart for Robbie.
Wizards and trolls and elves with bright eyes and sharp swords, and rings of power...
She knew she wasn't really concentrating. Rather, she was wondering how it was she already knew that Colonel Butler hadn't murdered his wife on the morning of November 11, 1969.
CHAPTER SIX
As promised, the side-door of the publican's snug of the Bear and Ragged Staff public house was unlocked one hour before licensed opening time, and ex-Detective Chief Inspector William Ewart Hedges was waiting for her on the other side of it, sitting comfortably beside a newly-lit fire with a copy of the Daily Telegraph and a pint of mild.
Telephone Number 01-836-20066, Extension 223, might have the sort of fat, self-satisfied, establishment voice she always found most off-putting, but at least he knew how to deliver the right man to the right place at the right time at short notice, thought Frances.
Predictably, the right man wasn't quite as quick to recognise her, though his double-take as she entered was so fleeting that she wouldn't have noticed it if she hadn't been half expecting it, and his moment of surprise when she dropped the catch behind her was so well camouflaged that it was hardly noticeable at all except as a cautious nod of greeting.
'Mrs Fisher?' He rose to his feet with the characteristic stoop of a tall man accustomed to low beams in old pubs.
'Mr Hedges?' The question was altogether superfluous after he had doubly identified himself by knowing her latest identity, but good manners and a modest demeanour was what the occasion demanded. 'It's very good of you to see me, to give me your time like this.'
He studied her in silence for a moment, as though taking her to pieces and then reassembling her to see how the parts fitted together.
'That's all right, Mrs Fisher. I've got all the time in the world.'
And so he had, thought Frances, and that was the trouble: if he'd still been a serving policeman it would have been in his best interest to co-operate with her to the full, and she could lean on him if he didn't. But a retired man was beyond her reach, he could keep his mouth shut and there was nothing she could do about it.
She smiled.
No smile in return: Ex-Chief Inspector William Ewart Hedges was a man's man, not a ladies' man, that litmus paper test indicated.
'May I see your warrant card, Mrs Fisher, please?' said ex-Chief Inspector William Ewart Hedges.
And a cautious man.
'Of course.' Frances opened her bag. For an instant she couldn't remember which compartment held which identity. It would never do to give him Marilyn in her bikini.
Thank you.'
He took his time comparing the Fitzgibbon photograph with the Fisher illusion. And at the end of his time he frowned at her.
'Yes, Mr Hedges?'
'Why the wig, Mrs Fisher?'
Frances blinked at him. 'Is it so obvious?'
'No.' He shook his head. 'It's very professional.'
He was making a point: he was informing her that ex-Chief Inspector William Ewart Hedges wasn't to be trifled with. But if he wasn't already a hostile witness, why did he have to make that point?
Hostile as well as cautious?
'Then - why the question, Mr Hedges?'
He nodded. 'You're not wearing a wig in your photograph. But it's the same style, and the same colour, your hair. Young ladies don't usually wear mouse-brown wigs ...
But perhaps I shouldn't ask?'
Frances made the connection. The implication of her presence was the re-opening of a nine-year-old case which had never been solved. And that could either mean that there was new evidence, or
that Inspector William Ewart Hedges hadn't done his job properly nine years before.
Hostile, then. So at least she knew where she was.
She smiled again. 'That's all right ... As it happens, I'm blonde underneath.'
'Blonde? Good gracious!'
'Why "Good gracious", Mr Hedges?'
He pursed his lips disapprovingly. 'You haven't got the face for it, if I, may say so ...
without wishing to be personal - the figure, but not the face, Mrs Fisher.'
He was telling her that blonde, on her, would be vulgar. (Which, of course, was the exact truth: Marilyn had been nothing if not vulgar.) He was also establishing his superiority, and that would never do.
She took the warrant card from him, and as she did so Mrs Fisher was born. Marilyn Francis would have laughed, and would have given him something to look at. Mrs Fitzgibbon would have been embarrassed, and might have blushed. But the arrogant Miss Warren would have been angry, and Mrs Fisher and Miss Warren were sisters under the skin.
'I have my job to do, Mr Hedges.' She put the card into her bag and snapped the bag shut. 'The Assistant Chief Constable has told you why I'm here, I take it?'
He started to nod, but Mrs Fisher didn't give him time to admit that the ACC (Crime)
- or maybe it was the ACC (Operations) - had indeed disturbed his leisurely retired breakfast with a phone call.
'What did he tell you?' asked the frowning Mrs Fisher.
'Not a lot,' said Hedges defensively.
Attack, attack, attack!
'Nine years ago. You were in charge of the case.'
'Yes.'
'Do you recall it?' Mrs Fisher pressed her point.
'Yes.'
'You recall it? After nine years?'
'Yes - ' His eyes clouded momentarily ' - I remember it.'
Sod Mrs Fisher, decided Frances instinctively. After a very short acquaintance she didn't like Mrs Fisher. What was more important, this man would remember nine years ago and Colonel Butler for his own reasons, and not because Mrs Fisher was a hard little bitch with a wig and a warrant card and the ACC's blessing. It would be Frances, not Mrs Fisher, who made William Ewart Hedges talk.
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