A Prospect of Vengeance

by Anthony Price

  Reg Buller—? The thought of Reg (and of Reg complaining about Spanish beer, even more vociferously than about Spanish food) momentarily diverted her: in Spain Reg Buller was much less of an asset than in London; he seemed somehow to have withdrawn into himself, as though he no longer approved of what they were doing in seeking out Audley; although it couldn’t be Audley whom he was worrying about—more likely he was torn between self-preservation and his duty to his paymasters on the one hand, and a sneaking identification with Paul Mitchell, their new suspect, on the other hand—could that be it?

  ‘”Ahh”?’ It probably was it. Because Reg and the Police Force had parted company long ago not so much because of his drinking (that would have been no great sin, the way he held it) as because of his sneaking sympathy for underdogs and minor villains versus authority. But it was still an added burden now, when Ian had gone funny on her too. ‘What is it, darling?’

  ‘I think I’ve spotted the wife.’ He concentrated on the lower part of the plateau.

  ‘Where?’ Reg Buller was all the back-up they had, somewhere behind them in the car, and probably drinking already from his hip-flask. But Ian was her immediate problem.

  ‘Or it may be the daughter … They’re both tall and thin and blonde … But what on earth is she doing—?’ He concentrated for another moment. Then he lowered the binoculars and pointed. ‘Just down there, left of the car—in the ploughed field … Come on, Jen—let’s get going.’

  ‘Hold on.’ It was still a long and uncomfortable walk to where he was pointing and she felt mutinous. ‘Why are we walking all this way?’

  ‘Eh?’ The bloody binoculars came up again. ‘I told you, Jen: I want to think a bit. And I also want to look at the battlefield.’

  ‘You want to—?’ She bit off her anger, and looked round instead to help her count to ten: it was (she could see at a glance) a most excellent and absolute, and suitable and tailor-made … battlefield: apart from the modern railway-line which ran diagonally through the valley between the two rocky plateaux, with a couple of grotty station-buildings halfway along it in the middle of the open fields, and that single even grottier hut where Audley’s car was parked, there was absolutely nothing to be seen. So, once upon a time, the British and the French could have killed each other in their thousands quite happily, without inconveniencing anyone or damaging anything of value. But that 1812 suitability still didn’t answer the question. ‘Why do you have to do that, Ian darling?’

  ‘I don’t have to. But I want to.’ Now he was studying a more distant ridge to the right of the Greater Arapile. ‘It’s what Audley’s doing today, Jen. I told you in the car—remember?’

  What Jenny chiefly remembered from the short journey out of Salamanca was that he had been irritatingly masterful and matter-of-fact and decisive. But then he had been like that for the last thirty-six hours, ever since Reg Buller had sold them his theory about Paul Mitchell and that wretched woman.

  ‘So what?’ What cautioned her was that he had also been efficient with it, in coaxing information about David Audley’s whereabouts from a series of slightly bewildered Spaniards while she had stood on the sidelines like an idiot girlfriend whose main function was to stare at the ceiling of a series of bedrooms.

  ‘I told you, Jen.’ Now he wasn’t so much masterful as quite damnably long-suffering. ‘The daughter prattled to that man the receptionist found for us in the hotel after we checked in—the one who spoke English? They were here all yesterday, but they were “doing” the English side of the battle, and that ridge over there—‘ he pointed. ‘So today they were going to do the French side. And the French were up there—“ The pointing finger was redirected towards the Greater Arapile ‘—and that’s where Audley is. But I wish I knew why.’

  ‘Why … what?’ If he’d wanted to make her feel even more stupid, he was succeeding.

  He sighed. ‘Why is he studying the battle of Salamanca?’

  She mustn’t lose her temper. ‘Does it matter? He’s supposed to be a historian. Don’t historians study battlefields?’

  ‘But he’s a medievalist. The Peninsular War just isn’t his period.’

  She mustn’t lose her temper. ‘I expect he’ll tell us why, darling, if we ask him nicely.’ But now he wasn’t even looking at her again, damn it—and damn him! ‘I’ll ask about Philip Masson, darling. And you can ask about the battle of Salamanca … and Mrs Fitzgibbon too, if you like—‘

  He looked at her then, even as she was already regretting what she’d just said. And the way he’d looked at her made her regret the unnecessary words even more, however much he’d asked for them. ‘I’m sorry, Ian—‘

  ‘Don’t be sorry, Jenny dear. I shall only ask him one question about Frances Fitzgibbon. And I think I already know the answer to it.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘But it’s of no importance to you, I agree. So shall we go, then?’

  The hateful corn-stubble ended eventually, but with a deep drainage-ditch (as though it ever rained in this parched landscape!). And Ian leapt the ditch and went on again without a backward glance, leaving her to take the longer route beside it to the track, while he struck off on his own—

  Hateful, hateful Ian! It isn’t as though I haven’t prayed that you’d meet some nice girl at one of your Christian Fellowship meetings, rather than making hopeless sheep’s eyes at me! But now you have to go and fall for some crazy dead woman who wouldn’t have given you a second look in life—a bloody ghost-woman! And now she’s going to be the death of our partnership. Because I’m not going to play second-fiddle to any bloody ghost-woman for evermore—damn you, Ian Robinson! And damn you, Frances Fitzgibbon, too!

  She reached the dusty track at last, sweating like a horse and with her hair coming down. And she reached it ahead of him, because he had stopped for another of those exclusive binocular-sweeps of his.

  What was he thinking about? Was he ‘doing’ his battlefield, like David Audley—imagining himself a poor sweating redcoat advancing towards the great unclimbable rocky prow of the headland with French cannon-balls whistling past his ears? Or was he back, not in 1812, but in 1978, with his ghost-woman—his ghost-woman who had been Paul Mitchell’s real woman—? Was he practising his question—the question to which he already knew the answer?

  She walked up the track to intercept him, forcing herself to recover her breath, and some shreds of dignity and self-respect.

  It was the daughter, not the wife, she could see now: a tall blonde child mooching up and down the furrows of a newly ploughed field on the edge of the fallen scree from the Greater Arapile plateau, head down and intent on the red earth at her feet, as though she was looking for something she’d lost.

  She had been foolish. Ian Robinson no longer mattered, any more than Frances Fitzgibbon had ever mattered (let alone Ian Robinson’s question about Frances Fitzgibbon). And Paul Mitchell didn’t matter. And even David Audley didn’t really matter—even he was only a means to an end. It was only Philly, dear beloved Philly, who had always been there when she needed him—always there until some bastard had decided otherwise! And now some bastard was going to pay—that was all that mattered now—

  She had a plan.

  And she even had time to put back her hair. And it even went back easily.

  ‘I want to talk to the child first, darling. Okay?’

  The new Ian frowned at the old Jenny. ‘What about Audley?’

  Maybe she had done him an injustice. But now wasn’t the time to think about injustice and Ian Robinson: this was justice-time and Philly-time now. ‘Audley’s not going to go away. Not while I’m talking to his daughter.’

  ‘No … ’ Even the new Ian couldn’t argue with that. But the new Ian didn’t like being thwarted. ‘But what’s the use of talking to her?’

  ‘It’s what I want to do.’ The old Jenny frankly didn’t give a damn. ‘You wanted to “do” the battlefield of Salamanca, darling. So I want to “do” David Audley’s daughter.’ She could even smile at him now. ‘We
’re still partners, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes—of course—‘ he stopped suddenly. ‘If you want to … okay, then.’

  So now you know, too! thought Jenny. And it was strangely like that first moment of falling-out-of-love, when what one already suspected in oneself was confirmed by the sudden doubt in the no-longer-loved-one’s eyes, rather than by any outright lie.

  ‘I want to, then.’ But now she also wanted more than that. ‘What’s her name? How old is she?’ It irritated her that she knew so little: that she was asking these questions now, and not before, when there had been plenty of time. ‘What do you know about her?’

  ‘Her name is Catherine, with a “C”. Because he calls her “Cathy”.’ He nodded towards his Arapile. ‘Like in Wuthering Heights.’ Then he shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything else. Except … she talks to Spaniards. So she isn’t shy … even though she is only fifteen—or maybe sixteen, I suppose—‘ A faint memory of the old diffident Ian animated him suddenly. ‘Why d’you want to talk to her, Jen? Audley’s up there—‘ The Wuthering Arapile received another nod ‘—in fact, I rather think he’s watching us, actually.’

  Yes, thought Jenny cruelly: you don’t want to talk to any fifteen-year-old girl, do you! Fifteen-year-old girls probably frighten you. So at least you won’t interrupt me!

  It was easy to ignore him. There was a wide-open gap in the fence inviting her towards the child, who was no more than fifty yards away among the furrows, staring intently down at the ground, pretending to ignore them both.

  But Ian had got her right, exactly: mid-teens, tall and very blonde … and thin, almost flat: she’d never be a Page Three girl, for sure!

  ‘Have you lost something?’ On the strength of her own great age, and Catherine Audley’s alleged ‘not-shyness’, she called out confidently.

  The child had already observed them covertly, while keeping her head down. But now she straightened up and stared directly at them from behind the protection of huge sunglasses which emphasized the thinness of her face, first at Jenny, then with a small movement of her head towards Ian, and finally back at Jenny. ‘No.’

  Jenny felt herself being scrutinized woman-to-woman, from hair to unsuitable shoes, via her sweat-stained dress, and returned the compliment automatically: jeans (but designer jeans), royal blue sweat-shirt (bearing the legend ‘Buffalo Bar—Murdo—South Dakota’, but without any sign of sweat), and a Givenchy silk scarf artfully knotted: the shoes alone were ordinary—ordinary schoolgirl’s uniform-issue, square-toed (but that only served to remind her of her own sore feet, damn it!).

  The child continued to stare at her, giving nothing away from behind the darkened lenses. And Jenny felt a trickle of sweat run down from her throat to lose itself between her breasts, and adjusted ‘not-shy’ to ‘self-possessed’ as the gap between their ages was critically narrowed.

  ‘You’re looking for something?’ She realized too late that the question was a stupid one. Even though there plainly wasn’t anything to look for in the newly-turned red-brown earth, Catherine Audley had quite obviously been looking for something. ‘What have you lost, Miss Audley?’ She threw the name in deliberately, to regain the upper hand as though it was a fight between equals.

  The child frowned, nonplussed by her recognition.

  ‘It’s Catherine, isn’t it?’ Jenny smiled sweetly. ‘I’m a friend of Willy Arkenshaw’s—Lady Arkenshaw?’

  ‘Oh!’ The frown dissolved. ‘Willy—yes!’

  ‘What have you lost, dear?’ Jenny tried to open the age-gap again.

  ‘I haven’t lost anything.’ Catherine Audley relaxed perceptibly for a moment. But then she began to frown again. ‘I’m looking for bullets … Are you looking for my father?’

  ‘Bullets?’ The counter-punch caught Jenny unprepared, so that it took her a second to recover. And then she decided to leave the second question. ‘Bullets?’

  ‘Not bullets, actually—musket balls, I mean.’ Catherine Audley touched the frame of her glasses with a nervous gesture. ‘Do you know my father? I mean … if you know Willy—?’

  If this was the teenage daughter, what would the father be like? Jenny wondered uneasily. ‘No, dear. But—I’ve heard a lot about him.’ Another sweet smile was called for. ‘Musket balls?’

  ‘Yes.’ The child seemed to accept her lying-truth: it would take another year or two for her to learn that grown-ups were liars. ‘There was a battle here, Miss—? Miss—?’

  Saved by good manners! thought Jenny. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, dear! I’m Jennifer Fielding—Jenny?’ Smile again Jenny. ‘And you are … Catherine? Cathy—?’

  ‘Cathy.’ The child nodded. But then cocked her head. ‘Fielding—‘

  ‘”Jenny”, please.’ She felt the smile painted on her lips as she wondered if the child watched television, and how good her memory was from not so long ago. Because after the Beirut business, when they’d had all the television coverage, the TV people had made a big thing of ‘Fielding-ffulke’, making a joke of it all the way back to 1066 and all that. ‘Yes, I know there was a battle here—1812, was it? And have you found any musket balls, Cathy?’

  ‘No.’ Cathy looked at her steadily. ‘I’m not having much luck. In fact, I’m not having any luck, to tell the truth.’

  Jenny felt firmer ground under her feet. ‘Did you expect to find any?’

  But now Cathy was looking past her, at Ian.

  ‘Oh—Cathy, I’m sorry!’ She had clean forgotten about Ian herself. And she had done that in the past, and felt guilty about it: but now all she required of him was politeness. ‘This is Mr Ian Robinson, dear: he’s a friend of mine.’ She looked down at the broken earth at her feet, and couldn’t see any bullets (why the hell should the child look for … bullets, for God’s sake!). ‘Ian—Miss Catherine Audley—?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice came soft and cold, and quite without interest. ‘Hullo, Miss Audley.’

  ‘Mr Robinson.’ The child stared at him.

  Jenny felt her doubts increasing. Because Mr Robinson had also appeared on the damned television programme, even if only briefly: Ian typically self-effacingly, even though he’d been the real hero, and she’d not really been-the heroine at all. Damn!

  But if Cathy Audley remembered him, and recognized him, his lack of interest froze her out now—just as it had frozen Jenny herself out, these last few hours. Ian was only interested in one woman, and she wasn’t here. Indeed, she wasn’t anywhere.

  ‘Did you expect to find any … musket balls, Cathy?’ Jenny controlled her fears carefully. Because Ian’s Frances Fitzgibbon obsession was all very well, in its place, however unhealthy. But now, when this eccentric child could lead them straight to Audley, Ian and his obsession were an inconvenience—even, a quite unnecessary obstacle, which made her wish that he wasn’t here with her, when she had more urgent questions on her mind. So—sod Ian!, as she looked down at the earth at her feet. ‘Musket balls—here?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Cathy Audley matched her move. ‘On the Somme I found lots of them. Or not musket balls, actually—lots of shrapnel balls, I mean. But musket balls must be just like shrapnel balls—like round—?’ Her head came down so close to Jenny that she exchanged a strong whiff of childishly over-applied scent ‘—and there should be lots of them hereabouts … because the poor Portuguese charged up here … and then down again … and then the French charged after them. And finally the British charged. So there should be lots. But I just can’t find any … ’

  Cathy trailed off, and they both concentrated on scanning the field together for a moment, to the exclusion of all other matters.

  Jenny straightened up finally. ‘No—I see what you mean. Perhaps they’ve just been ploughed into the ground, Cathy?’

  ‘Oh no! It doesn’t work like that.’ Cathy shook her head vehemently. ‘There’s someone I know who’s an expert, and he says that ploughing brings them up to the surface, it doesn’t bury them. And I’m sure this is the right place.’ She reached into the back-pocket of he
r jeans, producing a crumpled piece of paper which she then unfolded with grubby fingers. ‘This was practically the centre of the battle—at the start, anyway.’

  It was a map, neatly hand-drawn, but now rendered incomprehensible with its profusion of little red and blue squares, and diagonally red-and-white and blue-and-white rectangles, which followed the criss-crossing arrows of the rival armies’ advances and retirements around and beyond the Greater Arapile.

  ‘We’re here—‘ Cathy stabbed the map, and then shook her head. ‘I simply don’t understand it. It’s most vexing.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was curious how, when Cathy Audley had stared at her she had seemed grown up, but now she was a child again. ‘Do you collect … bullets and things, Cathy?’

  ‘No … not really.’ The child-Cathy grinned at her. ‘But, it’s interesting finding things—isn’t it? I got some super barbed-wire at Verdun. My father says it’s German. It’s got very long barbs on it, and they’re much closer together than on modern barbed-wire.’

  Jenny felt her jaw drop open.

  ‘People in America collect barbed-wire, you know.’ Cathy Audley nodded seriously. There are hundreds of different varieties, going back to the middle of the nineteenth century, almost. Some bits are worth hundreds of dollars, my father says—the first bits they used in the Wild West, I suppose.’

  The repetition of ‘my father says’ recalled Jenny to reality. She had established herself with the child. And now the child would lead her to the father, complete with an introduction of sorts. ‘And your father collects battlefields, does he?’

  The child’s eyes sparkled suddenly, and she laughed.

  ‘Oh … he collects everything—he’s like a great big jackdaw, Mummy says: he never throws away anything.’ She shook her head, becoming older again as she shared her mother’s despair. ‘But … yes, he does collect battlefields. In fact, this is a “battlefield holiday”—at least, the first two weeks are.’ She grinned fondly. ‘Medieval ones coming down: Crecy, Poitiers and Chastillon—that’s the place where the French finally beat us, in the Hundred Years’ War, you know—did you know?’