"But you were, old boy," said Stein. "When you won the Hebden he even gave a party for you. I was there."
"So you were. And so I was ... so long as I danced to his tune." He nodded at Stein. "I took the Hebden Prize from a chap at King's—Bodger, or Badger, or some such unlikely name—who was the pet student of old Professor Hedley, whom Forbes cordially detested . . . After which I had great plans for myself. And so did Forbes." He rocked again.
"Unfortunately . . . unfortunately for me, that is ... the plans did not coincide.
"What plans?"
"Oh—the usual sort of thing," said Audley airily. "After my doctorate, a fellowship. There was one timed just right for me at Rylands, in medieval history. Number Two to Forbes, in fact."
Jilly cocked her head. "But David, if that was Professor Forbes's plan, why didn't you—"
"My dear Jilly, that wasn't Forbes's plan—that was mine."
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The lamplight caught Audley's teeth again as he smiled, but for once the shadows seemed to Roche to betray his true expression in a mask of pain. "Bodger—Dr Bodger—got the fellowship."
For a moment no one spoke, then Stein emitted a sympathetic grunt. "And what was Forbes's plan?"
"Oh. . .that was. . . rather different."
What was it?" Stein persisted. "More wine, Alexandra!"
An excellent idea!" said Audley heartily. "And then we shall toast all the Forbeses and Bodgers of this world, that they may receive their just reward." He held out his glass to Lexy.
"Fill it up, m'lady."
"Not until you've told us Forbes's plan," said Lexy. "You can't leave us with only half a story."
Audley waved his glass. "I only tell that half when I'm drunk, Alexandra Champeney-Perowne."
"But you are drunk, David."
“Am I?" Audley looked around for confirmation.
"Sufficiently," said Stein.
Audley shrugged. "Well... I suppose it's no great secret."
“What is?"
"I did a few months in Intelligence at the end of the war.
Nasty, dirty, unchivalrous work." He nodded. "Absolutely fascinating too."
Yes?"
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Another shrug. "Forbes wanted me to go back to it, that's all.
He said it was my patriotic duty—he said 'Of those to whom much is given, much is required'. And 'One must always risk one's life, or one's soul, or one's peace—or some little thing'.
And, finally, 'Go where glory waits, Audley my boy'. The old, old story, in fact."
"Yes?" Stein's voice had lowered to a whisper.
Another shrug. "I was young. And I was in love with Cambridge—and history. . . And I was also stupid—I thought he was asking me, not ordering me ..." Audley shook his head. "And the pay was rotten—and I needed money at the time rather badly, as it happened."
Roche thought of The Old House.
"I reckoned I could do better for myself by following my own plans. So I told him to stuff his patriotism and his secret service where the monkey put the nuts— and I said the same, only more so, to the perfectly ghastly individual they sent to recruit me ... Which, dear friends, was a mistake—not showing myself a pure-souled, high-minded youth—a fatal error."
"He blocked your fellowship?" said Stein.
"Oh—he did more than that, the lusty old blackbird. He fixed me good and proper—and permanently, what's more. And not a stain on his character, either."
"How?"
"How?" The agonised smile came back. "There was this girl dummy5
turned up—while I was putting the finishing touches to my doctoral thesis . . . absolutely gorgeous—the girl, I mean—the thesis was gorgeous too, even he couldn't do anything about that . . . but she was nonpareil in beauty and wit—all that a young idiot could desire—Cordelia-Viola-Miranda-Juliet-Portia . . . Or, as she turned out, Goneril-Regan-Lady Macbeth-Mata Hari."
"She was one of his, you mean?" said Stein.
" No, I do not mean—you underrate the man! Just the opposite, was what my Juliet was!"
"What d'you mean—the opposite?" said Jilly.
"Exactly that, Jilly dear. He'd put the word out—and the KGB
picked it up." Audley laughed. "I was just about to propose to her—we were punting on the Backs, all white flannel and silk
—only she popped her question first." Audley spread his hands. "And we had a row. And she fell into the river—"
" She proposed to you—?" Lexy sounded thunderstruck.
"She certainly did! She proposed that, since I didn't want to serve the filthy, capitalist, war-mongering fascist beasts, then how about the other side? And, I tell you, Lexy love, the pay's better—a lot better, so it seems. A man could employ a lot of builders and carpenters and plumbers and tilers just for the downpayment."
"Good God!" exclaimed Stein.
"Not so good," said Audley. "Because then he put out the word a second time. Only it was a different word, because my dummy5
ex-Juliet was a known agent, who took the next plane back to Moscow after her swim in the Cam." He surveyed his audience. "It's what's called 'Guilt by association', you see. It put my name on the red side of the ledger— Not to be employed in a position of trust. . . quite unofficially, of course. But with the Cold War hotting up 'quite unofficially'
was quite good enough to scupper me."
"But that's awful, David!" said Lexy. "If I tell Daddy about that he'll talk to them for you—he'll sort them out—"
"Don't bother, Lexy love," Audley shook his head.
"But—you could try Oxford, David. Daddy's a fellow of All Souls—sort of honorary, or something—and he meets the Prime Minister there— he could get you a fellowship."
"I said don't bother" Audley's voice sharpened. "I don't want a bloody fellowship now—at Oxford, or Cambridge, or anywhere else. They can stuff their fellowships."
But—"
"What I want, Lexy love, is the one thing your daddy can't give me. And not even Macmillan can give me either, if he's doing his job right—that's the whole delicious irony of the thing, really."
What is?" said Stein.
"Irony?" echoed Jilly.
Audley's eyes travelled across them, settling finally on Roche.
"You wouldn't understand— he might, but you wouldn't—if what you say about him is right."
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"Me?" squeaked Roche, caught unawares.
"It probably isn't right, my dear chap. But if you've got anything to do with intelligence work . . . would you employ me?"
Roche swallowed. "I beg your pardon?"
Audley shook his head. "I beg yours, Captain. I shouldn't have asked the question . . . but if you were—which I'm sure you're not—and you wouldn't admit it if you were, anyway—
but if you were, you wouldn't. That's all." He rocked on the stool. "But don't bother to answer, Captain—it was just a hypothetical statement."
"I don't understand a word you're saying," said Lexy. She looked at Roche. "What's he saying, David?"
Roche understood exactly what Audley was saying, but still couldn't believe what he had heard, because luck didn't come to anyone packaged so neatly, not in a million years.
"David—" began Jilly.
"Don't worry, Captain," said Audley. "Have another drink and forget every thing I said."
"No!" snapped Jilly. "David—are you saying that you'd like to go back to intelligence work?"
"That's exactly what he's saying," said Stein. "But why, David, for God's sake? The sewage doesn't smell any sweeter these days—if anything it's dirtier, I should think."
"Dirtier for sure, old boy," agreed Audley. "Everything gets dummy5
grubbier with time, it's a natural process. No more worlds fit for heroes, no more capitalist heavens or socialist Utopias."
"And no more British Empire," said Stein. "You wouldn't be playing Kipling's 'Great Game' in the high passes any more—
no more Bengal Lancers, old boy.
No more glamour."
"There never was any glamour."
"No money either. You said they were stingy before—they'll be even stingier now. You'll spend half your time trying to cook your expenses." Stein shook his head sadly.
"Oh . . . that wouldn't worry him, darling." Lexy surfaced again. "He's positively rolling in the stuff, you know that!"
"Maybe he doesn't like being on the losing side," said Bradford. "Losing isn't his style."
Roche knew he couldn't let that pass—not with what he still had to do. "We're not damn well losing."
Audley shook his head. "Oh—but we are, my dear chap.
We're losing very thoroughly and comprehensively—Mike's right." He nodded at the American. "Ever since we won we've been losing. Suez merely broadcast the message: no more
'Rule Britannia', no more Thin Red Line, no more Civis Britannicus Sum. The gateway in the wall has been bricked up, and John Foster Dulles has scratched 'Finish' on the plaster. You're just commanding the rearguard, Roche."
Roche scoured his wits for a reply. The trouble was that it was all true, and he was living proof of it, and all he wanted was to be on neither of these two sides, losing or winning—a dummy5
plague on them both. And a plague on rearguards too, for that matter!
"The rearguard usually gets cut to pieces," said Stein, smiling at him across the table. "It's the place of honour, but the honour's not quite your style either—now, is it?"
"Wrong again!" Audley revolved on his stool. "I told you—if Roche was recruiting, I'd be his man. Like that fellow Burton said— if it be a sin to covet honour I am the most offending soul alive."
"Hogwash!" said Bradford, the embers of his recent anger glowing through the word. "Not you, David. Mischief—
maybe. But not honour."
Stein chuckled. "I wouldn't put it as strong as that, Mike.
But . . . not honour, I agree."
Audley continued to revolve from side to side, as though he preferred to present a moving target. Yet he didn't seem to be offended by the insults. 'Well, maybe I was joking. But it's all academic anyway—thanks to dear Archie ... So let's get back to my barbarians. I particularly want to tell you about the Vandals, a people for whom I have great sympathy—a people much misunderstood, like myself ... In fact, when Izzy Collins and I started our rugger club, I wanted to call us the Vandals.
But Izzy wouldn't have it—he said we might as well call ourselves the Hooligans, and have done with it. So we settled for the Visigoths in the end, and—"
"No, David!" said Jilly. "We haven't finished with you yet."
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Good girl, thought Roche gratefully.
"With me, Jilly love?" Audley stopped rotating.
"That's right," said Lexy. "You still haven't told us why you want to serve Her Majesty again, darling."
"Won't 'Honour' do?" Audley cocked his head at her.
"No," said Stein.
"The Vandals are much more interesting. King Gaiseric is right up your street, Stein—"
"And it isn't the money," said Lexy. "We've established that—
it's poor, old Mike there who needs the cash, not David—"
Gaiseric," said Audley. "King of the Vandals—"
Oh, do shut up, David!" said Lexy. "We're on to something interesting now—really interesting. I've always wanted to know what makes you tick." She rested her elbow on the table, and then her chin on her fist, and gazed at Audley fixedly. " Not honour . . . and not money . . . and it isn't as if he'd get a pretty uniform to wear, like he used to in Daddy's old regiment... so why this sudden rush of patriotism to the head, then? That's what we have to find out."
"Not the power and the glory," said Stein drily.
"No?"
Lexy swivelled her chin on her fist. "Why not, Davey?"
“Precious little power. The Russians and the Yanks have all of that between them. The British are losers now—he said so himself." Stein folded his arms. "And no glory, because it dummy5
isn't that sort of game. Not like rugger."
"Not like rugger?"
Stein nodded. "You win in private, but you lose in public when things go wrong. And he doesn't like losing." He grinned wickedly at Audley. "Of course, you could try the KGB again, David. At least you'd have a better chance of winning with them."
"Gosh, no, Davey darling!" exclaimed Lexy. "He wouldn't like them— they wear frightful blue suits, all shapeless and bulgy, with brown shoes. Daddy pointed out two of them to me at a reception we were at. They were awful!"
"Okay . . ." The Israeli shrugged. "Maybe Mike can fix up an introduction to the CIA. They wear better suits . . . Mike?"
Bradford stirred uneasily.
"I knew a lovely boy in the CIA," said Lexy. "At least, I think he was in the CIA."
"I'm told they're always looking for volunteers in England,"
said Stein. "It's part of the 'special relationship', I suppose."
"He was in something incredibly secret, anyway," said Lexy dreamily. Then she sighed. "But Daddy didn't like him."
"Daddy didn't like his particular idea of the special relationship, you mean," murmured Stein. "Well, Mike?"
"Yeah." Bradford cleared his throat. "I know a couple of guys . . ." He eyed Audley for a moment. "I could give you names and addresses. You just give me Antonia Palfrey's name—real name—in return. And her address, huh?"
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"Oh, Mike!" Lexy rounded on the American. "Why must you keep harping on Antonia Palfrey? He's told you he doesn't know her."
"And I've told him I don't believe him."
"But why! Not just because of what ... of what Professor Archie Whatnot says, Mike?"
Bradford shook his head. "Forbes just pointed me at the facts."
"What facts?"
"Honey. . . " Bradford continued to stare at Audley ". . .that goddamn woman is an expert in a very small field. UCLA says so, and Forbes says so, and I know so—because I've checked the field out. And there's no one fills the bill, just no one."
"So what?"
"So ... so maybe she isn't an expert. Maybe she's gotten herself a tame expert—someone who knows the difference between an Ostrogoth and a Visigoth and a Vandal, all about 5th century Christians and heretics and pagans. And also someone who knows about fighting, the way Miss Antonia Palfrey seems to know about it—"
"That doesn't follow, Mike," said Jilly quickly. "Stephen Crane in The Red Badge of Courage—"
" Crap! She's picked somebody's brains, honey. Somebody who knows about being scared and about . . . barbarians."
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Bradford paused. "You know anyone here fills that bill, huh?"
Roche watched Audley, aware that everyone was doing the same.
"Fills the bill?" Audley sighted the American down his nose.
"Dr Bodger, of Rylands College, Cambridge, fills the bill, for a start, old boy."
"More crap. Bodger never fired a shot in his life, old buddy.
He worked for the Ministry of Information. He had rheumatic fever when he was a kid. I told you—I've checked out the field. He was never even called up for military service." Bradford shook his head again. "Also, he doesn't commute to Zurich regularly."
"Zurich?" Lexy looked from Audley to Bradford.
" He does. And that's where the elusive Miss Palfrey lives."
Bradford pointed at Audley.
Audley tossed his head. "This is ridiculous. I've been to Zurich once or twice in the last three months, I have an account there. It isn't a crime yet, for God's sake!"
Stein chuckled. "No flies on our David!"
" Flies is right—" Bradford sat up "—flies is exactly right. Eh, David?"
Audley grimaced at him. "What d'you mean? F-f-flies?"
That's what I mean: 'f-f-flies'." Bradford pounced on him. "
'F-f-flies'. Big ones, little ones—fat ones, black ones, green shiny ones—squashy ones— flies, David—"
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/> "Don't be disgusting, Bradford!" Audley hunched his shoulders.
Lexy tossed the hair from her face. "Now you're being beastly, Mike—"
Not at all, honey—"
"You are so! We all know David hates flies, he's told us so.
But so do I and so do you—" she gave Audley a quick, sympathetic glance, and then carried on to the Israeli "—and when we talked about them . . . Davey there said there were more flies in that desert of his—"
"Sinai." Stein nodded. "Sinai is the fly capital of the world."
For Christ's sake!" said Audley.
Bradford nodded at Roche. "There you are, Captain. We don't like 'f-f-flies'—but he's obsessive about them!"
Roche observed Audley's face contort, though whether with disgust or anger the shadows didn't tell.
"So . . . just get the book, and I'll prove my point," went on Bradford. "Lexy—?"
"What point?" asked Jilly. "What book?"
Lexy blinked. "Book—?"
Bradford gestured dismissively. "It doesn't matter—you can take my word for it, I can give you chapter and page—
chapters and pages, rather— it's all there to be seen . . . and heard—they buzz around from battlefield to battlefield to annoy Simplicius, and from corpse to corpse on the dummy5
battlefield. On one page she has a whole paragraph about the Devil being 'lord of the flies', and how each fly is a black soul from Hell sent to plague the faithful—"
"Flies!" Lexy buried a hand into her tangled hair. "Of course—
yes, you're absolutely right, Mike—and the flies in the food at the wedding banquet, when she's forced to marry Atwulf—
Galla Placidia—"
Ataulf—" Audley corrected her automatically.
"So you have read the book, David!"
"I have not read the book." Audley closed his eyes. "I do not want to read the book—I will not read the book. I know perfectly well what happened during the period without having to read any semi-pornographic historical novel."
"I'll bet you do," said Bradford. "Flies included."
Audley opened his eyes. "I ... happen to have particularly unpleasant memories about. . . flies." He pronounced the word carefully. "Wartime memories, not historical ones. I'd prefer not to remember them, if it's all the same to you, Bradford."
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