The problem was, as I explained briefly when I saw you, that I couldn’t be in two places at once, for only saints have the gift of bi-location. But I had to see you— so I had to trust Captain Schneider.
Had to? That’s unfair to him: I sent him back to the Chase because I trusted him— not because I had no choice.
Or trusted him on one level, anyway. Because I’m damn sure he lied about his reason for being there. More likely— more humiliatingly likely, if their Wiesbaden computer is as good as rumour has it— he was there because he already knew about Aloysius Kelly’s connection with Michael Kelly and they surely wanted Aloysius just as much as we did, if not more. He put on a damn good show of innocence, right to the end. And he’s a very sharp and resourceful young man, as well as being a brave one (like we said in the war: when they ‘re bad, they ’re very, very bad. . .but when they ‘re good, they’re sometimes a damn sight better than us; and he’s very much his father’s son, and his father by all accounts was very good indeed).
The point is, I had my source on him (but mostly on his father), and I liked the cut of his jib. You might say he’s everything I’m not—
or, seeing that I’m the wrong generation (the war-wounded one), he’s everything that our pupil Paul Mitchell isn’t: Paul is English, with a cynical-pragmatic French strain— Benedikt Schneider is half-English, but actually all German . . . serious (Christian), efficient, perhaps rather sentimental-romantic, but above all dummy1
honourable. In fact, allowing that he wasn’t old and bruised and rubbed all over with alcohol, and more than half-crazy and Prussian with it, he was like old Blücher after Ligny and before Waterloo. When I left him in the tank museum, he ‘d given me his word and he meant to keep it.
So I trusted him, anyway— I even told him about Aloysius Kelly, if he didn’t know already, so that he wouldn’t go back to the Chase not knowing who he might end up against.
And you know how things went wrong after that, at our end—your end— with you at Cheltenham, and the time we lost because of that: my fault— my sin— mihi paenitet— or is it me paenitet, I can’t remember, my Latin’s getting rustier every day— but I lost the hours of life and death that mattered there, Jack. So I was on the road back, south from Cheltenham, when it all blew up. And every time I get it wrong, someone dies— like that young policeman died, and like lovely Frances died—
“Captain Schneider!” Miss Becky exhibited equal measures of surprise and envy. “Where’s David? And where did you get that car? What a beautiful colour!”
Smile. “It’s called ‘Champagne’.” It was a woman’s colour, certainly: left to himself, he would have chosen silver in Germany, and British Racing Green in Britain if Volkswagen offered that shade. “I borrowed it from one of his armoured corps friends.”
Smile again. “He is a Panzer man, from long ago, Fräulein—I have learnt that this day, at the tank museum which is in the middle of dummy1
nowhere.”
The smile came back to him. “At Bovington?” Her face lit up.
“He’s a dragoon, actually. It’s rather nice—how they still have
‘dragoons’ and ’hussars‘—and ’the Household Cavalry‘, who ride horses only for the Queen, but really drive tanks and such things.”
The smile embraced him. “Not that he did—he’s a terrible driver—
he crashes the gears on his Cavalier something awful, I’d never let him ride one of my horses—” the smile edited itself“—but where is he?”
“He’s gone home.” He fabricated slight embarrassment. “He spoke with his wife upon the telephone, from—from the museum of Panzers, Fräulein.”
“Faith?”
“Faith?”
“His wife—Faith.”
“Ach so—Faith—his wife.” He was conscious of serving up another inadequate explanation which needed more substance.
“There was some pressing family matter, I believe. But he said for you to telephone him at his home—the number I have for you.” He felt in his pocket. “And he said that he would return very soon, perhaps by nightfall.”
“Oh.” Audley’s absence had worried her, but now she was at least partially reassured. “He said to phone him?”
“Yes. At his home.” As he handed over the slip of paper he remembered his duty. “And Mr Kelly? I am to speak with him, if you please.”
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“Yes—of course . . .” More and more she was over-matched by the deadly game she had allowed herself to play, he could see that very clearly. But she was a long way from giving in to her fear even now. “He’s in the West Tower. Peter Bradley and Blackie are up there with him at the moment, running over our plans for this evening.”
“Our plans?”
“Didn’t David tell you?” She thought for a moment. “It was Michael’s idea . . . now that we’ve got the radios—to have two practice runs this evening, just after dark.” She smiled again.
“When you . . . arrived last night there was a certain amount of . . .
confusion. We don’t want that next time, so Michael’s arranged two intrusions for this evening—one will be coming over the top, by Caesar’s Camp, and the other will come down the stream, from the ford.”
That was interesting—interesting that Gunner Kelly had marked the stream as an approach route into the heart of the village . . . and interesting also that he had chosen to test the defences at two points which single intruders might favour. Whereas the KGB ...
the Special Bureau would send in a three man squad for this sort of operation: one man to make the hit, one backing him up, and a driver to get them in close and out quickly. For though they might expect the target to be on his guard after the Old General’s death, they would not— could not—imagine a community-in-arms waiting for them.
But then, equally, what did Michael Kelly expect? Or ... if Audley had warned him of KGB practices . . . why was he practising for a dummy1
single intruder? Why—unless Audley was right, and he already knew that it would be just that—just Aloysius Kelly—
“Captain?”
Benedikt blinked quickly, aware too late that he had been staring the poor girl out of countenance. “Forgive me, Fräulein! I was thinking . . . you are being very careful. And that is good: you are right to be very careful.” He smiled.
“Yes.” She did not find his smile reassuring, but she bore up bravely. “David said not to relax for a moment. And not to trust anyone we don’t know.”
“Including me?” Mother would not approve of her—of what she was doing. But Papa’s attitude would be more relaxed.
“Oh no! David said . . .” She trailed off. “Is what we are doing so very wrong, Captain Schneider?”
“Wrong?” He played for time.
“We’re not going to kill anyone. If we can help it.”
“You were going to kill someone—at first—weren’t you?” He watched her. “Or Mr Kelly was, anyway.”
She bit her lip. “Yes. That would have been wrong—David made us see that. But . . . these people . . . who do things like this—
killing Grandfather . . .”
“It was Mr Kelly they were after, though—yes?”
“That makes it worse. Killing Grandfather—or it might have been anyone passing by—just as though he didn’t matter one way or the other ... as though he was nothing—and ordinary people are dummy1
nothing.” Suddenly she was defiant. “Well, we’re going to show them that people aren’t nothing. That’s what we’re going to do.”
“Them?” The phenomenon of the worm turning—and turning into a cobra as it turned—was an old and interesting one. But he had no time for it today. “And who is ‘them’, Fräulein?”
“Whoever comes. It doesn’t matter.”
“But only Mr Kelly knows. Because only Mr Kelly can summon them. Does that not worry you?”
“Why should it worry us?”
“For two reasons, Fräulein. Do you not want to know
why they want him dead? Suppose Mr Kelly is a bad man . . . ?”
Her chin came up. “Michael served with Grandfather. If he was good enough for Grandfather, he’s good enough for us.” She looked at him proudly. “You never met Grandfather, so you can’t understand. But that’s the way it is.”
Amazing! But also wonderful in its ancient meaning: full of wonder
—the faith out of which great good and great evil came, according to its inspiration, from Jesus Christ to Karl Marx and Adolf Hitler.
“So—”
“Michael would have died for Grandfather.” She cut him off. “You should have seen him after . . . after the bomb. He could never have pretended that—the way he was . . . And he could have run away afterwards. But he didn’t, Captain Schneider.”
“No. He didn’t.” She was beautiful, thought Benedikt. God grant me another time, another place!
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“And he may still die for him, Captain Schneider. Because he’s the target here—no one else is in danger.”
He nodded. “Yes. But he is also an old soldier. So are you sure he will not prefer to kill for your Grandfather still?”
She smiled suddenly. “Because he has Grandfather’s old gun?
Captain ... he doesn’t know it, but that gun has no firing pin. It wouldn’t hurt a baby.” The smile became almost tender. “We know Michael. . . That was the only part of him we didn’t trust—
that’s why I gave him the gun, you see. Just in case.”
God in heaven! thought Benedikt. And that was a complication if things went wrong, too.
“But don’t you dare tell him that, though,” she admonished him.
“The moment he sends off for them, to let them know he’s here, we shalln’t let him out of our sight for a moment—David’s got it all worked out—that was why David was so angry when he went out to see you last night.... But. . . you go and talk to him—ask him about Grandfather ... I must go and see about supper—”
The rooms passed him by, dreamlike . . . Gunner Kelly— Michael Kelly—up against Aloysius, if not the KGB . . . with a useless weapon in his hand— God in heaven!
At the foot of the spiral staircase in the West Tower he met Blackie Nabb coming down, with a bearded young man at his back.
“Evenin‘, sir,” Blackie acknowledged him with an air of armed neutrality, his shot-gun safely broken open under his arm, while the bearded young man studied him in silence, frankly curious, as dummy1
he squeezed past up the narrow stair.
Duntisbury Chase was going on the alert between the two of them, guessed Benedikt: old and new skills, they had . . . but would that alliance be enough against Aloysius Kelly, whose own experience went back to General Franco’s war?
“Ahhh—Mr David’s German gentleman—Captain!” Kelly chose his Irish voice with which to greet him. But then he peered past him, towards the empty landing. “An‘ the Great Man himself—?”
“Dr Audley is at home. His wife summoned him.” The thin excuse again.
“Did she now?” Polite—but absolute—disbelief. “An‘ him a good family man? Well!”
“Miss Rebecca is telephoning him at his home now.” With Kelly that somehow only stretched the lie even more thinly.
“Is she so?” Kelly cocked an eyebrow at him. “An‘ not checkin’ up on me, then?”
“Checking up on you?”
“Uh-huh,” agreed Kelly equably. “After exchangin‘ notes with you, Captain.” Then he grinned. “I should have shot you last night, I’m thinkin’, an‘ said ’sorry‘ afterwards.”
Benedikt decided to be very German. “Please?”
“Ah now—don’t be givin‘ me that!” Kelly brushed his incomprehension aside. “You know what I mean very well. For I’ve fought you fellas—six long years . . . An’ if it was one thing dummy1
you never were, it was foolish. ‘Twas only when that little man—
him with the Charlie Chaplin moustache—’twas only when he interfered that you made mistakes . . . You never let us down otherwise, the Squire always said. So don’t be disappointin‘ me, eh? Checkin’ on me, he’ll be.”
Better to say nothing at all, Benedikt corrected himself.
“Or maybe he doesn’t need to check now?” Kelly stared at him for a moment, and then stood up suddenly and turned towards the window behind him for another moment, and tljen swung back just as quickly. “The hell with that! There was a fella I knew once, that’s dead and gone, but you lot can never rest easy because of him
—that’s why you’re here. Because there’s no other reason worth a damn—deny that if you can!”
There was no point in arguing. “And if I do not choose to deny it, Mr Kelly?”
“Faith—then you’ve wasted your time! For he told me nothing—
nothing—would you believe that?” He paused for only half a second. “But of course you would not! It’s the one thing that none of you will believe—because you can’t afford to believe it!
Because the thing that he had—whatever it was ... it was too big for you—is that a fact, now?”
Nothing?
“But I tell a lie! It was not nothing he told me—” Kelly leaned towards him “—he did tell me one thing. And you know what that was?”
Nothing? Or one thing?
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“He said to me: ‘I think I’m safe home at last, Michael— me that hates ’em all, for the black bastards they are, both sides of ‘em, that’ll never let a man rest . . . But if anything happens to me, then you start runnin’, Michael, an‘ don’t look over your shoulder, an’
don’t ever stop, because it’ll be you they’ll be after then, in case I’ve given it to you!‘ ” Gunner Kelly wiped his hand across his mouth. “An’ it did happen to him—so I ran. That’s all.”
“He gave you nothing?”
“Captain—don’t you think that if he’d given me anything I’d not have given it up by now? Mary, Mother of God! But how can you prove that you don’t know what you don’t know? You can only run
—that’s all you can do!”
Suddenly his face changed. “But then there was the Old General—
the Squire . . . that was the best man that God ever made out of clay ... I asked him for a bed for the night, an‘ I told him why I was running. And he gave me four years and his own life in exchange, is what he did.”
The man wasn’t lying. Aloysius Kelly was dead and it was the KGB who were coming to Duntisbury Chase—Benedikt had never been more certain of anything in his life.
“So this time—just for this time—I’m not running.” Kelly shook his head quickly. “Oh—I know we’ll not get them as have given the orders ... I know we’ll never get them—they’ll die in their beds most likely, one way—another way . . . But we’ll get the bastards who did their dirty work—it’ll be the same fellas, I’ll be bound . . .
An‘ we’ll make a great scandal, an’ get the headlines in all the papers—an‘ that’ll be big trouble for them, back home, that they’ll dummy1
not be forgiven for. An’ that’ll be something that’s better than nothing. They’ll not forget us, by God!”
In his own way he was saying what Miss Becky had said, thought Benedikt. And even if it wasn’t true Gunner Kelly believed it to be true.
And more, also: this would be a killing, not a capturing, if Gunner Kelly could make it so. Of that he was also certain.
So Audley had been right not to trust Gunner Kelly, whether it was Aloysius or the KGB out there: and prudence, in the most remote possibility that they were both wrong about Aloysius, decreed that he should be slowed down.
“But what about Miss Becky? Do you not have an obligation to her?”
“Ah—she’ll be all right. It’ll all be over, and her no part of it.”
Gunner Kelly looked at him. “I mind a time . . . Dr Audley said your dad was an anti-tank gunner—is that a fact, now?”
“Yes.” Benedikt frowned. What had Papa to do wi
th this— with Gunner Kelly and Miss Becky?
“So he was, then! Well, I mind a time—it was in Tunisia it was, when I was with the Squire . . . And we bedded down in this little valley, minding our own business, an‘ thinking there wasn’t a Jerry within fifteen miles of us—an’ nothing in front of us, do you see . . . not that it was our affair what was in front of us—it was 25
pounders we had, and gunners we were . . . An‘ then there was all this terrible row one night—and it was bloody Jerries—” Kelly registered Benedikt suddenly “— that’s to say, it was Germans out dummy1
in front of us somewhere, where they’d no right to be at all... It was a wearying night, we had, not knowing what was going on over the ridge in front. But the Squire and all, they reckoned there was nothing we could do, an’ it was best to leave it to whoever was busy there, because the Germans weren’t coming forward, so far as we could make out, an‘ they weren’t shooting at us—they didn’t seem to be shooting at anything much, they were just shooting over our little valley. ... I think the Squire did get out for a bit, because that was the sort of thing he did. But he came back pretty smartish . . . Anyway, in the morning, a whole lot of Gordons came through—Scotsmen, anyway—infantry, clearing up the way they do ... walking along an’ shooting a few people, and taking prisoners, an‘ that . . . An’ the Squire says to me ‘Come on, Kelly, an’ let’s go an‘ have a look over the top there.’ And the first thing we saw was these Bofors guns—anti-aircraft guns . . . But they hadn’t been attacked, the crews had spent the whole night cowering in their emplacement, just like us ... So we went on a bit
—for they said there was guns in front of them down the ridge, which we took to be more Bofors . . . But then we came upon this extraordinary gun—begod, we more like tripped over it, for it was almost invisible, with no shield that I recall, an‘ no more than knee-high to a little fella . . . but with this great long barrel along the ground, pointing across the next valley. And there were its owners in their slit-trench just nearby, brewing up. So the Squire says:
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