Here Be Monsters

by Anthony Price

  God! That was turning back towards Paul! ‘I found that quite interesting, actually!’ How could she have found it interesting? ‘Colonel Sharpe’s theories on the role of special forces—military elites … ’ She could just about sustain a few minutes’ interrogation on that now.

  ‘Hah!’ Latimer appeared to be giving all his attention to the contents of the box. ‘Now that, I do agree, is interesting … though more sociologically and politically than in the “bang-bang-you’re-dead” sense … And, of course, we are an elite too, Elizabeth—‘ He looked up suddenly at her ‘—you realize that.’ He thrust the box at her. ‘Have one?’

  She had better have one. ‘I don’t feel particularly elite at the moment.’

  ‘Because you didn’t get some elderly ex-soldier’s Christian name?’ He made his own choice, and wolfed it. ‘No matter … Although he does seem … not uninteresting, in his way, I agree.’ He selected another of his favourites. ‘No … the trick, with elites, is that they should be used precisely—almost surgically—for whatever is required, and for nothing else.’

  Chocolates notwithstanding, he went up a ladder on Elizabeth’s board. For that was almost exactly what Colonel Sharpe had said.

  ‘So I am going to use you precisely—and even perhaps surgically—now, Elizabeth.’ He looked at her, and she could see that he was happy in his work, as well as with what he was chomping. ‘You did teach Latin in that girls’ school of yours, didn’t you?’

  It didn’t quite shatter her confidence, because it wasn’t the first time he’d hit her with Latin. But, of course, he had her curriculum vitae at his finger-tips, so she couldn’t deny the truth. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Up to O-level? For two years?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs Hartford had become pregnant; and then she had decided that her new baby was more rewarding than a teacher’s derisory salary. ‘With difficulty.’

  ‘You obtained good results, nevertheless?’

  That was also true—although it was not what she had entered into the record: she had certainly not revealed that she had typed the manuscript of Father’s Dover Patrol from nine to half-past eleven, and then prepared next day’s lesson from half-past eleven to one o’clock, five nights a week. ‘I kept one jump ahead of the class. On Mondays I was sometimes three jumps ahead. But there was one particularly clever girl in the class, with slave-driving parents, so it was usually touch-and-go by Friday.’ The memory still made her squirm inwardly—and frown outwardly. ‘I trust you are not about to order me to teach anyone Latin, Mr Latimer.’

  ‘Eh?’ For a moment he seemed slightly abstracted.

  ‘I said—‘ It had sounded ridiculous the first time. But then so had the Pointe du Hoc ‘—it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Good gracious, no!’ His answer exploded as though by delayed action. ‘I was about to tell you what happened to Major Parker. The late Major Parker—as you quite rightly pointed out, Elizabeth.’

  On balance, that was an improvement, decided Elizabeth.

  ‘And he was late back in 1944—that is, he was late extricating himself from the Pointe du Hoc, to report back to his commander. There was a motor-boat, or some such craft, waiting for him under the cliff there. But it was almost getting light, so they headed directly out to sea, because there were still Germans on the cliffs on either side of the headland, they thought. And that was extremely fortunate for the RAF pilot they found as a result, about four miles out. He’d been shot down the previous evening—a certain Squadron Leader T. E. C. Thomas. Aged twenty-eight.’ Latimer waved a hand at his screen. ‘All the details we have about him will be available to you, Elizabeth. And David Audley will also be available to you.’

  It was Elizabeth’s turn to think Good Gracious!, even if she didn’t say it. ‘What do you mean—“available”?’

  ‘Exactly that. He knows all about Squadron Leader Thomas, and he should by now be able to advise you on your best course of action.’ He made a cathedral spire with his fingers and gazed at her across it. ‘Be advised by him—I’m sure he will be extremely useful to you. He’s waiting for you now, and he’s entirely at your disposal.’

  ‘At … my disposal?’ It was the wrong way round—was this what Paul had guessed at when he’d tied himself in knots. ‘David Audley?’

  ‘Yes … Have you any objections, Elizabeth?’

  Objections, rising up like tripod masts, presented themselves to her. David Audley was so vastly senior to her that what he was blandly proposing was not so much like one of Father’s little beardless midshipmen commanding a grizzled petty officer—it was more like a barely-qualified able seaman having his captain at his disposal.

  Indeed, it had been David who had been chiefly responsible for her recruitment. Apart from all of which, David was notoriously difficult to control and very much a law unto himself: giving him to her as subordinate adviser was like being asked to take a rhinoceros for a walk. And—perhaps above all—he was about to bring his Cheltenham investigation to its climax.

  ‘Objections, Mr Latimer?’ Of course, he knew all that as well as she did; yet, against all those objections—and the ones which had not yet occurred to her—there was Father’s old adage about the unwisdom of rejecting opportunity when it knocked, no matter how risky; but she still needed to know one thing, nevertheless. ‘Has Dr Audley agreed to this?’

  ‘Agreed? Of course he has! He’s quite enthusiastic, even.’ The cathedral fingers intertwined, to become a double fist. ‘He is a brilliant man, with an unrivalled experience of events going back … many years. So it’s your good fortune that I can let you have him for a day or two, Elizabeth.’

  More tripod masts—a whole forest of them! Because Latimer had to be lying when he claimed that David was leaving Cheltenham ‘enthusiastically’, never mind that he was ‘happy’ to advise a raw recruit on her first field assignment. And, even supposing that he had a soft spot for his own recruit, he was notoriously at odds with Oliver St John Latimer, and would never willingly dance to Latimer’s tune. Never, never, never!

  ‘He will help you.’ Latimer raised a finger. ‘But the final decision in this matter will be yours, Elizabeth.’

  So, in spite of all that, Audley was dancing. And the world was turned upside-down, though Elizabeth, as all her half-connected and inadequate pieces of information arranged themselves on the board, to make little sense.

  Forty years ago the American Rangers had stormed the Pointe du Hoc, and Major Thaddeus ‘Ed’ Parker had subsequently picked up an RAF pilot from the sea, as an accidental result. And now, forty years later, ‘Edward Parker’ had fallen to his death from that same Pointe du Hoc, and all the alarm bells in Research and Development were ringing to mark his passing!

  Also, she remembered suddenly, David Audjey had unrivalled experience of events going back … many years’? Even, remembering what Paul had once said about David, there had once been a tank commander by the name of Audley (although it was hard to imagine the man she knew as a fresh-faced boy with one pip on his shoulder!), who had actually been there in Normandy when ‘Ed’ Parker was fishing his RAF pilot out of the drink. But that was stretching coincidence too far, surely—surely?

  ‘I understand.’ She didn’t understand. But she damn well wasn’t going to beg him to tell her what he actually wanted her to do. ‘But—you were saying—?’

  ‘Yes.’ He frowned at her, and obviously couldn’t remember what he had been saying before David Audley had intruded, to divert them both. Instead, he reached for another chocolate. ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘Major Parker rescued this RAF pilot.’ But she mustn’t underestimate him. ‘On June 7th, 1944. Four miles off the Pointe du Hoc.’

  ‘Yes.’ He munched again. ‘About Parker—talk to Major Turnbull first, Elizabeth. Let Dr Audley cool his heels for a few minutes. Just listen to what Turnbull has to say. Then you’ll know we’re not wasting our time.’

  Elizabeth’s heart sank even more at the mention of Major Turnbull, remembering her one and only
meeting with him. ‘Major Turnbull?’

  Latimer nodded, manipulating his chocolate. ‘He’s waiting for you, too. And you may need him for extra leg-work.’ He nodded again. ‘He’s got a job on, but we can hire some extra help for that—‘ He swallowed ‘—so if you want him, just tell him what you want him to do. But he’s been looking into the Parker accident—he’ll tell you all about that, anyway.’

  David Audley and Major Turnbull? If he had given her Paul … well, she could handle Paul. And dear James would have been easy, and maybe a labour of love. And Del Andrew would always have told her the truth, the straight unvarnished truth: the bonus of Del’s preference for pretty Page Three girls was that he treated Plain Janes (and even plainer Elizabeth) as mates, and not playmates, with no bourgeois sexual hang-ups. But giving her David and Major Turnbull, who were each inscrutably old-fashioned, suggested that this was either a cruel test of her ability or a high mark of confidence.

  Meanwhile … meanwhile, Dr Audley could cool his heels, and Major Turnbull could wait, because they were both waiting her pleasure. And her pleasure awaited that of the Deputy-Director—that was her pleasure now, anyway.

  He reached out towards the box again. But this time he thought better of his greed, closing the lid on it and pushing the box to one side.

  She waited. Because, although he might know from records that she had 140-words-a-minute shorthand, which was a skill Father had required of her for his voluminous correspondence, she knew how to wait. Compared with Father, who had thought that he had all the time in the world and didn’t have to be polite, the rest of the world was a push-over.

  He played with the box, wanting to open it again. ‘I must say … you’re demonstrating a remarkable lack of curiosity, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Am I?’ There was a difference between the Deputy-Director and Father, of course: with David Audley and Major Turnbull waiting, he had time at his back, if not politeness. But it would be foolish to go down a snake merely to revenge herself on Father. ‘I’m sorry. I was only waiting for you to bring Major Parker up-to-date. With … with Squadron Leader Thomas, was it?’ She swallowed her pride. ‘Has he fallen off a cliff too?’

  ‘No.’ Her obeisance mollified him. ‘Not as far as I know—not yet. But I’m sure Audley will tell you all about that.’

  ‘Indeed?’ After that crack about ‘lack of curiosity’ she must assert herself. ‘So Dr Audley will tell me all about Squadron Leader Thomas. And Major Turnbull will tell me all about Major Parker.’ She smiled. ‘And they are both at my disposal—Dr Audley and Major Turnbull.’

  ‘That’s right, Elizabeth.’ He smiled back, and nodded. And then waited for her to protest.

  ‘But you don’t want me to teach them Latin grammar?’

  ‘What?’ He stopped smiling.

  ‘Or lecture them on the use of Special Forces?’ She gave him a Varney face. ‘But if Major Turnbull knows all about Major Parker he probably knows more about the Pointe du Hoc than I do. So it can’t be that … and Dr Audley’s Latin is certainly better than mine.’ She pretended to think. ‘Although his Latin would be more the medieval variety, wouldn’t it? Not the classical sort -arma virumque cano, and all that—?’

  He stared at her for a moment. Then, somewhat to her surprise, a slow and very different smile spread across his face, crinkling its lines with what might be genuine pleasure—she had never seen him smile like that, with face and eyes as well as mouth betraying satisfaction. It was almost a conspiratorial smile, admitting her to a club for which she had not put herself up as a member.

  ‘They don’t worry you, then?’ He tested her gently, as though he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

  ‘Worry me?’ If she’d ever been of a mind to protest, she couldn’t do so now.’ Dr Audley and Major Turnbull? Why should they worry me?’

  ‘No reason—no reason at all, Miss Loftus.’ He raised one hand defensively. ‘It was merely a thought.’

  And an insulting one. ‘They have their orders, presumably.’

  ‘They have indeed.’ The smile had vanished, but the glint-in-the-eye remained. ‘They have indeed.’

  ‘Yes? So if the worst comes to the worst I can always order them to tell me what I am supposed to be doing. Which at this moment I still don’t know.’

  ‘Ah … ’ But he was quite unabashed, of course. ‘Now … where were we—?’

  It didn’t really matter what she said, because nothing would deflate his self-esteem. ‘I think we were in the sea, four miles off the Pointe du Hoc. And was that the start of a beautiful friendship?’

  ‘What? Between Parker and Thomas? Good heavens, no!’ He sat back. ‘Does that surprise you?’

  It did surprise her. Because there had to be a relationship between these two men, if David Audley and Major Turnbull had not been wasting their time. And it had to start with that heroic rescue.

  ‘It does, a bit.’ But then suddenly it didn’t. Because it hadn’t really been an heroic rescue at all, merely an accident of war, albeit a happy one: simply, among the thousands of random chances which had decreed life or death that morning, the vagaries of wind and tide had drifted one half-drowned British pilot into the arms of a handful of weary Americans who were themselves beating a delayed retreat from a hostile shore. In the midst of greater events and more pressing business the pilot would have been just a lucky survivor.

  ‘Yes?’ He waited for her to finish thinking.

  ‘Maybe not.’ She frowned. ‘But they did meet.’

  ‘They did. June 7th, 1944—that was the first time. And the second time was last week.’

  ‘Last week?’ Well, it certainly hadn’t been a friendship, beautiful or otherwise, Elizabeth agreed silently; the forty years’ interval precluded that.

  Latimer nodded. ‘So far as we have been able to establish. Just the two meetings. Although they did exchange Christmas cards for a few years, apparently. But even that stopped after a time. So … just those two meetings, Miss Loftus. 1944, 1984. The first, pure chance—the second, quite deliberate.’

  Elizabeth remembered the Parker cutting. ‘On the cliffs at the Pointe du Hoc, would that be?’

  ‘No.’ He gazed at her almost blankly. ‘Major Turnbull will tell you about the Pointe du Hoc. But … no, Miss Loftus—Elizabeth … Thomas was nowhere near there at the material time, as our constabulary would say.’

  It had hardly been likely, for they must both be old men now. Yet he must be giving her the coordinate of the latitude of truth, if not its longitude.

  ‘So why are we interested in them?’ Parker and Thomas! She wondered. Or was it Parker or Thomas? Or, since Parker was dead—Thomas?

  ‘Thomas, Elizabeth.’ He forestalled her. ‘Squadron Leader Thomas, pilot that once was—Dr Thomas, retired schoolmaster, that is. A most distinguished teacher of the classics—Officer of the Order of the British Empire, no less. Plus a couple of honorary fellowships and the Gold Medal of the British Classical Association, awarded for leading many a likely young lad into the realms of gold.’

  He gave her a hopeful look. ‘You haven’t heard of him by any happy chance? From your teaching days?’

  Elizabeth shook her head mutely.

  ‘No? Well, you’re not really a classicist—I appreciate that.’ He smiled his non-smile at her again. ‘But, anyway, our Dr Thomas wasn’t always a classical teacher. He was a civil servant in the Foreign Office for ten years, after he came down from Oxford the second time, with his doctorate, after the war. A little eccentric for the embassy lot—he might have done better in the Treasury … Anyway, he was there, and one day his name turned up on this list of ours, you see, Elizabeth.’

  She nearly said ‘What list?’. But it was a redundant question, because there was really only one sort of list that ever got as far as R and D. ‘He was a security risk, you mean?’

  ‘No.’ His hand strayed towards the Thornton’s box. ‘No. Not exactly.’

  ‘Not exactly?’ It occurred to her that all this had to be a lon
g time ago, ‘this list of ours’, if since then Dr Thomas had not only changed horses in mid-stream, but had had time to ride his new mount to a very different winning post. ‘When was this?’

  ‘1958.’

  Twenty-six years ago. He had called it ‘our list’, but it must almost have been before his time. And, indeed, almost before Audley’s time too, since both he and Latimer had also changed horses themselves to come into this thankless service—just as she herself had done, come to that!

  ‘He was forty-two then.’ Latimer supplied the answer to a question she had not yet reached; she had been about to think and I was in pigtails then, learning about Old Lob the Farmer and Mrs Cuddy the Cow in kindergarten. ‘Came down in ‘37—First in Greats—from Jesus, of course.’

  Of course?

  ‘Two years’ teaching. Then the war. Then Oxford again.’

  Elizabeth kicked herself. Thomas’ was a Welsh name, and Jesus College, Oxford, had still been full of Welshmen in the years before and after the war.

  ‘They offered him a fellowship. But he’d had enough of that, apparently.’

  She wrenched herself away from Oxford—away from Turl Street, full of Welshmen from Jesus, and West Countrymen from rival Exeter, and the Taj Mahal restaurant, and the sun slanting down towards All Saints’ and the High, so long ago, so long ago … and, but for Father, a fellowship for Elizabeth Loftus?

  But—damn that! ‘Tell me about this list.’ That was one past she didn’t have to think about: that was the might-have-been past which existed only in her imagination. ‘It wasn’t an SR list—?’

  ‘No.’ He stirred, as though Colonel Butler’s chair was becoming uncomfortable. ‘It was a rather odd business altogether. It might be better for you to read about it for yourself—‘ He gestured towards the empty screen beside him ‘—you’re cleared for it. All you have to do is punch “Debrecen” into the computer—D-E-B-R-E-C-E-N. It’s all there—what there is of it.’