War Game dda-7

by Anthony Price

  —"

  The murderous bastard!

  The murderous double-crossing bastard.

  "You got what you came for?" The question was a formality; Burton had been watching him intently.

  "Yes."

  Like Nathaniel Parrott—like Charlie Ratcliffe: it had maybe taken a murderer to spot a murderer.

  "That's good, then," said Burton.

  Not really so good, thought Audley. There was nothing more here for him, on the scene of a successful seventeenth-century crime. If there was any chance of catching Charlie Ratcliffe it could only be somewhere back on the site of the twentieth-century crime, beside the Swine Brook.

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  6

  AUDLEY hated English heatwaves. He could put up with foreign hot weather, even Washington weather, which was natural and inevitable. But English heat was like a betrayal by an old and dear friend whose greatest virtue had hitherto been a comfortable and reliable moderation.

  And worst of all was hot English darkness, which always made him wonder, when he awoke after a few minutes (or was it a few hours?) of sweaty, unrefreshing sleep, whether he was in England at all.

  He reached across tentatively under the single sheet to reassure himself. There were only two thighs in the world like that. Once upon a long ago time there had been other thighs, but none of them had had Faith's superb temperature control, cool in summer and warm in winter.

  He was at home in his own bed in the midst of a heatwave, with the weathermen's records melting one by one around him—

  Not since the summer of 1948 ...

  Not since the summer of 1940 . . .

  Hot and dry.

  But the summers of the 1640s, especially the summer of '43, had been warm and wet, which spelt poor harvests and bad, unhealthy military campaigns.

  No more doubts now. He had been thinking of the summer of dummy5

  '43 when he had finally drifted off. Now he would think of it again for want of anything better to think about.

  Anno Domini One Thousand, Six Hundred and Forty-Three.

  What had 1643 to do with 1975?

  He felt the sweat running down his throat.

  Nothing.

  But that had been a bad summer for Parliament and the Roundheads, no two ways about that. Maybe not with hindsight, because even defeat was teaching Master Oliver Cromwell and Sir Thomas Fairfax their new trade the hard way, the way Grant and Sherman had learnt it.

  But without hindsight . . .

  Beaten at Charlgrove in June, and that good man John Hampden dying in agony from his wound; beaten at Lansdown the next month by the Cornish infantry, and doubly beaten against the odds at Roundway Down a few days later by the Royalist cavalry.

  Bristol, the second city of the Kingdom, stormed by Prince Rupert before July was out, and other towns falling like skittles: Poole and Dorchester, Portland and Weymouth, Bideford and Barnstaple— Henry Digby counting them off on his fingers across the dinner table—Gloucester in danger, Exeter on the verge of surrender, Lincoln and Gainsborough lost.

  Trouble in Kent, trouble in London. And a rising even in Cromwell's own East Anglia.

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  Plague in Waller's army—the warm, wet summer at work.

  And John Pym, who held it all together from London, fighting the cancer in his gut that was killing him by inches and which would have him in the ground before the year was out.

  Money desperately short, troops deserting for want of it—

  Money. That was what 1643 had in common with 1975.

  In 1643 Pym was already levying taxes such as Charles I had never dreamed of, taxes on everything but the prime necessities of life—and even they would be taxed before the thing was finished. Money not just for weapons and powder and soldiers' pay, but also to buy the Scottish army.

  This wasn't Digby, this was his own memory. Digby knew about the battles and how they had been fought, but he didn't know what had brought the armies to the battlefield.

  Money.

  The Scots, to their credit, would fight the King for the sake of religion. But to their eternal discredit—and their subsequent utter defeat—they would only do it at a price and a profit.

  "Darling—are you awake?" Faith turned towards him.

  Money.

  He knew there had been something bugging him about Swine Brook Field, and that was it. In August, 1643, both armies had been at full stretch, the Royalists to take Gloucester and the Roundheads to relieve it. But they had each detached dummy5

  men they could ill afford to spare to intervene in a piddling little country house siege, little better than a feud between two local magnates who hated each other's guts because of an old lawsuit.

  "Darling ..."

  But if there had been gold at Standingham Castle—if money and promises would make the Scots march it would also make them stay north of the border. Was that what both sides had thought?

  "Are you awake, darling?"

  And since the King was far shorter of it than Parliament, that made it doubly important for Parliament to stop him getting it, even in the depths of their bad summer.

  That was why Swine Brook Field had been fought.

  Was that what Charlie Ratcliffe had thought too?

  "Sorry, love. Did I wake you up?" He stroked the cool thigh gently.

  "You would have woken me up if I'd been to sleep. You've been grunting and mumbling like a mad thing."

  Audley felt guilty. She had wanted to talk and he had been too tired. And instead he had merely kept her awake.

  "I'm sorry."

  She gave a gurgling chuckle. "Oh, I don't mind you grunting and mumbling, darling. It's when you wake up and start thinking that you're really disturbing— you don't make a dummy5

  sound then, and the noise is deafening."

  "The noise?"

  "You get tensed up when you think. You went absolutely rigid just now—did you have a brilliant idea? I hope you did, anyway. I don't mind being kept awake by brilliant ideas."

  "Not exactly brilliant, but an idea." Audley smiled into the darkness: she was as irrepressibly unawed about his job as she had been when she'd first met him. And he was still what he had been to her then—a cross between a high class refuse collector and the municipal pest officer, two unrewarding but necessary posts. Someone had to fill them, and she just happened to fancy the someone who did . . .

  "And top secret, I presume," she murmured.

  "Not really. I was just thinking that the sinews of war are made of gold."

  "Not very profound."

  "But still true."

  "Hmm ... if it wasn't just past midnight I might argue that ideas were better than gold."

  "Ideas?" Audley squinted at the luminous hands of the bedside clock. It was only just past midnight: no wonder he hadn't woken her up, he hadn't been asleep for more than half an hour. And yet he felt as if he'd slept for hours. "All right, I'll give you gold plus ideas, that ought to be unbeatable."

  "And that was why Cromwell was unbeatable? It was his gold dummy5

  you were thinking about, I take it?"

  She'd read the same story, only a day late and with more misprints, in the Guardian.

  "But of course it wasn't his gold, was it?" she continued. "I mean he didn't find it, did he? That Charlie Ratcliffe must be a smart young man."

  Bright, but not flashy—no, that was Henry Digby.

  "I like your Sergeant Digby," said Faith suddenly, as though she'd been eavesdropping on his stream of consciousness.

  "I'm half-glad you brought him here to sleep."

  "Half-glad?" He wished he could see her face. "What does half-glad mean?"

  "It means . . . that I enjoyed meeting him. He's intelligent and he has good manners. He's even quite good-looking in a homely sort of way."

  "In America 'homely' means 'plain'," said Audley irrelevantly.

  "Well, we aren't in America. Nice looking, then, if you want to play with words. You ought to introduce him to Fra
nces, they're both the same sort of person."

  "I might just do that some time. And that's the glad half of half-glad, is it?"

  "Yes."

  "And the unglad half is that he's in my equivocal company?"

  She reached for his hand. "You're not equivocal. But he's very young, David."

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  They were all very young, God help us. Mitchell and Frances and Henry Digby. And Charlie Ratcliffe too.

  "It's a young man's game, love. You should be worrying about me."

  The cool hand squeezed his hot hand. "I have to think that you can look after yourself, my darling."

  Audley stared into the darkness for a moment without answering, holding the cool hand.

  "He's a policeman, love. A policeman with three commendations too, and they weren't just for seeing old ladies across busy streets at rush hour either, you can be sure of that."

  The hand relaxed. "So he takes his chances?"

  "Exactly. He takes his chances. And since this is England and not Ireland, those are pretty damn good chances."

  "Well, you just make sure they are, that's all."

  "So you be careful of him . . . sir."

  First Weston, now Faith.

  Weston had said it twice though—

  "You've got him for a week, the Chief said. Or ten days at the outside, that'll take in Easingbridge and Standingham.

  After that we want him back—undamaged."

  "Standingham? You mean there's a mock-battle there too?"

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  Weston registered surprise. "They haven't told you much, have they!"

  "I didn't ask for much. I get what I want in my own way and in my own time. Superintendent. Don't you do the same?"

  Weston gave a non-committal grunt, then nodded grudgingly without replying. Audley was aware suddenly that he'd lost a part of the treacherous ground on which he'd built a bridge between them; at best it was a ramshackle, temporary affair, and without constant attention it would sink without a trace.

  Yet here had to be a reason for this loss. "So there's to be a mock-battle at Standingham?"

  Another nod. "Aye. A full-scale one. The Easingbridge affair's only a one-day stand, but Standingham's a two-day job."

  "In honour of Charlie Ratcliffe's treasure trove?"

  "I suppose so." Weston shrugged. "There's never been a re-enactment there before, anyway. The old man wouldn't have one at any price."

  A full-scale two-day event. And in the ordinary course of things, a Civil War spectacle could draw a Second Division crowd, up to ten thousand people. But with the publicity Charlie Ratcliffe and the Cromwell's treasure had had . . .

  plus the smell of unsolved murder drifting from Swine Brook Field . . . that might lift it into the First Division.

  So Weston was apprehensive. Only it couldn't have anything to do with handling a First Division crowd, because when it came to crowd control the British police hadn't anything to dummy5

  learn from anyone. And this was only a crowd of First Division size anyway, not of First Division disposition.

  But still apprehensive.

  "Will you be there, Superintendent?"

  "At Standingham—yes. At Easingbridge—probably.''

  "On the Ratcliffe case? So you're not giving up?"

  "On a murder we never give up. We're running down the Incident Room, it's true. But we're not giving up."

  No Statute of Limitations on murder.

  And as murders went, this was still a young one. But there was something wrong with the way Weston had answered that question, a hint of weariness as well as wariness. Or vice versa.

  So it came down to a straight question, delivered with no frills.

  "You're not going to solve this murder, are you?"

  Not even a question. If it can be done, they'll do it ...

  "Meaning we're not going to charge anyone?" Weston paused. "No, we're not going to solve this one. Off the record."

  "Off the record—understood."

  "Thank you. . . . And neither are you, Dr. Audley."

  And if they can't do it, I can't do it.

  "Why not?"

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  "Because this murderer's long gone." Weston stared directly at him, unblinking. "In my opinion. And also off the record."

  Straight from the horse's mouth.

  "Professional?"

  "Professional." The answer came back so quickly that it had obviously been ready-wrapped and just waiting for collection.

  "In your opinion. Off the record."

  "Of course. There's no proof. No evidence." Weston showed his teeth in the travesty of a smile. "Seven thousand witnesses. Nearly five hundred statements. But no evidence."

  Brigadier Stocker would have known that perfectly well. "Not a clever amateur? Or even a lucky one?"

  "An amateur." Weston sniffed. "It's just barely conceivable, Dr. Audley. Very clever and very lucky and very daring. Or very stupid and very lucky and very daring. . . . Any thing's possible. But not probable."

  "Especially as I'm here."

  "You improve the odds, for a fact." The teeth showed again.

  "But you didn't call them."

  Audley drew a deep breath. "Thank you for trusting me, Superintendent."

  "My duty to." Weston shrugged. "No more questions, then?"

  "No more questions. I only had one that was worth a damn, and you've just answered that very fairly."

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  Weston acknowledged the gratitude with a nod. "So what are you going to do now?"

  "I wish I knew." Audley inclined his head towards the young sergeant. "Perhaps he'll have another flash of inspiration—"

  They had moved towards Sergeant Digby then.

  "Well, just you make sure he is, that's all," said Faith. "You just keep your eye on him. So long as you do that he won't come to any harm."

  "Aye. And he won't do anything useful either—" Audley stopped suddenly.

  "You've had another bright idea," said Faith accusingly.

  "Mmm . . ."

  "Well, have you?"

  He'd have to go through the sergeant's evidence again.

  "I don't know ... I was just thinking that someone else might have said much the same thing before the battle of Swine Brook Field a few weeks ago."

  "And does that qualify as a bright idea?"

  Bright idea. In the circumstances that was a joke he couldn't bring himself to laugh at.

  "That's right. A little late, but better late than never." He turned back his corner of the sheet and sat up in bed. "And it's telling me to get up and make myself some black coffee."

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  "But you've only just come to bed."

  "But I feel as if I've slept half the night already. And I won't go to sleep for hours now, I'll just keep you awake, love." He leaned over and kissed her accurately on the lips. Cool lips, nice cool soft lips. A sensible man wouldn't get up and make himself coffee. But a sensible man would have explored this bright idea hours earlier, and this must be his penance. "I have to do some noisy thinking."

  "Oh, very well—if you must." She yawned. "Just don't wake up Cathy. And don't wake up Sergeant Digby either."

  He reached with his toes for his slippers, and with his hand for his dressing gown. Everything was exactly to foot and to hand in the darkness, with no blind groping. And no blind groping in his brain, either: he knew at last what he was doing.

  Cathy's bedroom door across the passage was open, as always. In the soft light of the shaded 25-watt bulb outside he could see her lying under the sheet with the abandoned innocence of childhood, long legs and slender arms resting where they had fallen. That was how the dead on the battlefield lay, uncaring and oblivious of prying eyes.

  Mustn't think of that now, he shook his head fiercely. Must leave her to her dreams, to pursue his own nightmares.

  He stared past the sleeping child into the darkness of the open window beyond her. Somewhere out there lay Charlie Ratcliffe secure in th
e dreamless sleep of success.

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  Dreamless until this moment, when a stranger bent his mind towards the tiny flaw in his otherwise perfect crime.

  Now was the instant when Charlie ought to stir uneasily for the first time.

  7

  AUDLEY drew the crudely cyclo- styled pages of the Battle Scenario out of the plastic folder.

  7. The battle will commence at 3.15 p.m.

  He had left the pages in the wrong order, from the time when he had read them through quickly the first time, just before dinner.

  Henry Digby had watched him in silence as he read, without any sign of expectation. And that had annoyed him a little—

  that loyal assumption that he would get nothing more out of them than Superintendent Weston—and everyone else— had done.

  But now, thanks to Faith, things were different. Now there were four names on his blotter.

  Swine Brook Field: Battle Scenario.

  Swine Brook Field: Murder Scenario.

  —and it had annoyed him because it was correct. If there had been nothing here for Superintendent Weston then there dummy5

  couldn't possibly be anything here for anyone else.

  Only now, as he ordered the pages, he realised that he was smiling to himself. For now the game had changed. Or the rules of the game, which had shackled Superintendent Weston, had been abolished—that was the difference.

  1. Roundhead Objective: to raise siege of Standingham Castle, or alternatively to deliver supply of artillery shot and to reinforce garrison.

  Royalist Objective: to prevent above and to capture supplies for own use.

  Of course it wasn't surprising that the Royalists too had been short of powder and shot after the siege of Bristol and with the siege of Gloucester in prospect. And as Digby had explained, they had been fatally short of ammunition at the battle of Newbury next month.

  Unimportant.

  2. Topography.: At the battlefield site the Swine Brook flows between two parallel ridges, with the Old Road to Standingham (ten miles distant) running beside stream, the course of which is marked by clumps of vegetation.

  Audley closed his eyes for an instant, in an effort to recreate not what he had seen a few hours earlier, the ten-week growth which had sprung up since the Murder Squad had painstakingly cut back the bushes in a search for nonexistent clues, but the Swine Brook as it had been—