"Yes, you're a cold weather mortal, aren't you! Next time we'll have to find somewhere cooler for you. . . . But we've been having it quite warm here, you know, as a matter of fact."
Too many double meanings there for comfort.
"So I've gathered," said Audley.
Clinton sat down. "Well, I've been reading your reports—"
Plural.
"—the CIA one is most interesting." Clinton paused. "And the Ratcliffe one . . . that's interesting too. What you might call a satisfactory conclusion, fiscally speaking."
Obviously he was expected to fight to the end, thought Audley. He shrugged. "We were lucky."
"Ye-ess . . . I'm inclined to think you were."
Audley smiled back at him. "The Minister said I was lucky.
He'll be glad to know I'm still on form." Put that one in your dummy5
pipe, Fred, and see how it tastes. "It's a great virtue—luck."
"But not everyone would say you'd been virtuous."
"Not everyone would say I'd been given a fair chance. Little Tommy Stocker didn't exactly confide in me at the briefing."
Clinton shook his head. "Ah, now that's not quite fair. We hadn't the faintest idea Ratcliffe's gold wasn't genuine. And we had no proof of the Moscow connection either."
But a suspicion, Audley thought bitterly. And a suspicion would have made all the difference to Henry Digby.
"So this is another one we owe to the CIA, then?"
"Indirectly, you might say." Clinton had had almost enough of sparring now. "But then they did break the rules, didn't they."
"What rules?"
"Ye-ess, from you that's a good question, David." Clinton stirred the files in front of him to reveal a sheet of paper with a pencilled scrawl on it. "I've had a call from the Chief Constable of Mid-Wessex. It seems that you've annoyed one of his officers—a superintendent by the name of Weston."
Audley felt absurdly pleased. It made him feel better not to have put one over on the Superintendent too successfully.
"If I have, then I'm sorry, Fred. He's an extremely capable chap, Weston."
"He is?" Clinton raised an eyebrow. "Well, he thinks you're capable too— capable of anything. And this time he thinks dummy5
you've got away with murder."
Audley enlarged his smile. "Yes . . . well, I often do, don't I?
But I shall have to apologise to him."
"I think he means it literally. So he may not accept your apology."
"Literally? How on earth does he arrive at that conclusion?"
Clinton's smile was no longer even a memory. "Fortunately for you—not with any proof. Otherwise he would have charged you, his Chief says. But he maintains you did it, all the same, somehow or other." Clinton slid the paper back under one of the files and stared at Audley. "He'd just like to know how . . . and so would I, David."
Audley pointed. "You've got my report, Fred."
"So I have. And yet it doesn't say anything about murder in it, or not the one Weston's inquiring after." Clinton tapped the files. "And I've also received a special forensic report from the Mid-Wessex Force."
Audley nodded. "Well, you'll just have to choose the one you like the better, won't you?" he said politely. "As Weston would say, it's proof that counts."
Clinton continued to stare at him. "Oh, but they don't conflict with each other at all. Yours has more . . . shall we say—
theory in it. Plus all the information about the gold . . . But the section relating to the last fatality doesn't differ factually.
Indeed, both reports come to the same conclusion."
"So the Chief Constable's call was unofficial, then."
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"Entirely unofficial." Clinton opened the top file and turned its contents to a marked passage almost at the end. "So ... let me see now . . . what it amounts to is that you both believe that Charles Neville Steyning-Ratcliffe blew himself up while tampering with—or perhaps setting —an explosive device . . .
which according to you was probably intended as a trap for —
who was it"
"Professor Stephen Nayler."
"That's right. Because Nayler knew too much about the gold—
yes." Clinton nodded at the typed words. "And their forensic people have passed on various small objects and specimens to the Bomb Squad . . . which have been identified as parts of an American time pencil detonator—" He looked up. "—the standard CIA fifteen-minute device."
Audley nodded back. "There've been a lot of those around since Vietnam, Fred. Standard terrorist equipment now as well, they are."
"Quite so, David. And of course it was the same type as the one found on the Ferryhill Industrial Estate—which really clinches it, doesn't it?" Clinton paused. "But in any case you were in plain view, playing Cavaliers and Roundheads, for a good half an hour before the explosion. You never even went near the so-called 'Powder Tent'—as the Superintendent himself is the first to testify."
"Mrs. Fitzgibbon will, too."
"I've no doubt she will. So you emerge without a stain on dummy5
your character. . . . Which is just as well, because the Minister will want to see these files, and he would take an extremely dim view of our conniving at an assassination."
"So he made very clear to me, Fred. He just wanted me to make things happen."
"And you did, didn't you?" Clinton shut the file and sat back.
"But you had quite a long conversation with Ratcliffe earlier.
What exactly did you talk about?"
"It's in my report."
"Yes. You say you pushed him a bit with what you'd found out about him. But he must have known you couldn't prove anything?"
"I suggested to him that with Nayler's help we could probably prove quite a lot. I'm a good liar."
"I certainly wouldn't quarrel with that claim." Clinton put his hands on the edge of his desk and considered Audley in silence for a few moments. "So he decided to remove Nayler from the scene—that's what it amounts to, does it?"
"Obviously he intended to remove somebody. Nayler's the best bet."
"Ye-ess. . . . But don't you think it a bit odd that he should have tried to do it himself? He usually let the professionals make his hit for him."
Audley shrugged. "Maybe he didn't have time. Or maybe they just weren't available when he needed them." He looked inquiringly at Clinton. "Did he look for anyone?"
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"Apparently not. He went back to his regiment after you'd talked to him, and then he ducked out again just before the explosion—they didn't miss him at the time." Clinton paused.
"Funny though ..."
"What?"
"Two of the people you suspected might have a hand in things
—the men Gates and Bishop—they had a road accident just before the battle, on their way to Standingham. They ran into an American Air Force lorry—did you know that?"
"No." Audley shook his head. "Nothing serious I hope?"
"Concussion and fractures. And it was their fault, it seems.
You didn't know about that?"
"Why should I? We never proved anything against them—or Colonel Butler didn't. And if Ratcliffe didn't look for them ..."
Audley spread his hands. "We'd pulled our people off them the day before, anyway. All except Frances—I told her to keep her eyes open for Gates and Bishop. And Paul Mitchell kept a sharp eye on Davenport all the time."
"I know. ... So what it amounts to finally is that Charlie Ratcliffe tried to do something for himself for once, and made a balls-up of it."
"It looks that way," Audley agreed. "He should have stuck to revolutionary journalism. It's safer."
"Very well." Clinton leant forward and extracted the piece of paper from under the file again, tore it in two and dropped it into his wastepaper basket. "I accept your report."
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"Thank you, Fred."
Now for it.
"And now, David, let's stop chasing arou
nd and get down to the real facts. Weston's a damn good copper, his chief says—
and I'm an old copper of a sort too. . . . And you, as you have already admitted, are a liar."
"So what does that mean?"
Clinton pointed a finger. "It means that you came to some sort of arrangement with the CIA—with that young man you so promptly allowed to get away afterwards, Davenport or Donaldson, or whatever his name was. Which I don't like at all, but which I just might be ready to forgive, in the circumstances."
"You would?"
"I might." Clinton's voice was suddenly cold. "But killing is another matter, David. If you're getting a taste for that as a quick way out of your difficulties then I have to know about it. Because you're no use to me like that."
"You really think I killed him, Fred?"
Clinton stared at him. "Weston said you were after blood—he says he recognises that now."
"I see." Audley nodded back slowly. That was fair enough on Clinton's part, because killing was as much an acquired taste as duelling, and there was only one way a successful duellist could reassure himself that he was still on the top line.
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"The truth now, David."
What was the truth?
"All right. I didn't kill him, Fred. He killed himself."
"But you knew he'd kill himself?"
"I hoped he would. And I did my best to ensure he did."
"Then where's the difference?"
"The difference ... the difference is that it was up to him. If he was willing to kill—then he died. If he wasn't— then he was home and dry. It was his choice."
"That's pretty shaky morality, David."
"Okay. So next time a terrorist blows himself up on his own bomb you weep your crocodile tears and I'll stick to my shaky morality, Fred." Audley made as if to get up. "Is that all, then?"
Clinton waved his hand irritably. "Sit down, man, sit down—
if there was a fault it was mine, in letting you loose."
Audley sat down.
"How did he blow himself up?" asked Clinton.
Audley smiled. "With what they call a 'Judas'."
"Who call?"
"The CIA. When they lost all those fifteen-minute sabotage pencils in Vietnam they were pretty pissed off. And then one of their dirty tricks specialists thought of a simple way of getting even. They withdrew all the existing stocks and doctored 'em for instantaneous detonation, then they dummy5
shipped them out to Vietnam again on the quiet to add to the other stocks. Which is why there have been so many terrorist accidents of late, I should guess."
"And you . . . acquired one from your friend Davenport?"
"Could be."
"But—you picked up that information in Washington?"
Clinton's tone was hostile suddenly.
"I picked up a lot of information in Washington."
"And didn't report it?"
"I put in a separate technical report to the Equipment Section." Audley paused. "Yesterday."
They were now at the exact point of balance, he judged. It must be clear to Clinton that however improperly he had acted, nobody was in any position to prove otherwise, no matter what they might suspect. And if there was one thing that Clinton loved—although he would never have admitted it
—it was low cunning.
All he had to do to keep his job was to throw a few more words into the balance.
And then, to his surprise, he realised that it wasn't the choice of words which mattered to him, but whether he wanted to say them. Faith wouldn't mind if he didn't, she would be glad. But there was still Sergeant Digby's opinion to be consulted.
The sad truth was that he could no longer recall Sergeant Digby's features with absolute clarity, only the colour and dummy5
texture of the boy's threadbare dressing-gown. He remembered thinking that he had once had a dressing-gown exactly like that, which had been threadbare in exactly the same places. You probably couldn't buy dressing-gowns like that any more, not of that durable quality. He should never have let Faith get rid of it—
"Tell me one thing, David—" Clinton was staring at him with unconcealed curiosity. "Tell me one thing—"
I've missed my opportunity, thought Audley. Now he thinks I don't give a damn either way!
"—as between friends—" Clinton's eyes were no longer angry.
It was too late. The balance had tipped of its own accord.
"—how the devil did you con a smart fellow like Charlie Ratcliffe into doing a damn silly thing like that?"
When he'd finished Clinton sat silent for a few moments.
"A golden cannonball! God bless my soul!" His eyes narrowed. "A solid gold cannonball?"
"No, not solid gold. Just a thick coating of gold on lead—like a big toffee-apple, really."
"I see. But even that would have taken quite a lot of gold."
"It did."
"Not from the CIA, I trust."
"No. I have a ... friend who has a tame goldsmith."
"Matthew Fattorini?"
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Audley ignored the question.
Clinton frowned suddenly. "But is it possible? I mean, is it ballistically possible? Wouldn't the gold have distorted in the barrel—and have blown the whole thing to kingdom come?"
He paused, no longer really looking at Audley. "Though ... I suppose they did use lead bullets in muskets—even in rifled muskets . . . and if the muzzle velocity was very low—
The eyes came back to Audley. "Is it possible?"
Well, well! thought Audley. Even Fred Clinton.
"Nobody knows." He shrugged. "Because nobody's ever tried.
It would take a metallurgist who's been a gunner to tell you off the cuff, and even he wouldn't know for sure. Charlie Ratcliffe was only a sociologist."
"But you didn't actually check—with a metal detector?"
Clinton looked at him, his eyes narrowed again. "You just dug a hole at random?"
Audley stifled the rising temptation to laugh. "It isn't there, Fred. Cromwell got it."
"We shall have to look all the same." Clinton shook his head as though to clear it. "But he believed you, anyway."
"I wouldn't go so far as to say that. I'd guess he saw the possibilities, though."
"The possibilities?"
"Oh yes. ... He saw that if I betrayed my own side—and the CIA as well—then I wouldn't have a friend in the world. And dummy5
that would change me from a greedy pig into a sitting duck—
for him and his friends. And the fact that I'd not asked him to do the job himself reassured him that he wasn't in danger."
"Except you'd made sure they wouldn't be there—Gates and Bishop—so he couldn't ask them to do it." Clinton frowned.
"But he didn't try to ask them, did he? He didn't even look for them?"
"No. But taking them out of circulation was really just. . .
insurance. I was relying on his doing it himself."
"How could you rely on that?"
Audley looked at him for a moment, then down at the files on the desk. " 'Information received', I suppose you might say."
"Information from whom?" Clinton was clearly puzzled.
"Oh, it's not in the record, Fred." Audley shook his head slowly. "It wasn't the sort of information that goes in records.
It was much too subjective for that."
"But good all the same—obviously."
"But good . . . yes." Audley nodded. "You see, I talked to this—
well, I guess you could call him an expert on human greed. . . . And he said that the possession of gold does things to people. He made it sound like a contagious disease."
"Contagious?"
"Infectious too—you showed a symptom or two yourself just now. But the contagious variety is the worst, and Charlie had got that badly. Because he'd handled the stuff. . . he'd felt the weight of it, and seen the beautiful colour of it. Which was dummy5
why it didn't surpr
ise him one bit that I was prepared to kill and betray for it—he recognised his own symptoms subconsciously."
"And twice the gold made him twice as greedy, you mean?"
"Maybe. But I don't think he would have seen it like that at all. Because what the Russians had given him was their gold.
What I'd got—what I might be taking from his land right under his nose—that was his gold. And he couldn't bear the thought of it, it was worth almost any risk to stop that—and he couldn't bear the possibility that Gates or Bishop might say 'no' to the risk being taken. So he had to take it himself."
Clinton studied him. "You sound as though you were very sure of him."
"Not totally. But there was one thing I was sure of."
"And what was that?"
Audley's eye was caught for an instant by the rich colours of the flowers in the hearth. "I only met one man who'd actually seen Charlie Ratcliffe in action—who knew him as he was. ...
He was an old gardener who liked growing flowers—the gardener at Standingham Castle."
Clinton waited.
"He said Ratcliffe was a chancer. So I gave him his chance, Fred. That's all. And he took it."
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Author's Note
THE Sealed Knot, the King's Army and the Roundhead Association, which are mentioned in passing in this story, are real organisations. The Double R society and its members in no way resemble these admirable and innocent groups, except perhaps in such virtues as they may share. No comparison between the factual and the fictional is intended.
On the other hand, the story of Soviet Russia's acquisition of the gold of the Spanish Republic is a matter of history; as is also that of General Krivitsky, the one-time Chief of Soviet Military Intelligence in Western Europe, who escaped to tell the tale—and to die in suspicious circumstances in a Washington hotel in 1941.
Document Outline
Local Disk
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FB2 document info
Document ID: 890dbd18-df1d-48d8-9b46-717008ee49a8
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 30.7.2011
Created using: calibre 0.8.10 software
Document authors :
Anthony Price
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