Other Paths to Glory (7 page)

‘Huh! That’s what you think, not what you know. You told us you weren’t an expert on the Somme, but from where I sit you look uncommonly like one.’

‘Well, that’s not worth being killed for either. It can’t be.’

Mitchell heard the disbelief in his own voice, and knew he must take hold of it. Reason went out of the window as disbelief came in. However strange, the common denominator between Charles Emerson and himself was their knowledge of the 1914 - 18 War. And there was only one thing that eliminated three and a half of those four bloody years, zeroing attention on the Somme.

‘Where did you get that piece of map?’

‘From a Frenchman by the name of Edouard Antoine Barthelemi Ollivier, a very good friend of mine. We were at Cambridge together after the war as a matter of fact - that’s where I first met him. We were both reading history, like you.’

Mitchell hadn’t been expecting such a direct answer.

‘He’s a historian?’

‘No. He’s a son of liaison officer between their Prime Minister’s office and the Police Nationale. I’ve worked with him two or three times in the past ten years.’

‘So you
are
a policeman.’

‘Good gracious, no! Neither is Ted Ollivier.’

‘But you said he works with the police.’

‘The Police Nationale - and that’s an organisation with as many mansions as heaven itself. Ted Ollivier’s been a good many things in his time - he was in the French Resistance when he was fifteen and worked for us. He was the only survivor of his group, too - the Gestapo killed all the others - but he’s never been a proper policeman … No, officially he’s a civil servant, a glorified PRO-cum-errand boy.’

‘And unofficially?’

‘He’s a senior operative in the Service de Documentation Presidentielle.’

‘Never heard of it.’

Audley gave a grunt.

‘I’m not surprised. It’s the ultra-secret security agency in the French set-up, responsible only to the President himself. The great General set it up after the Martel scandal back in ‘62 when he found out the Russians had penetrated everything else in sight. It’s run by a man named Gensoul now.’

‘It doesn’t sound ultra-secret.’

‘Because I know about it? Ah, but you see it’s my business to know about it, just as it’s yours to know about the Hindenburg Line - and it’s Ted Ollivier’s to know about me … which is why it’s very interesting that he should have sent me that bit of map and the name Charles Emerson.’

‘What did he want you to do with them?’

‘Find out if the map belonged to Emerson, and if so what he’d done with it – whether he’d lost it or given it away, or what.’

‘Well, I can’t tell you that. He certainly had a copy of that map, but then he had a hell of a lot of maps.’

The past tense was the operative one now, thought Mitchell sadly. Past for the maps and past for poor Emerson. It didn’t really bear thinking about.

‘What exactly was Emerson doing in France this time?’ asked Audley.

‘Doing? I think he was looking over the ground along the Ancre Heights, by Grandcourt and Miraumont. Where the winter fighting took place. When I saw him after he came back he was - ‘ Mitchell stopped suddenly as the memory of Emerson’s excitement came back vividly to him.

‘He was - what?’ Audley picked up the hesitation quickly. ‘Let’s have some of that phenomenal memory of yours.’

‘Who told you it was phenomenal?’

‘Everybody. Your tutor, Forbes, for one … Your friend Crombie for another.’

‘You’ve done a lot of checking on me, it seems.’

‘Naturally. It’s routine, you know.’

‘And was it routine to tell me about Edouard Antoine Barthe-lemi Ollivier?’

The silence which followed the question confirmed the suspicion in Mitchell’s mind which Audley’s frankness had aroused. At the Institute, and again at home, he had stonewalled every inquiry; but now he was answering questions which hadn’t even been asked, supplying information which he ought to have withheld.

Which made no sense unless -

‘What is it that you want me to do?’ asked Mitchell.

Audley laughed.

‘Let’s say I may have work for an expert on the battle of the Somme - how’s that?’

‘There are others who know far more than I do, I’ve told you that already.’

‘Then let’s say I also need an expert on Professor Charles Emerson, and there aren’t a lot of those around.’

Audley paused, then continued in a much harder tone.

‘In fact there’s only one.’

Mitchell frowned at the dark road ahead. He seemed to be travelling on a pre-determined journey in more senses than one.

‘You said “work” - you don’t mean just information.’

‘I said “work”, yes.’

‘What sort of work?’

‘Nothing too difficult, you’re well qualified for it by temperament I should say.’

‘But - supposing I refuse to do it?’

‘Don’t you want to see Emerson’s murderers dealt with - and the gentlemen who sent you for a late swim?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Of course you do. I never doubted it.’ Audley paused. ‘And I think you’re being very sensible, because if I don’t look after you, no one else will … and that would be - sad.’

Mitchell looked at him unbelievingly in the darkness.

‘Whereas along with me - ‘ Audley paused again.

It was true: he was being given the choice of hunting with the hunters or being thrown to the wolves.

‘The fact is, Paul, your country needs you - and the safest place for you happens to be the front line.’

The door of the bedroom opened wide. A large cardboard box - several large cardboard boxes - appeared in the opening, canted dangerously as the door was kicked shut, and were lowered to reveal Audley’s beaming face.

‘Your uniform, Captain Lefevre,’ he said.

God! He hadn’t dreamed it all.

MITCHELL LOOKED AT
his new watch again.

‘It’s almost 11.15,’ he said.

Audley nodded.

‘Don’t worry, he’ll be here on time. Jack’s nothing if not punctual, and in fact he’s a great deal more than that. You mustn’t be deceived by appearances with Jack -people tend to be, and then he has them on the hip. I rather think he trades on it, not being at all what he looks like. He’s a very shrewd fellow, our Jack.’

It was a very expensive watch, the sort they advertised as not missing a second whether at the bottom of the sea or whirling about in space, he had recognised that at once when it had tumbled out of the manila envelope with the other things, the wallet and the identification card and banker’s card and the half-used cheque-book … and the letters from people he didn’t know, who probably didn’t even exist. There had even been a letter from a girl.

He had remarked on it -

‘
This is a very fine watch, David.
’

‘
I
’
m glad you like it. A small token of our esteem.
’

‘
My own works perfectly well.
’

‘
But this is your own. The new you mustn
’
t have anything belonging to the old - it
’
s a
standard precaution.
’

That was more like it: a precaution rather than a token of esteem. And also a reminder.

Involuntarily he felt his upper lip, gingerly at first, and then with more confidence. It felt firm and it looked real - and now he was brushing the thing just as he had seen others do. He had always taken the action as a piece of affectation designed to call attention to what was there, but now he wondered if they weren’t simply reassuring themselves about its existence, as he was doing.

‘But he really is a soldier?’

‘Jack Butler?’

Audley looked up from his paperback.

‘Oh yes, and a good one too - we’re not all frauds. He won a very good Military Cross in Korea, and I believe he was a first-rate regimental officer. It says a lot for the army that they let us have him.’

He sounded more like a collector of rare objets d’art than a - but then Mitchell still wasn’t too sure who ‘us’ were. Apart from that comparison with the Service de Documentation Presidentielle, which obviously wasn’t what it sounded like anyway, he had disappeared in a cloud of vague generalities every time they had approached the subject.

‘And here he is - on time to the minute,’ observed Audley triumphantly. ‘We’ll leave my car here and let him do the drive, come on.’

As they crunched across the granite chippings which covered the surface of the lay-by towards the dark grey Rover Mitchell reflected that any event which delivered him from Audley’s driving couldn’t be all bad. It wasn’t so much that the big man drove dangerously - and at least he drove slowly - as that he gave the impression of someone who was determined to give only a quarter of his mind to a job which required at least half of it. Colonel Butler might not be brainier, whatever Audley claimed for him, but he was bound to be more competent in this.

For a moment he thought Butler must feel the same way and was simply waiting for them to join him, but as they approached the car the driver’s door clicked open. He could see at once and exactly what Audley had meant by appearances. In the Institute the day before the colonel had worn a countryman’s city suit and a look of even-tempered neutrality; now, in tweeds and deerstalker and with an expression of apoplectic anger on his face he resembled the very pattern of the Angry British Officer disguised thinly as a civilian.

‘Audrey, what the hell are you up to?’ he exploded.

‘Good morning. Jack,’ said Audley brightly. ‘Have you got the reports and the maps?’

‘Maps be damned!’ Butler stabbed a blunt finger towards Mitchell. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

Audley grinned.

‘This is Captain Paul Lefevre of the 15th Royal Tank Regiment, Jack.’

‘Lefever - ?’ Butler gagged on the next word.

‘Spelt “Lefevre” but pronounced “Lefever”,’ added Audley helpfully. ‘A good French Huguenot name anglicised by three hundred years of English speaking - since the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, to be precise. In the year 1685 - ‘

‘Damn the year!’ Butler spluttered. ‘You’re up to your old tricks - you can’t do it. Not again.’

‘I can and I will - and I have,’ said Audley. ‘And I don’t think you’re in any position to quibble. Jack. Not with your record.’

Butler’s eyes flashed. ‘That was - ‘

‘Different?’ Audley pounced on the momentary hesitation. ‘Necessary, I would have said. And it’s necessary now - necessity has once more been the mother of invention. I have invented Captain Lefevre.’

There was something like pain as well as anger in Butler’s eyes now, as though he could see a defeat ahead which was being inflicted on him by a dirty trick.

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Audley stared at Mitchell for an instant, then turned back to Butler. “Where’s the village of Mametz, Captain Lefevre?’

‘East of Albert, and just east of Fricourt.’

‘Who took it on July ist, 1916?’

‘The ist South StaHbrds and the list Manchesters.’

‘What division were they?’

‘The 7th.’

‘
What corps?
’

‘
XV - Fifth Army.
’

Audley paused.

‘Who took Vaux-le-Petit on July i4th?’

‘The West Mercians.’

‘All right!’ Butler barked. ‘You’ve got yourself a Somme expert. But there are books on the Somme.’

‘I haven’t finished. Who owns Vaux-le-Petit Wood?’

‘Monsieur Pierre Ducrot.’

‘And Sabot Wood?’

‘Madam Grenier, who lives in Bapaume. Number 14, Rue Palikao.’

‘There are directories too,’ Butler snapped.

‘But not walking ones.’

‘Tchah!’ Butler turned to Mitchell. ‘Man - do you know what you’re letting yourself in for? Apart from wearing the Queen’s uniform, which you’ve no right to?’

‘I still haven’t finished,’ said Audley, his voice suddenly taking on authority. ‘Why do you think I arranged to meet you here - because I like the open air?’

Butler glowered briefly at Mitchell, then switched his attention back to Audley.

‘I assumed you’d tell me in your own good time.’

‘And so I will. Or perhaps I’d better let Captain Lefevre tell you. Go on, Paul.’

Mitchell cleared his throat nervously. Yesterday, at their first meeting, he liked Butler better than Audley. His feelings about the big civilian were still equivocal, but he felt too far committed to the action plan to withdraw now. In any case, Audley was obviously the top man, and by the contents of this morning’s fancy dress boxes, a man who could get things done quickly.

He pointed down the hill.

‘That’s Elthingham, Colonel.’

Butler’s gaze followed the finger towards the huddle of houses in the valley, set in its chequer-board of fields and woodland. In the clear stillness of the morning the smoke from a dozen chimneys rose peacefully above the roofs: Elthingham was like a picture postcard of an English village.

‘Yes?’ Butler growled.

Mitchell forced himself to look directly into the hostile face. It wasn’t his health and well-being that Butler was worried about, he sensed, but his ability to look after himself. He was being tested.

‘I saw Charles Emerson twice last week, once on Tuesday, the day after he came back from France, and then yesterday. On Wednesday he went to see someone in Elthingham.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. Colonel. And I don’t know why, either. But what I do remember is that he was excited about it.’

‘How - excited?’

Butler sounded as though he somewhat disapproved of excitement in a sober scholar whose enthusiasm ought to be tempered by gravity.

‘I don’t mean he was dancing up and down. But he said it was a pity he’d had to come back from France on Monday - he had a lecture to give at the Staff College on Tuesday evening - because he’d stumbled on a very interesting thing which he was following up.’

‘Something in France?’

‘Yes. But he said it did at least give him a chance to check it up at this end before he went back.’

‘He planned to go back to France again?’

Mitchell nodded.

‘Because of what he’d just learnt?’