aaargh, but it was a sort of democratic form of gunnery, would ye know . . . The Germans—that’s your lot, begod, an‘ a smart lot of fellas they were— they had the best gun of the war that I saw, that we called ’the eighty-eight‘, an’ a terrible murderous weapon it was . . . But we had the best regiments of guns—an‘ the Squire’s the best of them, no question—for he invented ways of control and command, and different ways of applying fire ... I thank my stars I was on the English side, an’ not facing regiments like his, begod!”
Benedikt tried to make sense of what the man was driving at, but could only think irrelevantly wouldn’t Papa like to be here, instead of me, because those were his guns, those terrible murderous weapons!
“Aaargh! No twenty-four guns have I—just this one little gun—”
The Irishman caressed the Luger “—but a Mike Target ye are all the same, the best I’ve had in range for many a year!” He nodded dummy1
at Benedikt, like a friendly enemy. “So I’ll not be asking you again why you were trespassin‘ on the lady’s land, for you’d only tell me black lies that you’d got all ready for me—later, maybe, but not now . . .”
There was something wrong, alarm bells in his mind warned Benedikt: if Kelly no longer rated why as of the first importance, what could be coming next, instead?
The Irishman’s free hand released the Luger barrel and plunged into his coat-pocket.
“See here.” He brandished Thomas Wiesehöfer’s spectacle case.
“And don’t say ye don’t see, for ye recognised my young mistress upon the terrace, with her under the leaves in the shadow, an‘
what’s in my hand is plain enough, as I can see plain enough for meself, surely.”
A frisson of triumph excited Benedikt. They had been clever—how they had been so clever, he didn’t know, but they had been clever, nevertheless. Only, they had not been clever enough.
“It is ... the case for my spectacles . . . which you took from me—”
He feigned incomprehension.
“So it is! And thick as pebbles are your lenses—blind as a bat in sunlight, ye are, ye have said as much to the children ... So how is it that ye see me now so clearly, with these in my hand, and no spectacles on your nose? Would you tell me that?”
More incomprehension. Frown, and shake your head, Herr Wiesehöfer!
“I do not understand.” He spread his hands. “I am wearing my dummy1
contact lenses . . . Do you not have contact lenses in England?” He had the man now.
“F-what?” For the first time Kelly was taken aback, and Benedikt blessed the ultimate insistence on detail—the final rule which he had obeyed automatically because it was laid down to be obeyed.
Benedikt pointed at his eyes, confident of the tiny plain lenses which only an expert could differentiate from the real thing, and which had once helped him to accustom himself to the false ones.
“I wear my spectacles . . . sometimes . . . and my lenses sometimes . . . If you wish to see them, I can oblige you. But. . . I do not understand—I do not understand anything that you are saying—or doing!” he looked at Miss Becky despairingly. “—
Fräulein, if you would tell me, please, what is happening?”
Miss Becky looked at Kelly. “Michael—?”
Perhaps it was time for the rotten excuse at last, thought Benedikt.
Kelly frowned at him, the lines round his mouth working deeper.
“We still don’t know why he was in the spinney, Miss Becky.”
It was time. “I was walking on the hills ... I left my car at a village
—I do not remember ... it is Rockbourne, perhaps—or Wimbourne ... or Wimbury or Rockbury, or Rockbury St Martin—
I do not remember . . . But I walked upon the hills, and it grew dark, and I lost my way.” With the contact lenses in support, the rotten excuse wasn’t so bad: they weren’t the border police, and he wasn’t behind the line on the Other Side, after all. “I saw the light in the valley—”
There was a dull boom—the sound of a heavy door closing dummy1
somewhere within the house—the echo of which both cut him off and roused them both out of their evident embarrassment.
Another boom, nearer now. Audley ... if it was Audley, they were both glad now, he could see it in their expressions—
But should he be glad? After believing that he was beaten, now he knew he was winning? Except that . . . even if Audley accepted the plain contact lenses in support of his explanation . . . that illegal Luger pistol tied him to the illegality of whatever they were doing, making him too hot to let loose, after all that had happened to him, in the pit and afterwards—
The latch on the door behind Kelly snapped as sharp as a pistol-shot, so that it was a credit to the Irishman’s nerves that he didn’t move a muscle, except to drop the discredited spectacle-case quickly into his pocket, as Dr David Audley came through the doorway like the wrath of God.
“What the hell’s happening?” Audley took in the three of them at a glance. “What’s he doing here?” The glance ranged back from Benedikt to Gunner Kelly, taking fire from what it observed. “For Christ’s sake—what’s that bloody cannon out for?”
“Oh, David—” began Miss Becky, and then stopped.
“We caught him in Number Two pit, in the spinney, sir. And he’s not after telling us why he was there.” Kelly swallowed. “An‘ the Police have been all round the village, the bastards—”
“I know that.” Audley gestured dismissively. “I stopped off at the Bells—”
“They didn’t get anything, sir,” cut in Kelly quickly. “The till was dummy1
open, an‘ the curtains closed—an’ the door locked, an‘ Davey knew the names an’ addresses of everyone that was drinkin‘ there, as was his guests after hours—we’ve taken no trouble from that, I swear.”
“No trouble? Christ, man—the Police weren’t born yesterday!
There should have been nobody there, with the ford covered—and Rachel should have been in her transparent nightgown to make them ashamed for knocking at her door.” Audley shook his head angrily. “I leave the Chase for a few hours . . . and every damn thing falls apart, as though I’d never been here. You’re not fit to take a punt from one side of the Cam to the other!”
Kelly drew a breath. “But sir—”
“Silence, Gunner Kelly!” Audley sniffed. “Small bloody wonder you couldn’t hold the stripe of a lance-bombardier from one pay day to the next—you wouldn’t have held any rank in my regiment either, that did the real work at the sharp end, where there were real Germans, by Christ!”
“Sir!” Doubt and outrage warred in Kelly’s objection.
“Don’t you dare sir me, with that souvenir, taken by a better man than you, in your hand! Christ, almighty! As if I didn’t know all I wanted to know about gunners—I should have my head examined . . . Becky now—my god-daughter, who’s no fool, so I’ve fondly believed until now, says you’re no idiot— you tell me . . . what’s supposed to be happening—if you can?”
Benedikt was much reassured by this outburst of anger, in spite of appearances to the contrary. Because . . . if the Kom-missar in dummy1
Wiesbaden had nothing to say about Gunner Kelly and Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith, it had had quite a lot to reveal about David Audley, if not who his god-daughter was; and nothing had been said about losing his cool, except for some very good reason, so there had to be a very good reason for this.