“The bomb was for Kelly.” He studied a middle-aged man who was loitering near the panel bearing the Tiger’s biography. But then the man’s family joined him. “He knows who was responsible, and he has some way of communicating with him, to get him to try again. Only this time he’ll be ready for him.” Now there was another possibility: a good-looking young man in a beautifully-cut lightweight suit had joined the family group, but was not part of it.
“Correct.” Audley pointed suddenly towards the Tiger’s turret.
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“See that gouge on the trunnion there? That was made by an anti-tank shot . . . six-pounder AP, most likely . . .” He waited until the young man had sauntered past them, to disappear beyond a neighbouring Mark V Panther in the direction of the armoured car hall. “Go on.”
Benedikt stared at him. “Is it really vengeance that he wants? What does he really want?”
“Yes . . .” Audley met his gaze for a moment, then let his glance wander again. “That is the heart of the matter: what is he really up to?”
There was still no likely prospect in sight, only one harassed mother being dragged by one small boy while trying vainly to keep two others in view simultaneously.
“What did he tell the people in the Chase?” Benedikt fended off one of the small boys who was about to collide with him. “Miss Becky? And Blackie Nabb ... and Old Cecil?”
“And others. Wally Grant and Ron Turnbull, the two main tenant farmers. And Ken Tailor, who runs the shop. And Mike Kramer at the garage up on the road and Dave and Rachel in the Bells.”
Audley nodded. “He started with them ... the ones with the influence.”
“What did he say?”
Audley thought for a time without replying. “Yes ... I’ve told you how they all felt about the Old General—the Squire . . . their Squire.” He looked at Benedikt candidly. “I’ve never come across anything quite like it before. I’ve heard about it—I’ve read about dummy1
it ... but I didn’t think it still existed.” He half-smiled. “It’s like stumbling on a secret valley and finding an extinct animal grazing peacefully there ... Or a mythical beast, even—a unicorn, maybe?”
“But this unicorn has a sharp horn.”
“Oh yes! And sharp hoofs to kick with, and teeth to bite with.
Unicorns were only gentle with virgins.” The half-smile faded. “He told them at least some of the truth, it seems—perhaps he told them all of it that could be told. That’s what he says, anyway.”
Benedikt waited. There were two youths in jeans passing by, with two little painted girls, oblivious of everything but each other.
“He said it was all his fault—that the bomb was for him. He admitted that straight off. His fault. But not deliberately his fault—
not expected . . . and not deserved, either—”
“Not deserved?” Benedikt frowned.
Audley held up a finger. “I’ll come back to that. What he said was that there’d been someone hunting him for a long time, trying to get the crossed wires on him—that he’d been running for a long time before he’d come to Duntisbury Chase. And even then he hadn’t come for the job the Squire had advertised—‘ Man Friday wanted, ex-gunner preferred’—he’d simply remembered his officer from long ago, when killing was in fashion, and he’d only come for advice. ‘ In a tight corner, the Squire always knew what to do’, was what he remembered.”
So what followed had been inevitable, thought Benedikt. At least, inevitable, the Old General being the man he had been. “So he got the job instead?”
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“Not instead—because, more likely. The Chase was off the beaten track ... no one comes to Duntisbury Royal, it isn’t on the way to anywhere. And what the job entailed didn’t involve going anywhere, either. . . So four years, he’s been here . . .and the first three of them he didn’t step further than Kramer’s garage, to take the Old General’s car for its occasional service. It was only the last few months he’d driven the old boy to Salisbury and Bournemouth, to his tailor and his wine merchant, and such like . . . Between them, they reckoned the trail must have gone cold . . . Or, it wouldn’t likely be very hot in Salisbury or Bournemouth.”
Benedikt thought of the cathedral and its quiet close, with its old houses and cool green grass; and Bournemouth was the seaside town to which elderly English gentlefolk retired on their pensions and their dividends. Bombs and snipers belonged in neither of them.
“ ‘Sanctuary’—that was Kelly’s word for it: ‘He gave me sanctuary’, he told them—Becky and the rest. ‘And now I’ve killed him for it, as sure as if I’d set that bomb meself.’ ”
They should have known better, the Old General and Gunner Kelly between them, thought Benedikt—that there was no place safe from sudden death if defenders were not vigilant— not the bishop’s Salisbury, not the pensioners’ Bournemouth . . . and not peaceful Duntisbury Royal either—there was the Fighting Man to remind him of that.
No safe place . . . He looked round again, and saw that for the first time they were quite alone beside the Tiger. It must be getting near to the museum’s lunchtime closure.
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“So now the Squire was dead, and he was still a target. Which meant it was time for him to start running again.”
“Why was he a target?”
“All in good time, my dear chap. I’m telling it to you how he told it to them. He could run again—nothing easier. He had his pension from the army, he could have that sent anywhere. And he had his savings, and four years’ wages that he’d hardly touched—he could run a long way on that, and maybe even far enough this time.”
Still no one. The American must be having difficulty persuading his contact that Audley could be trusted.
“But this time was different. He wasn’t going to run this time.
There was a score to settle this time.” Audley paused.
“He’d been lying low in the Chase, working that out. Those that were after him would reckon he’d run already, but when he was ready he had a way of letting them know where he was. And then when they came he was going to repay them in their own coin. He owed that for the Squire. What happened afterwards was no matter.
But, also because of the Squire, he owed them in the Chase the telling of what he was going to do. That was all.”
All? thought Benedikt, lining up what he had observed of the people of the Chase as well as what he had been told about them, and then adding Gunner Kelly to it. Because then, all was what it wasn’t: it wasn’t an end, it could only be—and had been—merely a beginning.
So he could jump the next question, having the answer to it, and go on to the more interesting one that followed it.
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“He knew they’d insist on helping him?” As he spoke he saw that Audley had been watching him. “He calculated it?”
The big Englishman relaxed slightly. “Right. No proof. . . but. . .
right.”
“Do they know?” He thought of Blackie Nabb handling the police at the ford. “They are not stupid, all of them.”
“You’re dead right they’re not stupid, all of them!” Audley spoke feelingly. “But Kelly is a remarkable man, you know.”
“A man of many voices?” He remembered the previous night’s events.
Audley smiled. “You’ve encountered that, have you?”
“The question is ... how many of his tongues are forked . . .?” He did not find it easy to smile back. The roles Gunner Kelly was playing ranged too widely for that: he could be the ultimately loyal soldier, devoted to the avenging of his liege-lord’s murder at the risk of his own life, and therefore not too scrupulous about manipulating others who owed the same service. But he could also be a clever man planning to end a long pursuit by using others to destroy his pursuers.