By ‘we’, you see, I mean your daughter Jane and me.
The fault, however, is all mine, not Jane’s. Becky Maxwell-Smith, a friend of hers at Bristol University, confided in her. Being your cleverest one Jane smelt bad trouble. But— still being your cleverest— she also knew that you were up to your ears in work (Cheltenham) and that I was on leave, so she turned to me.
Unwisely, as it turned out, but she can hardly be blamed for assuming that I represented Age and Wisdom, for not knowing that I was going through one of my accidie periods (why the hell didn ‘t dummy1
you give me Cheltenham? I’ve a friend teaching modern languages there at school)— bored out of my mind and ready for any mischief.
The moment I arrived at Duntisbury Chase I was lost: that marvellous place— a little world of its own under its unbelievable sky—and that Irishman.
You know my hang-ups about the Irish— which probably date from the time 1 fluffed a question at Cambridge on Elizabeth Tudor’s Irish policy: I just don’t understand them. But I’d read the Maxwell memo (saying that it was definitely not an IRA hit) before I went on leave. So he seemed a safe enough object for close study
— at least, that’s what I told myself.
Self-indulgence and stupidity— I know! But it was good fun— and I was able to watch over Becky, as I’d promised— until our loyal Bundesnachrichtendienst ally turned up out of the blue. I should have reported to you then, but I thought I’d stand a better chance with you if I came bearing gifts— namely, how and why the Germans had reached Duntisbury Chase ahead of us (or, in this case,you, Jack—to be brutally frank), as well as Gunner Kelly’s secret, whatever it might be.
As it turned out, Captain Schneider’s explanation for his presence was— and is— decidedly thin, which made me all the more curious about his appearance. I wanted more, but I had an appointment with one of my American contacts, who was digging dirt on Gunner Kelly for me in recompense for past favours.
And that, of course, produced the dynamite too unstable for me to handle, which I brought to you with my tail between my legs— not least because I was terrified that the next thing we’d get in dummy1
Duntisbury Chase was a herd of CIA tourists sampling the rural charms of the place, and making Michael bolt— and scaring off Aloysius (if he was alive).
The problem was, as I explained briefly when I saw you, that I couldn’t be in two places at once, for only saints have the gift of bi-location. But I had to see you— so I had to trust Captain Schneider.
Had to? That’s unfair to him: I sent him back to the Chase because I trusted him— not because I had no choice.
Or trusted him on one level, anyway. Because I’m damn sure he lied about his reason for being there. More likely— more humiliatingly likely, if their Wiesbaden computer is as good as rumour has it— he was there because he already knew about Aloysius Kelly’s connection with Michael Kelly and they surely wanted Aloysius just as much as we did, if not more. He put on a damn good show of innocence, right to the end. And he’s a very sharp and resourceful young man, as well as being a brave one (like we said in the war: when they ‘re bad, they ’re very, very bad. . .but when they ‘re good, they’re sometimes a damn sight better than us; and he’s very much his father’s son, and his father by all accounts was very good indeed).
The point is, I had my source on him (but mostly on his father), and I liked the cut of his jib. You might say he’s everything I’m not—
or, seeing that I’m the wrong generation (the war-wounded one), he’s everything that our pupil Paul Mitchell isn’t: Paul is English, with a cynical-pragmatic French strain— Benedikt Schneider is half-English, but actually all German . . . serious (Christian), efficient, perhaps rather sentimental-romantic, but above all dummy1
honourable. In fact, allowing that he wasn’t old and bruised and rubbed all over with alcohol, and more than half-crazy and Prussian with it, he was like old Blücher after Ligny and before Waterloo. When I left him in the tank museum, he ‘d given me his word and he meant to keep it.
So I trusted him, anyway— I even told him about Aloysius Kelly, if he didn’t know already, so that he wouldn’t go back to the Chase not knowing who he might end up against.
And you know how things went wrong after that, at our end—your end— with you at Cheltenham, and the time we lost because of that: my fault— my sin— mihi paenitet— or is it me paenitet, I can’t remember, my Latin’s getting rustier every day— but I lost the hours of life and death that mattered there, Jack. So I was on the road back, south from Cheltenham, when it all blew up. And every time I get it wrong, someone dies— like that young policeman died, and like lovely Frances died—
“Captain Schneider!” Miss Becky exhibited equal measures of surprise and envy. “Where’s David? And where did you get that car? What a beautiful colour!”
Smile. “It’s called ‘Champagne’.” It was a woman’s colour, certainly: left to himself, he would have chosen silver in Germany, and British Racing Green in Britain if Volkswagen offered that shade. “I borrowed it from one of his armoured corps friends.”
Smile again. “He is a Panzer man, from long ago, Fräulein—I have learnt that this day, at the tank museum which is in the middle of dummy1
nowhere.”
The smile came back to him. “At Bovington?” Her face lit up.
“He’s a dragoon, actually. It’s rather nice—how they still have
‘dragoons’ and ’hussars‘—and ’the Household Cavalry‘, who ride horses only for the Queen, but really drive tanks and such things.”