‘My dear Brigadier,’ his opening remarks carried a small but perceptible coolness as a result. Perhaps the soldier simply wished to make it clear that he was a War Office body, and not a Foreign Office one? It was a clumsy way to do it. Nevertheless, and somewhat to his own annoyance, Mountolive felt himself rather drawn to this lean and solitary-looking figure with its tired eyes and lustreless voice. His ugliness had a certain determined elegance.
His ancient dinner-clothes were not very carefully pressed and brushed, but the quality of the material and cut were both excellent. Maskelyne sipped his drink slowly and calmly, lowering his greyhound’s muzzle towards his glass circumspectly. He scrutinized Mountolive with the utmost coolness. They exchanged the formal politeness of host and guest for a while, and somewhat to his own annoyance, Mountolive found himself liking him despite the dry precarious manner. He suddenly seemed to see in him one who, like himself, had hesitated to ascribe any particular meaning to life.
The presence of servants excluded any but the most general exchanges during the dinner they shared, seated out upon the lawn, and Maskelyne seemed content to bide his time. Only once the name of Pursewarden came up and he said with his offhand air: ‘Yes. I hardly know him, of course, except officially. The odd thing is that his father — surely the name is too uncommon for me to be wrong? — his father was in my company during the war. He picked up an M.C. Indeed, I actually composed the citation which put him up for it: and of course, I had the disagreeable next-of-kin jobs. The son must have been a mere child then, I suppose. Of course, I may be wrong — not that it matters.’ Mountolive was intrigued. ‘As a matter of fact’ he said, ‘I think you are right — he mentioned something of the kind to me once.
Have you ever talked to him about it?’
‘Good Heavens, no! Why should I?’ Maskelyne seemed very faintly shocked. ‘The son isn’t really … my kind of person’ he said quietly but without animus, simply as a statement of fact.
‘He … I … well, I read a book of his once.’ He stopped abruptly as if everything had been said; as if the subject had been disposed of for all time.
‘He must have been a brave man’ said Mountolive after an interval.
‘Yes — or perhaps not’ said his guest slowly, thoughtfully.
He paused. ‘One wonders. He wasn’t a real soldier. One saw it quite often at the front. Sometimes acts of gallantry come as much out of cowardice as bravery — that is the queer thing.
His act, particularly, I mean, was really an unsoldierly one.
Oddly enough.’
‘But ——’ protested Mountolive.
‘Let me make myself clear. There is a difference between a necessary act of bravery and an unnecessary one. If he had remembered his training as a soldier, he would not have done what he did. It may sound like a quibble. He lost his head, quite literally, and acted without thinking. I admire him enormously as a man, but not as a soldier. Our life is a good deal more exacting — it is a science, you know, or should be.’ He spoke thoughtfully in his dry, clearly enunciated way. It was clear that the topic was one which he had often debated in his own mind.
‘I wonder’ said Mountolive.
‘I may be wrong’ admitted the soldier.
The soft-footed servants had withdrawn at last, leaving them to their wine and cigars, and Maskelyne felt free to touch upon the real subject of his visit. ‘I expect you’ve studied all the differences which have arisen between ourselves and your political branch. They have been extremely sharp; and we are all waiting for you to resolve them.’ Mountolive nodded. ‘They have all been resolved as far as I am concerned’ he said with the faintest tinge of annoyance (he disliked being hurried). ‘I had a conference with your General on Tuesday and set out a new grouping which I am sure will please you. You will get a confirming signal this week ordering you to transfer your show to Jerusalem, which is to become the senior post and headquarters. This will obviate questions of rank and precedence; you can leave a staging post here under Telford, who is a civilian, but it will of course be a junior post.
For convenience it can work to us and liaise with our Service Departments.’ A silence fell. Maskelyne studied the ash of his cigar while the faintest trace of a smile hovered at the edges of his mouth.
‘So Pursewarden wins’ he said quietly. ‘Well, well!’ Mountolive was both surprised and insulted by his smile, though in truth it seemed entirely without malice.
‘Pursewarden’ he said quietly ‘has been reprimanded for suppressing a War Office paper; on the other hand, I happen to know the subject of the paper rather well and I agree that you should supplement it more fully before asking us to take action.’
‘We are trying, as a matter of fact; Telford is putting down a grid about this Hosnani man — but some of the candidates put forward by Pursewarden seem to be rather … well, prejudicial, to put it mildly. However, Telford is trying to humour him by engaging them. But … well, there’s one who sells information to the Press, and one who is at present consoling the Hosnani lady.
Then there’s another, Scobie, who spends his time dressed as a woman walking about the harbour at Alexandria — it would be a charity to suppose him in quest of police information. Altogether, I shall be quite glad to confide the net to Telford and tackle something a bit more serious. What people!’
‘As I don’t know the circumstances yet’ said Mountolive quietly ‘I can’t comment. But I shall look into it.’
‘I’ll give you an example’ said Maskelyne ‘of their general efficiency. Last week Telford detailed this policeman called Scobie to do a routine job. When the Syrians want to be clever, they don’t use a diplomatic courier; they confide their pouch to a lady, the vice-consul’s niece, who takes it down to Cairo by train. We wanted to see the contents of one particular pouch — details of arms shipments, we thought. Gave Scobie some doped chocolates — with the doped one clearly marked. His job was to send the lady to sleep for a couple of hours and walk off with her pouch.
Do you know what happened? He was found doped in the train when it got to Cairo and couldn’t be wakened for nearly twentyfour hours. We had to put him into the American hospital.
Apparently as he sat down in the lady’s compartment, the train gave a sudden jolt and all the chocolates turned over in their wrappers. The one we had so carefully marked was now upside down; he could not remember which it was. In his panic, he ate it himself. Now I ask you….’ Maskelyne’s humourless eye flashed as he retailed this story. ‘Such people are not to be trusted’ he added, acidly.
‘I promise you I’ll investigate the suitability of anyone proposed by Pursewarden; I also promise that if you mark papers to me there will be no hitch, and no repetition of this unauthorized behaviour.’
‘Thank you.’ He seemed genuinely grateful as he rose to take his leave. He waved away the beflagged duty car at the front door, muttering something about ‘an evening constitutional’, and walked off down the drive, putting on a fight overcoat to hide his dinnerjacket. Mountolive stood at the front door and watched his tall, lean figure moving in and out of the yellow pools of lamplight, absurdly elongated by distance. He sighed with relief and weariness. It had been a heavy day. ‘So much for Maskelyne.’ He returned to the deserted lawns to have one last drink in the silence before he retired to bed. Altogether, the work completed that day had not been unsatisfactory. He had disposed of a dozen disagreeable duties of which telling Maskelyne about his future had been perhaps the hardest. Now he could relax.