'Fair enough. You can be a Ministry of Defence man charged with deep condolence from the Minister himself. That will please the old girl at least. And then you can come and have a drink with us.'
Jones's tone implied that he did not consider the occasion one for condolences, which was not really surprising under the circumstances. 'The old girl' could only mean Steerforth's mother, for Jones was not the sort of man who could refer to his wife in such terms.
Margaret Jones, the Margaret Steerforth of 25 years before, was still an attractive woman — one of those women who fined down with age. Her beauty had not faded, but had mellowed to serenity which not even the present strain had disrupted.
'My dear,' Jones took his wife's hand in an easy, affectionate way–
he did everything with the same air of confidence, 'this is Mr Audley, from London. He is representing the Minister of Defence.'
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Audley muttered a few conventional words awkwardly. He still thought of her as Steerforth's wife, and had to force himself to address her correctly. She looked at him as though she could sense the cause of his confusion, but was far too well-bred to let it disturb her.
'It's good of you to come, Mr Audley,' she said evenly. 'The Air Force authorities have been very considerate. As you can imagine, this has all been rather a shock to us, the past coming back so suddenly after all these years.'
Jones took the pause which followed–Audley could think of no appropriate reply–to introduce the older woman who hovered at Margaret Jones's shoulder.
Audley took in the blue-rinsed white hair and well-corseted figure.
Not quite grande dame, but trying hard to be, he thought, and mercifully not too sharp-looking.
'I heard, Martin. As Margaret said, the authorities have been most considerate. And you are connected with the Royal Air Force, Mr Ordway?'
It seemed simpler to say that he was. Mrs Steerforth dabbed her eye with a handkerchief.
'It took me back many years to see those young officers carrying the — carrying my son. So young, they were. Always so young.
Just like Johnnie and his crew. You were too young to take part in the war, Mr Ordway?'
She looked at him. Then her eyes unfocused, dismissing him.
'He was such a fine boy, Mr Ordway. And such a good pilot–they dummy4
all said so. I miss him still. We all miss him.'
She spoke as though Jones, right beside her, did not exist. Yet clearly she wasn't trying to be offensive: hers was simply the narrowed viewpoint of the elderly, the self-comforting assumption that her feelings would be shared by all sensible people. An assumption in this case probably fed by an obsessive love.
Jones seemed resigned to her disregard, but her words hung embarrassingly between them and she pressed on to make things worse, focusing on Audley again.
'And this is my granddaughter,' she said with emphasis, '—my son's daughter.'
The baby girl of this morning's file was a tall, thin ash blonde, and there was no doubt about her parentage. She had not only her father's fairness and bone structure, but also the same haughty stare. Only it was coloured now by indifference, not discontent: Steerforth's daughter evidently found her father's funeral something of a bore.
The Jones boys, both in their late teens, were less thoroughbred and more sympathetic. Where their step-sister looked bored they were obviously intrigued with this forgotten chapter from their mother's past.
'My dear,' said Jones, 'I've invited Mr Audley back to the farm for a drink. I can show him the way and Charles can drive you back. It was rather a squash coming, anyway.'
The elder Jones boy hastened to protest his ability with the family car and his mother seemed almost pleased by the prospect. It dummy4
occurred to Audley that she saw him as a target for her mother-in-law's proud memories rather than a welcome guest.
But the opportunity was too perfect to miss, whatever ulterior motives prompted it, and he accepted with the merest pretence of reluctance.
As he led the way to the car he caught a glimpse of Roskill talking earnestly with a young man holding a notebook. Prising out the list of mourners. He caught Roskill's eye briefly, and had no time to avoid being snapped by a photographer who seemed to spring up from nowhere.
'Have you had much trouble with the Press?' he asked.
'Not more than I expected. None with the locals–I was NFU
chairman last year and I'm well in with them. We had a few chaps from London–they must be damn short of news. But I was civilised with them and they were reasonable enough. There's no story to be had here anyway.'
They reached the car, and for a moment their eyes met over the roof.
'He was a good pilot, you know,' said Jones conversationally. 'But I wouldn't have described him as a fine boy in a hundred years. He was a selfish bastard.'
Obviously, reflected Audley as they drove off, there was little to be gained from a gentle approach either. Jones had accepted him with too little surprise to be trapped into revealing any long-held secrets he still wished to hold.
'You didn't say that 25 years ago.'
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'I don't remember what I said 25 years ago. But I had squadron loyalties then. And I hadn't met his widow then, never mind married her.
'I know I didn't believe that he was dead, certainly–and I didn't say that either. Turn left here.'
They branched off the secondary road on to an even narrower one which steadily climbed the shoulder of the Downs. Already the plain was flattening out below them.
'Why didn't you think he was dead?'
'Don't you think you had better explain what you want? And you can show me your credentials first, just in case. I do remember that there were some rather odd characters asking questions in the old days. I take it you are some form of military intelligence.'
Audley smiled to himself as he passed over his identification.
Some form indeed!
Jones passed back the wallet. 'You don't look the type. But I assume that is to be expected. Not that you aren't big enough.'
'Why didn't you think he was dead?' Audley repeated.
Jones was silent for a moment.
'It's not going to be easy remembering anything fresh,' he said slowly. 'But you'd better get one or two things clear from the start.
'I had nothing to hide then, nothing personal, and I've got nothing to hide now. I flew with Steerforth that one time only–as a passenger. You've read the record, I'm sure. I'd been stuck in Berlin with food-poisoning. It just happened to be his plane I flew back in. He was always wangling the Berlin flights.
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'And I hardly knew him. I only went to see his widow because the other chaps were crocked up. I fell for her then, and I married her as soon as it was legal, when Faith was just a tot.'
Jones paused again.
'They are two of the four people I love best. I'll tell you now that I'm not going to have them pushed around by anyone. And I'm not going to be pushed either. Not just to set your records straight. I don't care what he did.'
Audley pulled the car on to the shoulder of the road, on to a patch of smooth, wind-driven turf. He turned the engine off and sat back, wondering how Roskill or Butler would handle this man.
'You're ahead of me, Mr Jones. A long way ahead of me.'
'That's where it's always best to be.'
The wind whipped the downland grass beside the car. It was peaceful, but not in the least still, very much like his own Sussex Downs. He watched the birds wheeling and diving over the fields.
Down below a toylike tractor was busy.
If Jones had not believed in Steerforth's death he must have had long years of uncertainty, waiting for the knock on the door. But would that have sharpened his wits so much over the years?
Sharpened them so much that he was able to identify Audley straight off?
Jumping to conclusions was what he himself was supposed to be so good at. It was disconcerting to be on the receiving end.