Elizabeth signed. In the silence of Paul's failure to reply to Audley's last remark she heard the scratch of the pen on the paper.
"Good." Audley folded the forms and transferred them to his hip pocket, where the identification folder was stowed.
Elizabeth observed that Paul looked decidedly miserable, and not at all the confident young man she had first seen in the mirror. If she'd wanted to go on hating him it would have been difficult, but now it was impossible.
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" Elizabeth Jane Varney Loftus" said Audley reflectively.
"'Varney' for the naval Varneys, on your mother's side, from way back—from Boscawen and Hawke, and the Seven Years'
War, and all the other wars thereafter . . . There was a Varney who was Admiral of the Blue in the West Indies, I remember from my history books—and that must have perked up the family fortunes, with his admiral's share of prize-money—
how much was that in those days?"
"One eighth." The mention of money made Elizabeth uneasy.
"One eighth up to 1808, less after that."
"This was back in the eighteenth century . . . one eighth? Plus head-money, and gun-money, and sundry other trifles—very nice!" Audley nodded. "So ... an old and distinguished naval family, and you the very last of them, after the Dogger Bank in ' 14, and Sulva Bay in '15, and the Murmansk run in '43."
He wasn't reading—the suitcase was open on the bed now, but from where she knelt she couldn't see its contents. But he hadn't dipped into it, anyway; so this was what was already in his head, about grandfather and his uncles, and all her other Varney ancestors.
"Beside the Varneys, the Loftuses were pretty small beer—in trade in the West Country, was it? So your mother was a good catch, at least in naval terms, for Lieutenant-Commander Hugh Loftus, even with his VC? Would that be right?"
How much did he know? Did he also know that Mother had dummy3
been beautiful, judging by those portraits which were all that she had inherited? Or that Grandmother Varney, judged from the same source, had been even more beautiful, in her diamonds and her dresses?
It occurred to Elizabeth that if Paul Mitchell had had the run of the house last night those might be exactly Audley's sources, with much more beside—and that she had the right at least to disapprove of such an intrusion into her privacy.
"I can't say I've really ever thought of it, Mr Audley."
"No ... of course, they were all gone before your time—and your mother too, when you were a baby—very sad!" Audley commiserated insincerely. "Which just left you and the Commander, and in somewhat straitened circumstances when he was invalided out, I take it?"
She had been right to feel uneasy: it was the money he was working towards. But how much could he know about that, beyond what she had blabbed yesterday to Paul. But how much more could old Mr Lovell add to that?
"Father had his writing, Mr Audley." Her apprehension increased as she thought of Mr Lovell. If she was now a most valued client he was nonetheless a pillar of the Establishment, and if the Establishment leaned on him he might well bend his ear to it. Yet, at the same time, her own backbone stiffened: if they thought she was going to give in easily, they were very much mistaken. "He made a new career for himself with his books."
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"Yes. Just so!" He flicked a look at Paul Mitchell, who seemed to be busy studying the pattern on the carpet. "But Dr Mitchell and I have some small experience of the writer's trade, Miss Loftus . . . and the fact is, your father didn't write many books over the years—good ones, I'm sure, but not many . . . and not best-sellers." Audley's voice harshencd.
"Or, to put it another way, I've spoken with his publishers, and I don't think his royalties matched his tastes."
Now Elizabeth knew where she was, and what she was: she was the USS President making a run for it off the Long Island shore in 1815, straight out of Father's article for the British Naval Review . . . heavily laden, and damaged below the water-line while crossing the bar off Staten Island, and with half the British fleet in hot pursuit. But a run for it she was going to make, nevertheless!
"Mr Audley, I really don't see what this is leading to—or what business of yours my father's royalties are—or his tastes."
She had to get the mixture just right, with equal parts of incomprehension, irritation and innocence. "And I certainly don't see what it's got to do with that document I signed."
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Paul Mitchell half-smiling at the carpet, as though he had noticed a joke in the pattern.
"Are we going to play games after all, Miss Loftus?" Audley gazed at her. "You disappoint me."
" I'm not playing games—"
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"Mitchell." Audley ignored her. "The box!"
It was the Vengeful box, of course—and Audley made his point by emptying a cascade of five pound notes on the carpet in front of her.
Audley looked at her. "And if you're about to tell me that your father was a gambling man . . ." he shook his head ". . .
please don't, because I'm not about to believe it."
It wasn't going to be a 36-hour stern chase after all, thought Elizabeth desolately—she was going to strike her colours long before Decatur had done. But it wasn't really Audley who had beaten her.
"I know you told Mitchell that—and when he might have believed you . . . that was resourceful, Miss Loftus—I grant you that." They both knew she was going to surrender, she saw that in his face, as he looked down at the money, and then back at her. "There's more than this, isn't there? You've got safe deposit keys lodged with your solicitor—oh yes, your safe deposits, I don't doubt that . . . the Commander was resourceful too—like daughter, like father, I don't doubt that either."
Mr Lovell had talked. But, what was worse, Mr Lovell had been much more observant than was good for her.
"Your safe deposits—but his loot." He had her in range now.
"And this is just the tip of the iceberg."
She felt cold enough for it to be just that. And she couldn't fight him any more because she had never in her heart really dummy3
believed the gambling story, but had simply chosen never to question it.
A token resistance, for form's sake if not for honour's, was all she could make. "What makes you ... so sure . . . that he didn't win it?"
"My dear—practically everything." He gazed at her with a suggestion of sympathy which she found humiliating. "Like, for instance, retired naval officers of an academic persuasion aren't often given to gambling ... or, if they are it's usually common knowledge. And the house would have been full of bits of evidence, from bookies' phone numbers in his address book to old race-cards shoved behind the cushions . . . And if it wasn't horses, then he'd be known around the clubs—
especially if he was a big winner, believe me." He paused.
"Which, of course, he wouldn't have been—he'd have been a loser. And that's almost the clincher by itself. He just didn't have the right form."
Of course, they would be experts on this sort of thing, reflected Elizabeth, because gamblers would always be security hazards. And, anyway, if Father's story had never really convinced her, it would be no match for them, just as she was no match for them.
"Apart from which there's your statement—Mitchell!" Audley passed the stapled sheets to her—not the original, she noted, but a photo-copied copy. "This is your account of what happened yesterday, between the time you left the village fête and . . . Mitchell's second coming, if I may call it that—as dummy3
witnessed by Aske and written and signed of your own free will?"
He was closing in on her now. But however disastrous the revelation of the safe deposits might be, that wasn't her real worry, not now.