"So what do you deduce from all that?" said Mitchell sharply.
dummy3
"I deduce, Dr Mitchell, that Ray Tuck saw it—or read it ...
doesn't matter which . . . and then he knew at last who the golden goose was—that's what I deduce. And because he hadn't time to suck the eggs, because of the way Danny's leaning on him for his money, he sold the whole goose—beak, feathers, gizzard, daughter and all. An' Danny reacted predictably, by not wanting to go on from wherever Lippy left off, just taking his cut like any honest villain, but going for the whole goose too. Because he's a greedy sod, an' because he's got his own troubles, with the recession, like any other businessman, and he's in need of capital just now."
"Why did he call in Oakenshaw, though?" asked Paul. "Why didn't he do the job himself?"
"Ah . . . now that's where the real guesswork comes in—
though to my mind it also strengthens the rest of it." Del paused for a moment, first considering Mitchell, then Elizabeth. "Now, I don't know what your dad was up to, dear
—it was dodgy, but I don't know what it was anywhere near, or how it fits in with what Dr Audley there wants . . . except that the name Vengeful comes into it somewhere . . . But I suspect it's not going to be easy to suss out, either way, an' I reckon Danny came to the same conclusion. Because, as I say, Danny's not stupid ... an' after he'd thought about what Ray Tuck gave him I think he decided that he needed real brains—trained, analytical brains ... a scholar, if you like. An'
that. . . apart from being a nasty-little murdering, torturing swine . . . was what Master Julian Oakenshaw was. An'
dummy3
Danny knew it, because he'd used Oakenshaw before, according to the skipper at Tower Bridge nick."
"So where's Danny Kahn now?"
"That's the next piece that fits in," Del nodded. "Because Danny's gone to ground too, like Ray Tuck. 'Off on holiday in foreign parts', his Number Two says. An' no forwarding address because he doesn't want to be disturbed, 'cause he's been working so hard, an' needs a complete rest." Del's lip curled. "But he was still around yesterday, and he hasn't taken his latest girl-friend with him. So my next guess is that, with Julian Oakenshaw not surfacing—and Steve Donahue and Willie Fullick also absent without leave . . . and me going through the Jolly Caulkers like the fear of God . . . Danny's running scared too. Because he'll not only know the Old Bill is asking about Lippy and Ray Tuck, but with his contacts he may even know that I'm no longer the same Old Bill he knows and loves, but one of the funnies from the Special Branch who can be a whole lot meaner."
"And what are the chances of finding him?"
"Of finding Danny, Dr Mitchell? Slim . . . Danny's the sort that's smart enough to plan for a rainy day, is the Tower Bridge opinion. But with Ray Tuck, we've got a better chance
—assuming that he hasn't already gone to the great dole queue in the sky—because no one's scared of him, like of Danny . . . and there's still one or two of Lippy's old mates that'd like to see 'im cut down to size for takin' Lippy's name in vain—Ray Tuck don't count as family any more, that's dummy3
going to be his epitaph if Danny Kahn hasn't carved it on 'im already."
Paul Mitchell drew a deep breath, almost a sigh. "I don't see how we're going to get anywhere without one of them." He looked towards Audley. "And if Danny Kahn is in with Novikov by any remote chance . . . which I still frankly doubt . . . then they both know more than we do, David. So whatever you're planning for Elizabeth—I don't like it. Our best bet is to keep her under wraps, and let Del here have his head, and give him all the manpower he needs."
That was one score to Paul's credit, thought Elizabeth, observing both men through the candlelight across the table.
Because Del Andrew and Paul Mitchell were chalk and cheese, and sculptured by their backgrounds to be competitors even though they were on the same side; and also, doing nothing would be as much against Paul's nature as against Del's—in that they were brothers, because doing nothing was boring, and because no one could shine while doing nothing. But here was Paul, nevertheless, conceding the short corner to Del. ...
"Wrong," said David Audley, almost insultingly, pouring more port into his glass, and then offering the decanter to Elizabeth.
"No thank you, David. But why is Paul wrong?" She felt an absurd loyalty for Paul Mitchell now, in spite of his arrogance.
"Not wholly wrong, Elizabeth." Audley pushed the decanter dummy3
towards Mitchell. "Del must have his head—a free hand to scour everything south of the river—I agree . . . But we still have the edge on Kahn and Novikov, my dear."
"How?" said Elizabeth quickly, before Paul could ask the same question. Because it was her turn to fight now, even if she didn't know why.
"Because we have what Oakenshaw was going to take from you—" Audley's hand had already been reaching inside his coat pocket "—and most particularly we have this—" he slid a piece of folded paper across the table to her.
It was a letter. Pale blue paper, shakily hand-written—
Dear Commander Loftus—
Elizabeth looked at the address—it was nowhere she had ever heard of: somewhere in Kent, near Tenterden . . . and, on the other side, was a name she had never heard of— Irene Cookridge (Miss)—
Dear Commander Loftus,
I saw your letter in "The Times" today, regarding your wish to make contact with surviving members of the crews of the warship which bore the name "Vengeful" during the first world war, or with any of their next-of-kin having material relating to their service, in connection with a book which dummy3
you are writing.
While I do not have any connection with such persons, or any such material, I have in my—
Possession? The writing was small and spiky—elderly, guessed Elizabeth—and the pen had spluttered over the second double-s successively; but extensive experience with juvenile hands, and bitter experience with Father's own scrawl, made that possession, beyond reasonable doubt—
— in my possession a slender volume relating in part to another vessel of that name, dating from a much earlier period in history; and while this does not answer your appeal it may provide you with a curious footnote to your researches.
Elderly, also beyond reasonable doubt. No modern education could have produced that semi-colon, never mind the particular words and the style itself: Miss Irene Cookridge was someone's great-aunt, or great-great-aunt, since she could not be anyone's grandmother.
This volume, which is hand-written, records conversations between my maternal ancestor, the Revd Arthur Cecil Ward, and the squire of his parish, Sir Alexander Gower, and it was among my mother's possessions which came to dummy3
me on her death in 1952.
She couldn't help looking up as she turned the page, and catching Audley's eye twinkling at her.
"Gold, genuine gold," said Audley. "The stuff that dreams are made of—and the best is yet to come, Elizabeth."
These conversations relate chiefly to the memories of my ancestor, who in his younger days had been a Chaplain to the House of Commons, and Sir Alexander, who was an ensign with the Foot Guards at Waterloo. But there are also some twenty pages of the recollections of one Thomas (Tom) Chard, head gamekeeper on Sir Alexander's estate, formerly a gunner's mate on a ship named "Vengeful" during the Napoleonic War. This relates briefly to a desperate battle with a French warship, a subsequent shipwreck off the French coast, Tom Chard's experiences in captivity, his escape therefrom, and his adventures on the long journey home in company with other members of the crew.