she remembered how contemptuous Paul had been of him, and how Paul had gone about everything, it suddenly didn't seem so unlikely—it almost became inevitable, rather—
"Miss Loftus?" He had realised at last that she was only half listening to him.
"Don't you know what they quarrelled about, Mr Aske?"
"Does it matter?"
Did it matter? Even if he didn't know, Paul did—and Dr Audley must know too . . . Was it possible that they hadn't seen the wood for the trees? Or was there simply no wood to see?
"It was over the Shannon, Mr Aske."
"Oh?" His glance flicked to the Guardian. "Well, I hardly think that matters." He sounded as though he was finding politeness difficult. "Does it?"
"She was originally named the Vengeful—until about eighteen months ago, when they were fitting her out. Father got very angry about the re-naming."
"Did he, indeed?" He started to yawn, then quickly put his hand to his mouth. "Mmm?"
"Doesn't that . . ." Diffidence almost froze her, but for a tiny red spark of anger which his boredom kindled ". . . doesn't that suggest anything to you?"
"Well ... to be honest, Miss Loftus, the only thing I can think about at the moment is my dinner. That's what the Professor's steak-and-kidney pie did for me, I'm afraid." He dummy3
indicated the door. "Shall we go and see what that precocious child is up to?" He smiled. "Then—"
The spark blazed into fire. " Mr Aske!"
He raised his hands. "All right, all right! The Shannon was once the Vengeful. Then so what?"
"Can't you see? Isn't it possible that we—that you—and Dr Mitchell and Dr Audley—that you've all been following the wrong Vengeful?"
He looked at her strangely, no longer bored, but with an expression in which so many emotions conflicted that there was no room for any one of them. "What do you mean—the wrong—?"
She had to get it right. "This finding out what really happened in 1812, Mr Aske—you don't really care about that
—you can't care about it ... It's what's happening now that you care about—about . . ." she licked her lips ". . . about what the Russians are doing." She forced the bogey-name out, even though it sounded unreal to her, on her own lips: she shouldn't be telling him this—it had nothing to do with her.
"The . . . Russians, Miss Loftus?" He seemed to sense her embarrassment, but was not disposed to help her. "The Russians?"
Only her anger sustained her. "Paul told me about this thing
—this Project Vengeful—"
"He told you that?" Aske's own anger sparked suddenly. "He dummy3
had absolutely no right to do any such thing! That's quite appalling!"
"But he did, Mr Aske." She hated Aske then, as irrationally as she loved Paul, so that both emotions were equally painful to her. "He trusted me."
"That's what's so appalling!" snarled Aske. "My God! I'll see him hang for that!"
"You'll see him hang?" Elizabeth's loyalty fixed itself irrevocably on Paul. "But you'll phone London first, Mr Aske."
"I'll phone London?"
"That's right."
"Why?"
Why? But she wasn't going to argue with him. "Because I want you to do that—that's why."
Not for Humphrey Aske was Paul's Theory of Contemporaneity— that would only make him laugh at her, and at Paul too!
"That's not a reason, Miss Loftus. I'm not about to make myself a fool for you."
Then more fool he! But she wasn't, in her turn, about to explain why the timing of the Russians' Vengeful Project and the re-naming of the Vengeful made sense to her: if that was foolishness, it must be hers, not Paul's. That was the least she could do for him.
dummy3
"Then I'll phone London, Mr Aske. Cathy will give me a number—she's precocious enough for that. Or there'll be a number somewhere—I'll go on phoning until I get it, starting from 999 and working upwards, even if I'm still trying to find it when Faith Audley gets back—and then she'll give it to me." She looked down at him obstinately. "And then we'll see who's the fool—you or me."
"I already know who the fool is." He tried to stare her down, and she felt his will harden against hers, as it had never hardened before. But that only made it a straight contest, and in a contest she outnumbered him—all the ghosts from the past crowded behind Commander Loftus's daughter: Lieutenant Chipperfield and Midshipman Paget, and Tom Chard and Abraham Timms, who had kept faith and had done their duty after their fashion, even though faith and duty had made fools of them.
His will crumbled against such odds. "Very well. I give you best, Miss Loftus—I'll telephone for you, if that's what you want. But on your head be it. What do you want me to say?"
"Just remind them that the Shannon used to be the Vengeful."
"Is that all?" He seemed on the point of refusing again, but then thought better of it. "All right. But you stay here while I phone—if I have to make a fool of myself I'd prefer to do it by myself. I'll do it on those terms only."
"Thank you, Mr Aske."
dummy3
He stared at her. "I think I'd rather you didn't thank me, Miss Loftus."
Time stood still as she waited: the effort of imposing her will on him seemed to have drained her energy, and she found it impossible to concentrate on anything except the need to wait patiently. The house was very quiet, she thought.
Then the door opened, and Aske was staring at her again.
"I'm sorry, Miss Loftus," he said.
"Sorry?"
"I owe you an apology." His lips tightened. "We have to go to London now—at once." The skin had tightened on his face too, heightening the cheek-bones and jaw-line with stress; except that such a transformation must be in her own mind, imagined out of the change in his manner.
"We've got to go to London?" she echoed him stupidly.
" You have. I have to take you there." The stretched skin shivered. "I spoke to David Audley. I told him what you said about the Shannon—and the Vengeful. He was ... he was rather upset by it, Miss Loftus."
Her mouth opened. "David Audley?"
He nodded. "I spoke to him. He's getting a message to Kyle of Lochalsh, to our security people there. They're going to abort the trials, Miss Loftus."
Her mouth closed, but her brain swirled. "You spoke to ...
David Audley?"
"Yes." He gestured urgently. "Come on— at once means what dummy3
it says in our business. It means drop whatever you're doing and move— it means this instant, Miss Loftus. It means now
—" he turned on his heel and opened the door for her.
She couldn't think straight. "But, Mr Aske—"
"Come on, Miss Loftus— now!"
She went through the door. The passage was dark now, no longer green-shadowed, with the feeble light of the distant chandelier in the hall blackening the windows.
He overtook her at the entrance, reaching past her to lift the heavy iron latch on the outer door.
She didn't want to go outside, even though outside was only blue-grey, and much lighter than the yellow gloom around her.
"Quickly, Miss Loftus—" He handed over her raincoat.
Cobwebs of rain drifted around her, and the wet smell of the countryside entered her lungs—the smell of growing things, sharpened by a distant hint of autumn to come.
Aske crunched past her on the gravel, reaching this time for the car door—swinging it open for her.
No!
He was already moving round the front of the car, as though he took for granted that the open door must suck her in, regardless of her own free will.