Here Be Monsters Page 11

  ’Though you should be safe there, because he must be rising seventy now, nearly. But I wouldn’t bet on it, all the same, because he had a weakness for brains as well as blondes—and brunettes, and red-heads, and whatever came to hand.’ He nodded. ‘Like the man says—I investigated him.’

  Whether it was deliberate ‘tactics’, or whether it was because he was fed up with proceedings which he wasn’t supposed to be running, Elizabeth didn’t know. But what she did remember now, which was much more comforting, was why the Deputy-Director had summoned Audley of all people to help her unravel Tegid Edeyrn Caradog Thomas. Who better than Audley?

  ‘Then answer the question,’ Sir Peter pressed him. ‘Why “Haddock”?’

  Except—who better than Audley? thought Elizabeth. So why Elizabeth Loftus? That wasn’t nearly so comforting.

  Audley misread her expression. ‘I can only give you a partial answer to that, Elizabeth. Because nicknames are often only partly amenable to logical explanation.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Sir Peter nodded. ‘When I was in the RAF—‘ he half-turned to Elizabeth ‘—which was after the war, and I was a wingless wonder in the engineering branch, so I didn’t destroy any aircraft, British or German … But I remember this very distinguished Group Captain who was always known as “Padre”, not because he’d once had to say grace in the mess at dinner, but because the only grace he knew was his school grace, and that was in Latin, Elizabeth.’

  Latin! remembered Elizabeth. Ugh!

  And—why hadn’t the Deputy-Director chosen Audley?

  But she would think about that later. ‘Why “Haddock”, David?’

  ‘It was when he was at Oxford, before the war. He was at Jesus from 1936 to 1939—scholarship from Waltham School, then First in Greats.’ He continued to misread her. ‘It’s all to do with the way “Caradog” is pronounced, more or less, in Welsh, and then anglicized—it comes out as “Craddock”. So he was “Crad” at school. But at Oxford, which has always been more flippant than Cambridge and the rest of the civilized world, it somehow became “Haddock”. And that followed him ever after—to the RAF, and back to Oxford after the war, and then into the Civil Service. And finally back to Waltham, where it displaced the original “Crad” immediately.’

  That was more of an answer than she’d expected. And, cutting away the irrelevant fat of the nickname, it left her with a curious circular odyssey, beginning and ending with Waltham—and with one strong prejudice she shared with her late headmistress.

  ‘Of course!’ exclaimed Sir Peter. ‘He went back to teach at the old school, didn’t he!’ He caught Elizabeth’s expression. ‘You’ve heard of Waltham?’

  ‘I have.’ This, at least, was something she didn’t have to think twice about, to pretend ignorance or any bland non-committal knowledge.

  ‘You don’t approve of it?’ He read her face accurately. ‘I thought it was a very good school. In fact—in fact, I believe we took two Old Walthamites in our last graduate-trainee intake. A bio-chemist from Cambridge, and an economist from Bristol University—both high-flyers.’

  That figured, thought Elizabeth grimly. ‘It’s a very good school.’

  And that was the unarguable truth: Waltham had always been a first-class public school, disgustingly well endowed with money.

  ‘And the present headmaster is a brilliant man. We’ve had him to lunch here—and we bought him an IBM computer, for his computer studies centre, Miss Loftus.”

  That also figured. Not the least of Waltham’s unfair advantages was that it was blessed with a Board of Governors who knew their business, and had both the prestige and the money to tempt and buy the best—the best staff, from the headmaster downwards, and the best pupils, with their generous scholarships, picking and choosing their elites.

  Sir Peter was beginning to look a little lost. ‘And one of our trainees was a girl—I beg your pardon, if that sounds male-chauvinist … but we have had difficulty, recruiting high-flying women into Xenophon. And we’re rather pleased with this one.’

  She didn’t doubt it—that was the final insult, added to the injury: it was not so much that Waltham was among the boys’ public schools which had jumped on the band-waggon of poaching sixth formers from girls’ schools; it was that, where most of them did the girls very little good, but merely stole their fees and decimated their old sixth forms, Waltham probably did actually sharpen them up, with its celebrated university-entrance expertise. Because Waltham did everything well—all too bloody well!

  But that had nothing to do with this, she admonished herself. ‘Tell me about Haddock Thomas, Sir Peter.’

  ‘I will—in a moment, in just a moment.’ He saw that he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her. ‘Where did Haddock go, after Waltham, David?’

  ‘He didn’t go anywhere. He stayed on there until he retired. That was two or three years ago.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sir Peter drew a long, slow breath. ‘I see.’

  ‘You didn’t know he went to Waltham?’

  ‘I knew he went there. I didn’t know he stayed.’ Sir Peter stared at Audley. ‘He wrote to me from there. Twice.’

  ‘But you didn’t reply.’ It was a question.

  ‘I did, actually.’ For a moment he stood on the edge of continuing, then he drew back from it.

  ‘Yes?’ Audley pushed him with uncharacteristic gentleness. ‘The second time being … ?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sir Peter nodded, but left the second time equally unelaborated. ‘Was he … happy? Eventually?’

  This time Audley was slow to reply. ‘It would seem so, by all accounts.’ Still the same gentle voice.

  ‘Yes?’ For the first time Sir Peter’s voice was without colour, as carefully neutral as Switzerland. ‘No, I didn’t know.’ Sir Peter’s face weakened very slightly. ‘No, it wouldn’t have done. And I take it that his work … he taught the Classics—Latin and Greek—?’

  Audley nodded. ‘Very successfully. I’m reliably informed that Waltham took more of the top scholarships to Oxbridge—and Bristol and Durham—than Winchester, proportionately. And as for university entrance … they say that just being in his Classical Sixth was like being given the key to the door.’ Another nod, with a cynical smile. ‘He used to make the rounds, keeping up his contacts—with his old pupils, as well as the professors and the dons … And with a girl in tow, somewhere, very often. But always discreetly, of course.’ The smile vanished.

  Sir Peter frowned. ‘Where did he get them? Waltham’s a bit out of the way, surely?’

  Elizabeth heard herself sniff. ‘Waltham has girls in its sixth form now—‘ She caught Audley’s eye ‘—bright girls.’

  Audley grinned wickedly. ‘But Haddock himself was dead against that, Elizabeth. In fact, my reliable informant says he damn nearly resigned prematurely when he was out-voted.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ She fought her prejudices.

  ‘He let himself be out-voted?’ Sir Peter was less unhappy now. ‘But he was always rather against democracy—ever since the Athenians voted for the death of Socrates.’

  ‘They stopped his mouth with gold, was what he’s alleged to have said afterwards.’ Audley was happier too. ‘They gave him a grant to entertain his sixth formers in his house in the South of France. And they increased his salary.’

  Sir Peter cocked his head. ‘I didn’t think the Classics had so much clout these days?’

  ‘They don’t, my dear chap,’ agreed Audley. ‘But your old friend had a lot of influence—not just on account of his university results … or even because he was an ex-president of the Imperial Classical Association … which has a few rather well-placed fellows and members in the higher reaches of power, even now.’ He shook his head suddenly. ‘Come on, Peter—I can tell Miss Loftus about Haddock any time. It’s that twenty-six-year-old bad conscience of yours she’s interested in. Or would you prefer my version of events?’

  ‘Isn’t that in your record—your version of them, David?’ Sir Peter switched to Elizabeth without wai
ting for an answer. ‘Very well, Miss Loftus. I suppose I should be glad of the opportunity of speaking for myself, even though I’m not particularly proud of what I did.’ He paused. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear, David?’

  But Audley didn’t seem to have heard him: he seemed to be concentrating on the books he had last seen in 1958, to the exclusion of everything else now.

  ‘What did you do, Sir Peter?’ Since the Master of Xenophon Oil was waiting for comfort which Audley was clearly not about to give him, she had no choice but to push him forwards.

  ‘I destroyed his career.’ He accepted Audley’s refusal, coming back to her, to meet her eyes without blinking.

  ‘Squadron Leader Thomas’s career?’

  ‘Squadron Leader?’ In spite of all their talk about aeroplanes—planes British and German, crashed or shot down or ‘ditched’—the rank was meaningless to him. ‘Yes, if you like, Miss Loftus—Squadron Leader Thomas—Caradog Thomas—Haddock Thomas—‘ He shrugged ‘

  - whoever you like, it’s the same man. And it’s the same thing: I shot him down, Miss Loftus. And he didn’t bale out, or walk away … or swim ashore … not after I’d got him in my sights.’ He almost looked at Audley again, but held himself steady in the end, on her. ‘Or maybe he did -I don’t know now, Miss Loftus.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What did I do?’ He drew a breath. ‘We were both career civil servants. Or … I was in the process of resigning, actually. Because … it was after Suez. Because it was different, after Suez—‘ another breath, taken in slowly ‘—or, that was my excuse anyway, at the time, to myself. But you could interpret it quite differently: you could say that I was a second-class honours man, with second-class prospects … But with the prospects in oil, after Suez—that’s in ‘56, that was—and with what I knew … I suppose you could say that I knew where the first-class prospects might be. What I was doing in the Civil Service suddenly seemed … unprofitable to me, in more sense than one, at any rate.’

  ‘And Mr Thomas?’ It didn’t seem right to refer to the man by his nickname when she’d never met him. ‘How did you—?’

  ‘Destroy his career?’ He half-looked at Audley again, as though for confirmation. But the big man was still pretending to browse among the books. ‘I did—didn’t I, David?’

  ‘If you think you did … tell her.’ Audley didn’t look up. ‘After all this time it’s a bit late to agonize. If that’s what you’re doing.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sir Peter gave Audley a Xenophon look. ‘All right, Miss Loftus. He wants me to remember, so I will.’ He stared at her, sorting his memories into separate columns, adding and subtracting to prepare his balance sheet. ‘I wasn’t in the process of resigning -I had already resigned. And I wasn’t buying claret. By then I was clerking for this Greek, who had cornered a piece of the tanker tonnage, and was cashing in on it. And I was learning Arabic at evening classes … When he came out of the woodwork.’ He nodded towards Audley.

  ‘1958?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Audley turned the page of his book.

  ‘1958—I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake, somewhere down the line: that I should have read Arabic at Cambridge, or stayed in the Foreign Office.’ A trace of lingering bitterness still showed in his voice. ‘And then he turned up, with what seemed like a fool question. Except he had a Special Branch man in tow—or a secret policeman of some heavier variety. So it didn’t seem like a silly question at the time.’ He gave Audley another look. ‘You scared me, David.’

  ‘I wasn’t after you.’ Audley turned another page. ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘It didn’t seem like that.’ Sir Peter came back to her. ‘He wanted to know where I’d been on holiday, the summer before.’

  ‘And you didn’t appear too scared, actually,’ murmured Audley.

  ‘But I was.’

  ‘It didn’t stop you telling me—to go bowl my hoop elsewhere,’ said Audley mildly. ‘The first time, anyway.’ He raised his eyes to Elizabeth. ‘He wasn’t helpful the first time.’

  ‘But he came back a second time—in working hours, with the same policeman in attendance—right there in the middle of the Greek’s office!’ The recollection of the second time, even in this customized room on the pinnacle of the power and glory of Xenophon Oil, made Sir Peter wince. ‘The Greek damn near sacked me on the spot … Which, with what he was doing—the way he was sailing his tankers close to the wind—you could hardly blame him … To have one of Sir Frederick Clinton’s bright young men interrogating one of his clerks—‘ For a fraction of a second the Master of Xenophon became the Greek’s clerk again in his memory ‘—which was what saved me, I suppose.’

  ‘Huh!’ Audley closed the book. ‘Stavros didn’t quite know how much you knew, eh?’

  Sir Peter nodded. ‘He told me he’d see me right if I kept my mouth shut about his business.’

  ‘And you could continue to date his daughter?’ Audley cocked a knowing eye.

  ‘That too,’ agreed Sir Peter evenly. ‘But if it didn’t concern his business I’d better tell you what you wanted to know, or go and register at the nearest Labour Exchange.’

  ‘And not continue to date his daughter?’ Audley matched agreements. ‘I was rather depending on that to open you up.’

  It was exactly as David Audley’s wife always said—had said from their very first meeting: When David plays, if you want to play with him, you had better learn to play dirty. Because that’s the way he plays!

  Sir Peter looked as though he was beginning to remember how much he had once disliked Audley: the two men studied each other in silence, each estimating and re-estimating what they observed, each aware that the other had put on weight and muscle since 1958, but neither quite sure now who had the edge on the other if it came to trouble-making.

  ‘Your new boss is that military fellow—Butler, is it?’ Sir Peter changed the subject casually. ‘Looks a bit stupid, but isn’t, by all accounts?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Audley accepted the change mildly. ‘Right both times. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not really. I knew old Sir Frederick much better.’ Sir Peter smiled. ‘And your economics fellow better still -Neville Macready … Do you see much of him?’

  ‘As little as possible.’ Audley returned the smile.

  Elizabeth had been half-way to thinking the tortoise and the armadillo, but those two smiles amended the image. It was more like the elderly shark and the middle-aged tiger—and each was showing its teeth.

  ‘A slightly surprising appointment, wasn’t it?’ The tiger tested the depth of the water with a provocative paw. ‘Butler, I mean—?’

  ‘Very surprising, more like.’ Audley nodded, but then looked away towards the unfinished line of books as though the subject was beginning to bore him. ‘It should have been Oliver St John Latimer, if some bastard hadn’t queered his pitch. He was the obvious choice.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Fascination got the better of Sir Peter. ‘Was that Macready?’

  ‘No-oo … ’ Audley pounced on a tattered paperback. ‘Europe and the Czechs! That’s a very early Penguin!’ He handled the antique paperback reverently. ‘Macready hates Latimer, but it certainly wasn’t Mac.’

  ‘No?’ Sir Peter echoed the rejection of his first candidate doubtfully.

  ‘No.’ Audley replaced the fragile heirloom. ‘That was one of your ‘58 library. I remember now. And as you never throw books out there should be a copy of If Hitler Comes somewhere along here—‘ Audley moved further along’—ah!’

  Elizabeth began to understand the nature of the exchange. If Sir Peter Barrie knew so much about the byzantine internal politics of the department then he was not just name-dropping to warn Audley of his influence in high places. For, if he knew that much, he must also know that Audley himself had been the other front runner—indeed, the odds-on favourite, if Paul’s assessment had been correct. So that ‘slightly surprising appointment’ guess had been cruelly barbed.

  Audley loo
ked up. ‘Come on, Peter!’

  Sir Peter frowned. ‘It can’t have been that RAF fellow—the one who married the Ryle woman, after Ryle divorced her—?’

  ‘Hugh? Good God, no!’ Audley grunted contemptuously. ‘But I didn’t mean that, my dear chap … it was me, of course, if you must know—I was the bastard—I can’t abide the egregious Oliver, so I put in the boot much the same way as you did with old Haddock. Or maybe not in exactly the same way. But I did queer his pitch sufficiently. And Jack Butler is my daughter’s godfather, you know—‘ He gave the tiger a huge shark-grin ‘—or perhaps you didn’t know? But it doesn’t matter anyway, because that isn’t what I mean.’ The shark-grin vanished. ‘What I meant was for you to stop pissing around, Peter, and start telling our Miss Loftus about your eternal triangle—you and old Haddock and the fair Philadelphia, eh?’

  Elizabeth just caught the dying glow of the flash of hate, beyond that old unforgotten dislike, which momentarily illuminated Sir Peter’s face, as she turned towards him. Or was it pain—it was gone so quickly that she couldn’t be sure.

  ‘The fair Delphi—“Delphi”, was it?’ Audley’s voice came from outside her range of vision, casually seeking confirmation on the surface, but evil with certainty underneath. ‘They both worshipped at the same shrine, Elizabeth. So they both asked for an answer from the Delphic oracle: “Who loves me?”—Philadelphia Marsh, only and beloved daughter of Abe Marsh, ci-devant Abraham Marx, no relative of either Karl or Groucho or Spencer.’

  Whatever it had been, it was pain now.

  ‘But they each received an equivocal answer.’ Audley only continued when it was evident that Sir Peter had nothing to say. ‘Only … Haddock was a classicist, so he knew that when the oracle at Delphi said “No”, that didn’t necessarily mean the same thing. But poor old Peter Barrie wasn’t a classicist, so he thought “Yes” meant “Yes”.’