Other Paths to Glory Page 4

‘Bell, sir.’

  ‘Constable Bell. Perhaps we could use another room, Mrs Mitchell? And your son could get out of his clothes into something dry while I’m talking to the constable.’

  Mother took a step forward, facing up to Audley resolutely.

  ‘Will you kindly tell me who you are, Doctor - Audley? And what you’re doing?’

  ‘Ministry of Defence, Madam,’ Audley accepted the black folder from the constable, but tucked it back into his pocket without showing it to her. It seemed that he considered the one answer covered both questions, and that the policeman’s deference was confirmation enough of its truth.

  ‘And what has that to do with my son?’

  Audley looked down at her for a moment, as though undecided about his reply.

  ‘Madam,’ he said finally, with a gravity which only just fell short of pomposity, ‘it seems that someone wants your son dead. Consequently he needs defending. Constable Bell and I will discuss how best that may be achieved, Have I your permission to use your telephone?’

  ‘But - ‘ She compressed her lips suddenly as though she had decided to put her mouth under restraint. Mitchell knew the expression of old, just as he recognised her dilemma: she had realised at last that what had happened could neither be shrugged off nor ignored, but that meant she must either accept or deny his story in the certain knowledge that she was opening the door to nightmare whatever she did. She simply didn’t know what to do.

  ‘The phone’s in the sitting room, Dr Audley,’ he said, resolving her dilemma for her.

  ‘Down the hallway on the left. I’ll show you.’

  ‘It’s not necessary, sir,’ said Constable Bell. ‘We’ll find the way. If you’d follow me, Dr Audley.’

  ‘Very good, Constable. Say about a quarter of an hour, Mr Mitchell?’

  Mitchell and his mother looked at each other.

  ‘Paul, what’s happening?’

  ‘What’s happening now, I haven’t the least idea. What happened on the way here was exactly as I told it. Mother. Did you really think I jumped in the river?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to think - there was that note - ‘

  The note. That at least was something real which told him he hadn’t simply fallen in and hit his head and dreamed the whole horror all by himself.

  ‘How did you get it?’

  ‘It was lying there on the mat. It must have come through the letter-box - it wasn’t there when I went to switch on the news. When I came out to start your supper I saw it there.’

  ‘And so you phoned the police?’

  She looked at him so brokenly that he instandy regretted the harshness of his words.

  And, damn it, what else could he expect? His paper, his typewriter, his ink and his signature, all fitting in with her own prejudices.

  ‘Did you go out today. Mother?’

  ‘Go out, dear? You know I always have lunch with Betty Tyier today.’

  Lunch with Mrs Tyier, then an afternoon’s shopping.

  ‘So the house was empty most of the day?’

  ‘Only in the afternoon, dear. Mrs Johnson’s here until one o’clock.’

  Still plenty of time for anyone to search the place for what they needed after the cleaning woman had gone. But why? Why did it have to be suicide? And why did it have to be Paul Mitchell, out of millions?

  ‘Darling, I - ‘ her voice quavered ‘ - I didn’t mean to - I didn’t know what to do.’

  Suddenly he wanted to hug her. Everyone always took it for granted that Mother had a way of turning accidents into disasters, but - Christ! - this wasn’t an accident, but pure murderous malevolence, cold and calculated. It was no wonder she’d proved no match for it.

  ‘Poor old Mum!’ he draped a damp arm round her shoulders. ‘You aren’t the only one who doesn’t know what to do - and who doesn’t know what’s happening.’

  She looked at him doubtfully, dropping her gaze to his suit when she found no consolation in his face.

  ‘But you must get out of these things - I don’t know whether they’ll ever be good enough to wear again - ‘

  She tugged vaguely at the crumpled lapels. Then the moment of merciful practicality passed, presumably as she remembered how the clothes had become unwearable.

  ‘But Paul, what are we going to do?’

  He gently disengaged her hands.

  ‘We’re going to see what our friend Dr Audley has to say first. Mother. That’s what we’re going to.’

  ‘Then you really do know him?’

  ‘Did I look as if I didn’t?’

  The suspicion on her face reminded him that there were times when she could see clear through a brick wall with disconcerting accuracy.

  ‘As a matter of fact I met him for the first time just this afternoon.’

  ‘At the museum?’

  ‘At the institute. But don’t ask me what he wanted, Mother dear.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you wouldn’t believe me if I told you. And even if you did, you wouldn’t be able to make head nor tail of it. Just you make us all a lot of hot, strong coffee while I get myself respectable. I think we’re going to need it.’

  Introducing Constable Bell to the Hindenburg Line was enough for one night, without trying to take Mother back even further, to the forgotten battle lines of the Somme.

  By avoiding the second and fifth treads on the staircase and timing the click of the door to coincide with the chimes of the hallway clock, Mitchell reached the sitting room without alerting his mother in the kitchen. With any luck, he reckoned he had maybe five clear minutes before her patience gave way to suspicion.

  Their business, whatever it had been, was completed. Audley sat relaxed in the big armchair beside the fire, the Terraine biography of Douglas Haig open on his knee. Constable Bell hovered within reach of the telephone, as though expecting a call on a line which might have become hot.

  The big man shut the book decisively and stood up.

  ‘”The educated soldier”?’

  He held the book up, weighing it specula-lively. ‘Was he educated before the war or by it?’ Mitchell recalled the afternoon’s dialogue; Audley wasn’t always interested in getting answers to his questions - he used them also like covering fire to keep his adversary’s head down while he developed his line of attack. And the only answer to that was to fire back, ignoring them.

  ‘Why does someone want me dead?’

  Audley smiled slowly.

  ‘You can’t think of any reason?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then neither can I - yet.’

  Maybe that was something less than the truth - in fact the man’s presence contradicted it - but the ‘yet’ promised a pinpoint of light at the end of a long dark tunnel.

  ‘But you do believe me?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  Mitchell looked at Constable Bell quickly, then back at Audley.

  ‘Have you seen my suicide note?’

  ‘I have, yes.’

  ‘Then you obviously don’t believe it - why don’t you believe it?’

  ‘You’re right, Mr Mitchell…’

  Audley paused, then shook his head.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Shall we say - your old tutor has confidence in your scholarship, and I have confidence in your tutor’s judgement? And in my judgement you exhibited no suicidal tendencies this afternoon. You seemed to be working quite happily.’

  Audley paused again, his head on one side.

  ‘And I have even more confidence in my own judgement - does that satisfy you?’

  It was pure flummery: not so much a smokescreen as a little probing attack to test how easily he could be turned inside out, with no awkward questions asked. But it wasn’t going to be like that at all; because the cold between his shoulders wasn’t only fear, it was a reminder of the bitter chill of the river, which he had towelled hurriedly but hadn’t subdued. The river had been real, and death had very
nearly been real, just as this man Audley was real now. And all three realities were somehow linked together. Only there was a difference now. Three times he’d been taken by surprise, and quizzed and half-drowned and taken for a lunatic, or maybe something worse. This time he wasn’t going to be so easily dealt with.

  ‘No, it doesn’t satisfy me one little bit. I want to know what’s going on.’

  Audley shrugged.

  ‘And supposing I couldn’t tell you?’

  ‘Couldn’t - or wouldn’t?’

  ‘Whichever you like. What would you do then?’

  Mitchell turned to Constable Bell.

  ‘What do you plan to do now?’

  Bell frowned.

  ‘Me, sir?’

  ‘That’s right. What are you going to do about an attempted murder? Aren’t you going to report it?’

  Bell looked at Audley uncertainly.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We aren’t sure there’s been one yet,’ murmured Audley. ‘We haven’t got any proof.’

  ‘All right. Then an attempted suicide - does that count as worthy of mention?’

  ‘Constable Bell might remember the first thing you said when you came in, Mitchell,’ said Audley coolly. ‘You had a little accident in the dark.’

  The rules of the game had reversed themselves very curiously, thought Mitchell. Or it might be that the new player simply didn’t bother with such things as rules.

  But two could play that sort of game.

  ‘Then maybe he’ll also remember accusing me of arson.’

  ‘I didn’t allege any such thing,’ protested Bell.

  ‘You didn’t quite get round to it, but you meant to. So why not ask me some more questions now?’

  ‘The questions I ask are up to me, sir - with respect.’

  ‘Then I’ll find someone who will ask them. And perhaps I’ll find a journalist who’ll take more interest in attempted murder than you do.’

  Audley gave a derisive grunt.

  ‘After one look at your suicide note, Mitchell, there’s not a journalist on God’s earth who’d touch your story with a barge-pole, believe me.’ ‘Then I’ll try Constable Bell’s superiors.’

  Audley looked at his watch.

  ‘I’ll tell you something. At this moment I’d guess my boss is getting on to Constable Bell’s Chief Constable. The truth is that your options are somewhat limited.’

  Mitchell realised suddenly that he’d let his own problems and fears blind him to a question he would otherwise have asked much earlier. Something had happened to bring Audley back to him so quickly, and it was inconceivable that it had anything to do with ancient military history.

  But it must be urgent, whatever it was, because Audley was now offering him a straight trade - credibility in exchange for co-operation - and was making damn sure he couldn’t reject it.

  ‘Just what is it you want to know?’

  Audley stared at him for a second, then his face relaxed into the same boyish grin he’d produced to soften the afternoon’s interrogation. Only this time it seemed more genuine, as though he was grateful to Mitchell for drawing the right conclusion at last without any more arm-twisting being required.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Mitchell didn’t feel like returning the grin.

  ‘I’m sorry to seem so slow, Dr Audley. Perhaps it’s the effect of being half-drowned. I’m just not used to it.’

  ‘I can believe that. I never found compulsory cold baths at school invigorating, myself, to be honest.’

  The grin broadened, and was then slowly withdrawn.

  ‘You got out of the river without anyone seeing you. Are you sure of that?’ ‘I made sure the two bastards who threw me in weren’t there, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘But did anyone else see you? When you came home here, I mean.’

  Mitchell shook his head.

  ‘I came in the back way, across the allotments. I didn’t see a soul - it’s pretty dark there, too.’

  ‘Good. Now, this is - ‘

  Audley was cut off by the fierce double ring of the telephone.

  They all turned towards it instantly, but before Mitchell could move Constable Bell had staked his claim.

  ‘44988 - Mrs Mitchell’s residence - ‘ he began eagerly. Then his face fell. ‘Who is that speaking, please?’

  ‘Who is it?’ said Audley sharply.

  ‘One moment please. Madam.’ Bell lowered the receiver to his chest, his other hand blanking the mouthpiece. ‘It’s a Mrs Tyier and she wants to speak to Mrs Mitchell.’

  He stared at Mitchell.

  ‘She wants to know if there’s any news of you.’

  ‘Christ! She’s a friend of Mother’s - and she’s got a tongue like a cow-bell,’ groaned Mitchell. ‘It’ll be all over town now that I’ve committed suicide.’

  ‘It will?’ Audley took three quick steps across the room and snatched the phone from Bell’s hand. ‘Mrs Tyier? Good evening, Madam. You wish to speak to Mrs Mitchell?… She did?’

  Mitchell heard the door open behind him.

  ‘This is Inspector - ah - Haig,’ continued Audley, his eyes directed past Mitchell. ‘I think it best for you not to speak to Mrs Mitchell at this moment… That’s right, Madam.’

  Mother’s face was a picture of incredulity, tinged with incipient outrage.

  ‘No, Madam, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you under the circumstances. We are doing all we can … Yes, I will most certainly give her your message … Thank you, Mrs Tyier … Yes, I will - good night. Madam.’

  The click of the receiver released Mother’s tongue.

  ‘Dr Audley, could you kindly tell me what you’re doing - and why you’re saying - ‘ she looked around for support’ – what you’re saying?’

  Audley was not at all abashed by her anger.

  ‘I’m doing exactly what I said I’d do, Mrs Mitchell,’ he replied mildly. ‘I’m protecting your son.’

  ‘By telling lies?’

  ‘Not only telling them, spreading them too, I hope. Mrs Tyier is a friend of yours, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, but-‘

  ‘And you told her your son was missing?’

  ‘I asked her for advice. She knows Paul -‘ she broke off, uneasily aware of Mitchell’s eyes on her.

  It had always been his impression that Mrs Tyier had never quite forgiven him for not growing his hair down to his waist and relishing pot, like her own half-baked offspring. She would undoubtedly have made a meal of any sign of his mental instability.

  ‘So she advised you to telephone the police?’

  ‘I would have phoned them anyway.’

  ‘Of course! So she’ll be reassured to know they’re on top of the job. Did she undertake any other help?’

  ‘Why, no … except she offered to ring round one or two places where Paul might have gone, to do it tactfully - I was so nervous myself.’

  Audley beamed at Mitchell.

  ‘Better and better! Don’t look so sad, Mitchell. Mrs Tyier’s doing our work for us, and far more convincingly than we could hope to manage.’

  What he was driving at was inescapable.

  ‘You mean I’m - dead?’

  However inescapable, it was still hard to grasp all the same.

  ‘Not dead, no,’ said Audley happily. ‘To be dead requires a body. Stay rather “missing” - “missing, presumed killed in action”, as you might record yourself. Rivers have a way of holding on to bodies for days on end when they’ve a mind to. And of course you didn’t actually say you had that in mind.’

  ‘I didn’t actually say anything.’

  ‘No, but your would-be murderers didn’t indicate your preference either, so they can’t expect the police to know where to look. As long as they think they know where you are they’re not going to worry - providing we can get you out of here as efficiendy as you got in.’

  ‘You want my son to go into hiding!’ Mother had got there remarkably quickly, but she
evidently couldn’t believe it was a real destination either.

  ‘That’s exactly it, Mrs Mitchell. He’s going to hide, we’re going to help him, I’m depending on you to help us.’

  ‘But - the police - ?’ She looked at Constable Bell.

  ‘They will help too, naturally. A lie like this requires all the help it can get.’

  Bell shifted from one leg to the other, as though his boots pinched him.

  ‘I told you I can’t undertake that without consulting my superiors, sir, I gave no undertaking.’

  ‘But they will. Constable. They will. If your chief constable wants his OBE in the birthday honours and an invitation to the next Royal Garden Party, and a pat on the back from the Home Secretary for being a good fellow - I’ll bet you a pound to a penny he’s on to your superintendent at this very moment.’

  He smiled from Bell to Mitchell.

  ‘The office of chief constable is one of the great bulwarks of our democracy, because he isn’t subject to politics. In fact it really isn’t subject to anything, democracy included, and that does make it marvellously vulnerable to the old boys’ network - a word and a nod from the right quarter, you understand. Believe me, I’ve seen it work.’

  Flummery again: he was talking to them, but at her, using safe words of authority to reassure her - OBE, chief constable, Royal Garden Party and Home Secretary.

  Only with Mother even that wasn’t quite good enough.

  ‘But Dr Audley - I mean, can’t they protect him?’

  ‘From whom, Mrs Mitchell? We don’t know. And from what? We don’t know that either.’

  The flippancy had gone from Audley’s voice, to be replaced by a sudden seriousness which was all the more chilling by contrast.

  ‘We don’t even know why.’

  They were back to the same blank wall behind which Audley had hidden earlier, and this time Mitchell himself almost accepted its solidity. But then the cracks in it gaped at him: twice in one day this man had come looking for him, and certainly not because he had developed a sudden interest in the battle of the Somme. And (what was nearer the bone) he had accepted the truth of the towpath story without question, almost as though he had been expecting it.

  ‘I can’t believe this is really happening to us - it’s like a nightmare.’ Mother shook her head despairingly. ‘I don’t know what to think.’