'It was Mummy who started it. She always sees through people.
She said: 'That man asked you about Johnnie, didn't he?' And Daddy didn't want to answer at first, but she insisted. She said she had a right to know.
dummy4
'And then finally he said: 'The bastard was up to something big,'
or something like that. And he said he'd always suspected that he'd been up to no good, but it must have been even more important than he thought, because you were here asking questions.
'And Mummy asked who you were, and he said you were obviously a special sort of high-up policeman. He said you put on a good act pretending that you were doing a boring job you didn't enjoy. But underneath he thought you were hard as nails–he said you were a mailed fist in a velvet glove.'
God bless my soul! thought Audley. Jones had seen clear through him, and then had drawn the wrong conclusion because it was the logical one. How many others had made the same mistake, he wondered, from Fred downwards? It was amusing–it was even rather satisfying. But it was ridiculously wide of the mark, and this young woman had presumably seen more clearly, with less reason and more intuition.
He leaned forward and filled her glass again.
'No mailed fist. Just an ordinary hand in the glove, Miss Jones.
What happened then?'
'Then it was awful, because Mummy said: 'So it's all happening again.' And Daddy wanted to know what was happening again.
Then she started to cry–and she never cries, or almost never.'
Her voice faltered, and Audley was terrified for a moment that she was going to follow her mother's lead. But she bore up, and continued.
'She said that after he'd disappeared two of his crew had kept dummy4
coming round asking about him as though he were alive. And then they'd asked her if he'd left any messages or instructions. They wouldn't leave her alone.
'Daddy was nice to her then, and said she ought to have told him.
And she said he was the only one who didn't pester her with questions.'
That was one good thing, thought Audley. It put Jones in the clear beyond all doubt. If he hadn't put the key questions in so many years he certainly hadn't been looking for any answers.
'And what happened then?'
'Daddy said she didn't have to worry. He said he'd make damn sure no one pestered her again. If they did he'd get in touch with you–
he'd put your address in the book.'
'So you went and looked me up.'
Faith Jones nodded.
'But why come and see me now?'
The corners of her mouth turned downwards appealingly. For a moment he could see the little girl with the two brave fathers who had suddenly and cruelly discovered that one might have feet of clay.
'I realise it was silly now. I was so mixed up–but I wanted to come and tell you, or ask you, not to bother them any more. Because they really didn't know anything about –about whatever it was he did.
'And, Dr Audley, I want to know what he did that was so awful. I mean, I ought to be told, oughtn't I?'
dummy4
She looked at him as if she was screwing up her courage to say something awkward.
'When I was at college no one was ever interested in the war. We were all CND–I went on the marches. But though I've never admitted it I've always been terribly proud of my real father. When I was browsing through Blackwell's in Oxford years ago I saw a book all about his aeroplane. I bought it and I read it. It wasn't very interesting, but I read it. I — I know a lot about Dakotas.
'And now I've learnt that he wasn't very nice at all–because if my step-father says he was a bastard, I'm sure he was. Daddy doesn't often make mistakes about people.'
Audley forebore to point out that Daddy–her switching between fathers was confusing–had not been so right about the mailed fist.
But she'd made her point, and he would have to produce some sort of answer out of common decency. Except that Steerforth was in some degree a classified subject.
She was looking at him, half expectantly, half fearfully. And she was, despite her glasses, rather an attractive girl in a scraggy, angular way. Not his type, in as far as he had a type. Not at all like the unlamented Liz . . .
'Have you had anything to eat?' he asked, with sudden inspiration.
She shook her head.
'Good. Then we'll both have something. My Mrs Clark has left me an immense piece of cold ham. Come to the kitchen and carve it for me — and bring your glass with you.'
She followed him obediently, and the incongruity of the situation dummy4
struck him. Steerforth had not even been a name to him twenty-four hours ago. He had encountered him at dawn and buried him before midday. And now he was having supper with the man's daughter.
