'Xenophobia? Perhaps I have. But then it's an ancient and very sensible disease, love. The xenophobes survive long after the xenophils have been knocked on the head during the night by the strangers they've let into their homes.'
Roskill gestured to the table in front of him. 'And the law of hospitality? Isn't that ancient too?'
'A simple extension of the laws of self-preservation, Hugh. And a fiction more often than not: 'The raven is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements'. That's the true face of hospitality. And the other face shows the guests quietly opening the back door for their friends outside after lights out.'
The bell chain rattled again and the clapper briefly un-jammed dummy2
itself.
'And I suppose I should say 'the bell invites me' now!' Faith started for the dining room door. 'I wish I could tell you that he doesn't believe what he's saying, Hugh, but I'm afraid he does believe it. Only I'm miscast as Lady Macbeth, hopelessly.'
Audley watched her out of the room. 'And I'll tell you something else. Bells that ring after ten at night are alarm bells.'
Roskill frowned across the candlelight towards the grandfather clock which ticked away heavily in the shadows. The front door banged and there was a murmur of voices.
'So now it's only a question of whether the trouble is yours or mine.
Probably mine, but I can still hope it's yours. In fact it puts me in mind of the old tale of the Rake and the Hounds – do you know it?'
Roskill shook his head. He had heard and disbelieved that there was an irrational side to Audley, and now here it was. Perhaps the flicker of the candles brought it out.
'It's a Hebridean tale. The rake was coming home over the hills early one morning after a night's debauch when he saw a man running in the valley below, looking over his shoulder all the while. And although there was nothing else to be seen the rake knew at once that the man was being pursued by the hounds of Hell.
'Then the man looked up the hillside and saw the rake, and he turned and ran straight towards him. And when he reached the brow of the hill he stopped to catch his breath, looked at the rake, and then staggered on past. And the rake knew very well what he dummy2
had been thinking: 'He's a black sinner too – maybe the hounds will stop and take him instead of me'.'
The door opened behind Roskill.
'It's Major Butler, David,' said Faith. 'He wants an urgent word with Hugh.'
Roskill swung round. Butler loomed solidly in the doorway, silhouetted against the brighter hall behind him. There was a glitter of raindrops on his head – the weather had broken at last.
'For Hugh?' Audley didn't look at Roskill. 'Well, Butler – we've just reached the brandy stage – allow us to finish that before you take him away. And join us in the meantime – sit down. Your ill tidings can wait a few minutes.'
'No need to take him away, Dr. Audley.' Butler dabbed at the damp red stubble on his head as he sat down. 'A brandy would be acceptable though. As to the ill tidings – your leave's up tomorrow anyway, Hugh. What other sort of tidings can there be?'
Roskill knew then with certainty that he was about to be double-crossed – knew it and was filled with gladness. All that remained was to act out a convincing role: should he struggle in the snare or submit with cold dignity? Which would be more in character?
'Jack, you know darned well when my leave ends.' Struggle, then –
even a rabbit struggled. 'At eight a.m. tomorrow I shall shave off this beard. At ten I'll pick up my mail at the office, and by three I'll be at R.A.F. Snettisham. There's not one thing you can do about it
– it was all settled months ago. I belong to the R.A.F. for the next ten weeks. Not to Sir Frederick, and certainly not to you.'
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He looked round the table for moral support. Faith radiated honest sympathy, but Audley's sympathy was tinged with relief: the hounds had passed him by...
'Ten week's refresher, Jack – that's the agreement. Ten weeks to keep me up to the mark so I'll still have a career when Sir Frederick puts me out to grass. They wouldn't be thinking of breaking that, would they, Jack?'
Go on – break it, Jack.
'The beard.' The suggestion of a perverse smile passed across Butler's mouth. Butler had been due for some leave when Roskill returned, but then the best press gangs were always made up of pressed men. 'That's one reason why I'm here. They'd like you to keep it, even if it does make you look like a pirate.'
'I'm not going to Snettisham with a beard.'
'You're not going to Snettisham at all, Hugh. Not for the time being, anyway.'
'The beard's coming off and I'm going to Snettisham.' Struggle harder and feel the wire tighten.
Butler looked pained. 'Don't be childish, man. If you put your pretty uniform on again tomorrow you'll stay in it. And not at a nice lively place like Snettisham. More likely somewhere like Benbecula – or wherever they send the awkward ones nowadays.
On the ground, certainly. There'd be no more flying.'
They had to want him very badly to spell it out as crudely as that, with what they took to be the ultimate threat. Or so they thought.
That might well be the only thing they didn't know about him –
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that one big, secret ace in the hole. And as long as they didn't know it, it was his strength, not his
