Colonel Butler's Wolf

Butler thought: the old devil started this business and now he doesn't like the way the wind's blowing—

the more so because it's blowing down his neck.

'I know this must be distasteful to you, sir,' he said aloud, desperately trying to stop obsequiousness from seeping into his voice. 'But we have to know, one way or another—'

'I don't need you to tell me my duty, Colonel Butler. Or to threaten me with your one way or another.

It's simply that the person who fills your bill exactly happens to be the daughter of a very old friend of mine. It seems—though I wasn't aware of it until after the man's death—that there was an engagement in the air.'

'With Smith?'

'So it seems.' The words came out with reluctance. 'Is it possible that you can . . . speak to her without revealing the man's true identity?'

'I'd prefer to do it that way.'

'I'm relieved to hear it.' Sir Geoffrey relaxed. 'I wouldn't like to see Polly Epton hurt again—and not like that.'

Epton.

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They hadn't suspected Smith and they didn't know much about him—Audley had admitted as much, and that was nothing less than the truth, by God !

'Epton?' Butler repeated casually. 'Would that be the Castleshields Eptons?'

'That's right. Charles Epton's daughter. She's an occupational therapist here—I suppose that's how she met Smith. And then she must have met him again up north.'

That changed things, thought Butler. They had been convinced that something had tipped Smith over the edge, but it had never occurred to anyone that the thing might be a woman.

He hadn't bargained on a woman.

Damned women!

He was jerked back to reality by Sir Geoffrey's voice, its tone edged with bitter complaint.

'I beg your pardon?'

'I said 'what a waste', Colonel Butler.'

'Of Miss Epton, Master?'

'No, man—of Smith. He had a good mind. What a waste!'

'I couldn't agree more.' Damned women.

IX

HE RECOGNISED THE symptoms only too well.

To start with he had had trouble making up his mind, and then, when he had belatedly come to a decision, he had consciously made the wrong choice.

Although his usually healthy appetite had suddenly deserted him (and that was another symptom too) he knew very well that in the field it was always best to eat when the opportunity presented itself. So reason decreed that he ought to stoke up with the hot sausages the pub was serving, or some of the serviceable veal and ham pie, or even the bread and cheese and pickled onions.

Yet here he sat, staring sourly into his second whiskey and soda, knowing that it wasn't doing him the least good.

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It wasn't that he was a misogynist, he told himself for the thousandth time. It was patently irrational to hate them all because of the gross betrayal and infidelity of one.

It was simply that he knew he didn't understand them. Or rather, he knew that understanding women was a skill given to some and not others, like the ability to judge the flight of a cricket ball instinctively. Or maybe it was like tone deafness and colour blindness.

But whatever it was, he hadn't got it. And without it he feared and distrusted himself, and was ashamed.

He looked again at his watch. Sir Geoffrey had seemed confident that he could arrange a rendezvous for this place and time, and his duty to interview her was inescapable: if the rumour of that unofficial engagement were true she ought to know more about Smith's state of mind than anyone else, though he was hardly the best man to extract her information.

He snorted with self-contempt and reached out for his glass.

'Colonel Butler.'

Whatever Polly Epton was, she was certainly no slip of a girl; she was a well-built, well-rounded young woman—the American term 'well stacked' popped up in Butler's mind. Indeed, although not conventionally pretty she glowed with such health and wholesomeness that the Americanism was instantly driven out by women's magazine images of milkmaids, butter churns and thick cream.

It was ridiculous, but he felt himself praying enviously I hope my girls grow up like this.

'Colonel Butler?' she repeated breathlessly, and this time a shade doubtfully, as though a certain identification had let her down.

'Hah—hmm ! That's right!' he replied more loudly than he had intended, rising awkwardly, his knees tilting the low table in front of him. 'Miss Epton, is it? I beg your pardon— I'm forgetting my manners.'

'Thank heavens—I thought for a moment I'd made a mistake—please don't get up, Colonel Butler.'