Well, maybe. But maybe if the brighter-than-bright Daniel McLachlan needed to be wet-nursed, then he wasn't fit to be one of tomorrow's bosses. No one had ever protected Butler from the working of natural selection, that was for sure. Except that this whole business was a glorified wet-nursing operation.
Butler chewed his lip. There was something funny about that: he didn't see Audley as a wet-nurse. On the other hand it could be that Audley was simply doing a favour for his influential university friends.
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With Audley there was usually a personal angle somewhere.
A sharp tapping on the window glass of the phone box roused him. McLachlan was gesturing wordlessly towards a decrepit-looking Volkswagen at the road's edge. So now there was no time to even consider that unanswerable question about him: how far can he be trusted ? And no time, damn it, to pursue the status of Castleshields House either.
'Thank you, Master.' But those questions could be answered by the Department's researchers, anyway.
'I'll try not to bother you again.'
'It is no bother—I shall be in your debt if you can resolve this business, Colonel Butler. Just make sure no harm comes to McLachlan.' The dry voice paused. 'My next meal commences at 7.30, incidentally . . .'
McLachlan was holding the door of the Volkswagen open for him.
'If you'd care to sit in the back, sir—it's no more uncomfortable than the front, but a lot less dangerous.
I'm used to Polly's driving, but she'd have you through the windscreen the first time she noticed any obstacle in her way.'
Butler hunched himself up and stepped gingerly into the little car. What room there was was further reduced by the quantity of objects already stowed within, ranging from an immense sheepskin jacket to a bulging box of groceries.
'Daniel McLachlan, that's a rotten slander!' Polly Epton's spirit had obviously recharged itself. 'I have never hit anything in my life. I can't understand why you've become so nervous all of a sudden.'
'Nothing sudden about it,' replied McLachlan, contorting himself into the front seat. 'It's the number of things you've almost hit that frightens me. You can sink a ship with near-misses, you know.'
'Oh—bosh!'
'Not bosh. You drive too fast, that's all—hold on, sir!'
The force of gravity pressed Butler back as the little car took off. There was something odd about the suspension, but there was evidently nothing wrong with the engine that howled just behind the small of his back. Wedged between the sheepskin coat and the groceries, with mud-flecked windows on each side of him, he felt blind and powerless. All he could see was McLachlan's powerful shoulders and the coarse, tight curls at the back of the neck—the young man's fairness was the variety that often went with fierce ginger whiskers.
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He levered himself forward, grasping the front seats, and peered at the road ahead. It was hard to gauge the car's speed, but he had the impression that McLachlan hadn't exaggerated much.
'Where are we going?'
'Polly's got a cottage at Millford. Not far, thank God!'
Polly recited in a broad Oxfordshire accent. 'There used to be a famous running race on May Day.
That's as the crow flies. It won't take us half the time.'
'More's the pity,' said McLachlan nervously. 'For heaven's sake, Polly—cool it a bit.'
'Hah—hmm !' Butler growled. The nervousness was catching. 'No need to hurry, Miss Epton. Tell me about Castleshields House.'
'Hideous old place,' said Polly, slowing down perceptibly. 'And it was falling down when Uncle John had his bright idea.'
'Uncle John?'
'Dr Gracey, vice-chancellor of Cumbria,' McLachlan cut in. 'Gracey and Young Hob are Polly's two godfathers. They hatched up this plan to restore Castleshields and provide a nice, isolated prison for likely lads during the vacations—they don't hold with us earning an honest penny during the vacations.'
'You mean it's compulsory?'
'Oh, no—they couldn't force us. But they're a crafty pair, Gracey particularly. For a start it's free—
which is useful with the starvation grants we get. And they lay on some really high-powered lecturers.
'And Daddy runs the place,' said Polly. 'We've still got the west wing for the family, but all centrally-heated now, and the rain doesn't come in through the roof. So everyone's happy.'
Understandably, too, thought Butler waspishly. The old boys' network had functioned once more—at the taxpayer's expense.
'It isn't a new idea, actually,' went on McLachlan, lurching with the car as Polly turned it sharply down dummy2.htm
a minor road. 'They used to do the same sort of thing in Victorian times— sort of academic house-parties. Slow up, Polly. They did it at Dick's—Old Hob used to—'
