Our man in Camelot

him that Audley was still running to form.

'Yeah… well, what I told you wasn't so far off the real thing…' He shrugged. If you have to make up a story quickly, keep it simple and don't bother about the loose ends. Let the other guy try and tie them up for you— he knows that the truth is untidy. 'He asked me to look after them for him. I got this storeroom behind my surgery—'

'Although he hardly knew you?' cut in Frances Fitzgibbon.

'Not 'although', but 'because',' said Audley. 'Davies chose Mosby because he didn't know him. And because there's nothing suspicious about visiting a dentist. If there had been we'd have one very dead dentist by now.'

'What do you mean—dead dentist?' Shirley had entirely abandoned her Scarlett O'Hara characterisation for a more classical one: this was Lady Macbeth frightened and beginning to crack under the pressure of unforeseen disasters.

'Exactly what I say, I'm afraid, Mrs Sheldon. The fact is, you've both had a very narrow escape. If Davies had really confided in you—or if you had started looking for Badon in the right place, then the odds against your survival would have been very high. But he didn't, and you didn't… which is why you are here safe and sound now.'

'But—but we haven't done anything wrong!' Shirley wailed. 'Not really.'

'So your husband keeps telling me. But then neither had Major Davies—really. Nor that young navigator of his —Captain—what was his name?'

'Collier,' said Roskill.

'Collier. He hadn't done anything at all, poor fellow. He certainly didn't deserve to be eliminated.'

'That was an accident—they crashed in the sea.'

'And very conveniently, too. You've no idea how many convenient deaths have occurred just recently.

Deaths and disappearances… Let me have the photographs, Hugh. It's time for a bit of positive co-Anthony Price - Our man in camelot

operation.'

Roskill snapped open a black briefcase and withdrew a square buff-coloured envelope from it.

'Thank you.' Audley in turn slipped out a collection of photographs of different sizes from the envelope, shuffling them like cards into what was presumably the desired sequence. 'Now I want you both to have a look at these… Mosby first, then Mrs Sheldon… and I'd like you to try to identify them. I'm afraid one or two of them aren't awfully clear, and a couple aren't very nice to look at, either, but I'll warn you about them in advance. Just do your best.'

He handed Mosby a photograph.

It was a typical USAF mug-shot of a typical American service face, right down to the stern, Defender of Liberty expression, even if the crew-cut and the uniform hadn't placed identification beyond doubt. Four days ago he would hardly have been able to tell this one from a hundred others whose jaws he knew better than their features.

'This is Di Davies,' said Mosby.

Audley put his finger to his lips. 'Let your wife see them first, if you don't mind. Pass it on.'

Mosby handed the mug-shot to Shirley.

Another picture. This one for sure he wouldn't have known until four days ago, mug-shot though it was.

'This one's Di Davies,' agreed Shirley. 'But this other one… I've seen him around, but I don't know his name.'

'Captain Collier,' said Mosby. 'He'd only been over here a few weeks.'

'Now a nasty one,' said Audley gently. 'Be prepared, Mrs Sheldon.'

A dead face, slack and blankly staring nowhere. Someone had attempted to arrange it into a more or less life- like appearance, but there was obviously something very wrong with the left side of the head.

Shirley shuddered and drew in a quick breath. 'I've never seen him before in my life.'

'Nor me,' Mosby shook his head.

'I think possibly you have, but maybe not,' said Audley. 'His name is—or was—Pennebaker. He was an airman on the base at Wodden. Shot himself a couple of days ago.'

'He shot himself?'

'Well, that's what we're required to believe. But our forensic people have their doubts… They think he was helped, you might say. And I'm very much inclined to believe them.' He paused. 'Now here's an interesting one.'

The photograph was bigger, but not nearly so well focussed—a blown-up fragment of a larger unposed snapshot, maybe—

Hell and damnation!

'Ah! I see that one rings a bell,' said Audley happily. 'Let your wife have a look, there's a good chap.'

Shirley stared. 'Why, isn't that Harry what's-his-name— the Public Relations guy?'

'Finsterwald,' said Mosby. 'Is he—dead?'

'Why, I saw him only three-four days back in the BX,' said Shirley. She looked from Mosby to Audley.

'Do you mean to say he's dead too?'