'Just so,' he agreed sympathetically. 'Not para-military so much as parapolitical. And what was it brought you to that conclusion?'
'They sang the wrong tune.'
'I beg your pardon?' Audley frowned. 'They sang—?'
'The wrong tune, aye.' Weston gave him a grim little smile.
'Funny thing was, I almost missed it. Because, you see, I didn't really go on the look-out for yobbos. Or shall we say—I didn't expect to see any of my yobbos, not at that sort of gathering. Not quite their style, if you see what I mean.'
True. Yobbos might, or might not, know a great deal about football, but it was unlikely that any of them would be able to satisfy the Double R Society's membership committees.
'Of course. I was forgetting—it was the casualties you were interested in. You wanted to see how they'd got themselves organised.'
'That's right. And after I'd seen them fight their battle I was in two minds about packing it in and going home. I'd seen what I came to see. But then I thought . . .' he shrugged '... I was there, so I might as well see the whole thing out. See how they behaved off the battlefield when they'd had a few beers, talk to them and see what made them tick, and so on.'
Thoroughness. The mark of the good copper.
'So I waited.' Weston continued simply. 'And as they marched off the field I heard them singing. One lot of Cavaliers were singing a dirty song, and some of the dummy5
Roundheads were singing hymns. But then there was this regiment at the rear, pikemen, all in red coats and steel helmets. Charlie Ratcliffe's regiment, it was.'
'Yes?'
'They were singing
5
THE police house at Standingham was a solid, red-brick dwelling, with a well-regimented garden which looked as though it was inspected twice a week by a superior officer who regarded weeds as law-breakers.
After dropping Digby outside it, Audley took the car forward a couple of hundred yards to the forecourt of the Steyning Arms, where it mingled unobtrusively with those of the pub's early evening drinkers.
He would dearly have liked a pint now himself, but that would have to wait. It was bad enough to allow the mere indulgence of his curiosity to rule his judgement, though if pressed he could argue that now, if ever, was the time to look the place over, before Ratcliffe could possibly be aware of his presence; but whatever the argument, it would be pointless to expose his presence to the public gaze without good cause.
And there was the rub, though: there was really no point in coming to Standingham now, if ever, and he was only doing it because Nayler's smug references to his 'little television dummy5
programme' had galled him—the idea of Stephen Nayler squatting on any secret that interested David Audley was like an itch on the sole of his foot; he couldn't go on until he'd taken off his shoe and scratched it properly.
The sudden movement of the white picket gate of the Police House, for which he'd kept one eye cocked on the rural scene reflected in the car mirror, caught him by surprise. Sergeant Digby had transacted his business with remarkable despatch.
But then the Sergeant Digbys of this world would transact all their business smartly in their accelerated progress to the top, he decided, watching the young man's light infantry advance. The Good Fairy at the Digby christening had endowed that infant with every virtue necessary for success in the police service, except perhaps an extra portion of imagination. And even that, when one thought about it, might have proved more of a hindrance than a help in his superiors' eyes, if it had been granted.
'You've been quick,' said Audley encouragingly.
'Had a bit of luck,' said Digby breathlessly, jerking his head back towards the Police House as he spoke. 'PC Cotton—I worked with him before he was posted here, when I was a DC, so I didn't have to mess around explaining things. And he knows this patch like the back of his hand.'
'Including the castle?'
'You bet. Only two men there now. Caretaker-handyman—
name of Simmonds —for the inside, and old Burton the dummy5
gardener for the outside. Caretaker'll be there now, but Burton'll most likely be in there—' Digby nodded towards the Steyning Arms.
'Charlie Ratcliffe not in residence, then?'
Digby shook his head. 'Doesn't fancy the place at all, apparently. He didn't even stay there when he was treasure-hunting— stayed at the pub most of the time. At least, stayed until the last two or three days before he found the gold—
then he must have camped on the site, Cotton reckons.'
Digby paused. 'All by himself.'
'By himself?'
'That's right. When his uncle was alive there was a housekeeper and a trained nurse as well as the handyman and the gardener. After the old man died he paid the two women off and kept the men on. But when he came down to look for the gold he packed them off on holiday—told them to keep away until he sent for them. Which was about three weeks, Cotton says.'
'So he found the gold single-handed, you mean?'
'He hired a tractor with a front scoop from a local farmer, but otherwise he was alone right up until the
