'And that was why Cromwell was unbeatable? It was his gold dummy5
you were thinking about, I take it?'
She'd read the same story, only a day late and with more misprints, in the
'But of course it wasn't his gold, was it?' she continued. 'I mean he didn't find it, did he? That Charlie Ratcliffe must be a smart young man.'
Bright, but not flashy—no, that was Henry Digby.
'I like your Sergeant Digby,' said Faith suddenly, as though she'd been eavesdropping on his stream of consciousness.
'I'm half-glad you brought him here to sleep.'
'Half-glad?' He wished he could see her face. 'What does half-glad mean?'
'It means . . . that I enjoyed meeting him. He's intelligent and he has good manners. He's even quite good- looking in a homely sort of way.'
'In America 'homely' means 'plain',' said Audley irrelevantly.
'Well, we aren't in America. Nice looking, then, if you want to play with words. You ought to introduce him to Frances, they're both the same sort of person.'
'I might just do that some time. And that's the glad half of half-glad, is it?'
'Yes.'
'And the unglad half is that he's in my equivocal company?'
She reached for his hand. 'You're not equivocal. But he's very young, David.'
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They were all very young, God help us. Mitchell and Frances and Henry Digby. And Charlie Ratcliffe too.
'It's a young man's game, love. You should be worrying about me.'
The cool hand squeezed his hot hand. 'I have to think that you can look after yourself, my darling.'
Audley stared into the darkness for a moment without answering, holding the cool hand.
'He's a policeman, love. A policeman with three commendations too, and they weren't just for seeing old ladies across busy streets at rush hour either, you can be sure of that.'
The hand relaxed. 'So he takes his chances?'
'Exactly. He takes his chances. And since this is England and not Ireland, those are pretty damn good chances.'
'Well, you just make sure they are, that's all.'
'So you be careful of him . . . sir.'
First Weston, now Faith.
Weston had said it twice though—
'You've got him for a week, the Chief said. Or ten days at the outside, that'll take in Easingbridge and Standingham.
After that we want him back—undamaged.'
'Standingham? You mean there's a mock-battle there too?'
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Weston registered surprise. 'They haven't told you much, have they!'
'I didn't ask for much. I get what I want in my own way and in my own time. Superintendent. Don't you do the same?'
Weston gave a non-committal grunt, then nodded grudgingly without replying. Audley was aware suddenly that he'd lost a part of the treacherous ground on which he'd built a bridge between them; at best it was a ramshackle, temporary affair, and without constant attention it would sink without a trace.
Yet here had to be a reason for this loss. 'So there's to be a mock-battle at Standingham?'
Another nod. 'Aye. A full-scale one. The Easingbridge affair's only a one-day stand, but Standingham's a two- day job.'
'In honour of Charlie Ratcliffe's treasure trove?'
'I suppose so.' Weston shrugged. 'There's never been a re-enactment there before, anyway. The old man wouldn't have one at any price.'
A full-scale two-day event. And in the ordinary course of things, a Civil War spectacle could draw a Second Division crowd, up to ten thousand people. But with the publicity Charlie Ratcliffe and the Cromwell's treasure had had . . .
plus the smell of unsolved murder drifting from Swine Brook Field . . . that might lift it into the First Division.
So Weston was apprehensive. Only it couldn't have anything to do with handling a First Division crowd, because when it came to crowd control the British police hadn't anything to dummy5
learn from anyone. And this was only a crowd of First Division size anyway, not of First Division disposition.
