Colonel Sir Edward Whitelocke, foolishly believing a false report that Cromwell had been defeated and slain by Lord Goring, allowed his men to partake of a great quantity of fresh-brewed ale, so that on the morrow they were in no condition to withstand the onset of the Ironsides, when they came upon them untimely—
The black and white of the pamphlet registered. So he'd been literally and absolutely spot on with his first guess: in executing his flank attack (which, if it was well-advised, was still no great military innovation), God's Chosen Instrument of Vengeance owed more to the stupidity of his adversary than to Divine Providence, which usually received the credit dummy5
for Crowning Mercies in those far-off days. Though perhaps the presence of that 'great quantity of fresh- brewed ale' was in the nature of Divine Providence at that, constituting as it did a temptation which no British soldiers—and above all no English cavaliers of the seventeenth century—could be expected to resist.
But no matter. If there were such things as omens, it was a good omen that his instincts were working. And perhaps even a good omen twice over: Colonel Sir Edward Whitelocke had joined the great company of defeated commanders because he had thought himself in the clear, had relaxed his guard, and then had been stampeded into the wrong counter-action.
And that, more or less, was the battle scenario for the defeat of Charlie Ratcliffe at this instant.
A crash of broken glass within the Ploughman's Arms, followed by a loud cheer, roused him from his military reflections just as a dark shadow loomed in the corner of his eye outside the car.
'Are you all right, sir?'
The dark shadow was a large policeman.
'Perfectly, thank you. Why shouldn't I be?'
The policeman sniffed suspiciously. 'That's not for me to say, sir. But I've been watching you for the last four or five minutes and—'
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There was another loud crash from the Ploughman, and a further outbreak of cheering which blended into the unforgettable strains of 'The Ball of Kirriemuir'. The policeman, who was young and fresh-faced and astonishingly like Sergeant Digby, lifted his nose from the car window and gave the pub a long, hard look as though calculating the breaking-strength of its structure under internal pressure.
The distraction gave Audley a moment to gather his wits. He had been sitting hunched down, slumped as though asleep, outside a pub where a great quantity of ale, fresh-brewed or otherwise, was being consumed— slumped in a car.
He was therefore about to be breathalysed.
'You should be worrying about them, not me, officer.' He smiled up at the young constable.
'Sir?' The candid eyes fastened on him again.
'I said—you should be worrying about them.'
'They aren't in charge of cars, sir.'
Trust the police to get their priorities exactly right. Good on you, copper!
'Of course.' He passed up his identification card. 'I'm on official business, officer . . . and, for the record, I haven't had anything to drink, either.'
The eyes scanned the card, checked the face against the photograph, scanned the card again.
'Thank you, sir.' There was no change in the voice as the dummy5
card came back through the window; a potential offender against section umpteen of the Road Traffic Act was no different, until breathalysed, from one of Her Majesty's servants on his lawful occasion. 'Can I be of assistance in any way?'
'I'm looking for Bridge House—Air Vice-Marshal Rushworth.''
'Just on down the road, sir. The big stone place directly overlooking the bridge —you can't miss it.'
'I see—thank you, officer.' Audley reached for the ignition.
'But you'd do better to leave your car here, sir. I'll keep an eye on it. The yard at Bridge House is full of horses.'
'Full of—horses?'
The constable nodded, deadpan. 'That's right, sir. The Royalist cavalry— it's their headquarters. But it's only a step from here.'
Audley couldn't prevent himself from looking across the gleaming new cellulose of the car bonnet towards the Ploughman, from which some of the more esoteric verses of
'Kirriemuir' were now issuing.
The young constable caught the look.
'That's all right, sir. Your car won't come to any harm. I shall be here until they close.'
I shall be here. A pub full of well-oiled soldiery, armed cap-apied, but I shall be here.
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The constable grinned. 'It's just high spirits—they don't make any real trouble. It'd be more than their lives are worth if they did, their own people 'ud court martial 'em double quick. And with me out here . . .' He shook his head. 'No trouble at all.'
'And no one drunk in charge of a horse?'
'Cavalry don't drink, sir—they're very strict about that.'
