War Game

Not John Lumley.'

'A long shot, I admit. But as Black Thomas he made a special point of telling Digby to keep on pouring his red dye into the stream. And Digby says that simply wasn't necessary.'

'So he was just making sure Digby did his job, then.'

'Precisely. And if I was Charlie Ratcliffe's contract man that's the one thing I'd require of my employer: to ensure that Digby went on doing his job while I did mine. So Lumley stays on the list until we can prove otherwise.'

'A waste of time.' Mitchell's tone was obstinate. 'Gates and dummy5

Bishop—maybe. Davenport—probably, from the way he talks.

But John Lumley—never.'

'What makes you so sure?' asked Frances.

'I also happen to have met the man himself and I know how his mind works. And it would never work on behalf of Charlie Ratcliffe, not ever.'

'Maybe.' Lumley was the longest shot of the four, but in the circumstances the more suspects he had, the better. 'You may well be right, Paul. And if you are, then he'll emerge whiter than white from Colonel Butler's inquiries, and I shall be perfectly happy to accept his verdict.'

'And if not?' said Frances.

'Until I hear from Butler in a few minutes' time that's academic. They may all be clean . . . they may all be dirty. But at the moment they are all suspect and we're going to lean on all of them and see what happens. That will be when you must keep your eyes skinned.'

'Hmm ...' Frances frowned slightly. 'Talking of keeping our eyes skinned . . . there are several rather equivocal non-Roundhead types who've been loitering around the camp from the minute we arrived yesterday evening. And asking questions too, evidently.'

'That's right. They've been lent to us by—some of our friends.'

'Well, they're not exactly treading with fairy feet.'

'They aren't meant to be. They're just softening up the dummy5

targets.'

'Which include Charlie Ratcliffe, I trust.' There was a faint echo of his anger in Mitchell's voice, as though the slur cast on Major Lumley constituted a large addition to Charlie Ratcliffe's overdue account.

'Don't fret, Paul. We've been leaning on Ratcliffe since early yesterday morning.'

'How?'

'He's been trying to raise money—and quite a lot of it, too—

on the strength of his golden expectations,' Audley began.

Frances stirred at that, her long skirts rustling. 'That wouldn't be for the new printing press of his own he wants for The Red Rat, would it?'

'That—among other things.' Audley looked at her with interest. 'Where did you hear that?'

'Oh, it's all over the camp. And what's more, the word is that his old printer has got wind of it, so he's dunning Ratcliffe for all the money he owes, and Charlie's running round in circles.' She stared back at Audley shrewdly. 'You wouldn't be behind that, by any chance?'

Mitchell laughed softly. 'What—queer a chap's credit, and then stir up his creditors with nasty malicious rumours? Do you really think David would do a thing like that? Perish the thought!'

No one could fault Brigadier Stocker for speed as well as judgement, reflected Audley. The word was not only out, but dummy5

it was moving in directions they hadn't expected, like the smell of Stalky's dead pussy-cat under the ceiling joists.

'Yes . . . well, he is finding money tighter all of a sudden,' he admitted. 'That is, tighter than a young man with great expectations ought to find it.' He turned towards Mitchell.

'Which brings us to your gold, Paul.'

The cavalier face twisted. 'And don't I wish it was! Two million, two and a half million, I could rub along on that. It makes you weep.'

'Finders keepers, losers weepers,' murmured Frances.

'Finders is right. And as for weepers . . . yes, I should think the King of Spain must have dropped a tear or two when the Conception never showed up.'

The sound of a distant drum, a brief, brittle tattoo beaten by a single drummer, echoed through the open dormer window from across the valley. Audley could see small figures with tall pikes assembling in the gap where the road down to the bridge cut through the skyline. Someone was waving a flag with the sweeping theatrical gestures of a Tyrone Guthrie production.

'Nothing to worry about,' Mitchell reassured him. 'The war doesn't start until three o'clock. In fact it can't start without me anyway—I'm galloping back with the news of Cromwell's approach.'

'Well, what's all the fuss up there for?' Audley pointed.

'They don't trust each other,' said Frances.

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