grey in it now.
Colonel Butler had started to grow grey in his country's service, which would probably have pleased Butler if anyone had dared say as much.
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'Hullo, Jack,' said Audley. 'Good to see you.'
'David.' The effort of saying 'David' taxed Butler sorely. It had taken Jack Butler five years to make the great leap from
'Audley' to 'David', which he would have managed for his youngest and greenest subaltern in a few hours if he had remained with his Lancashire Riflemen. And by now he would have been commanding that regiment for sure; in fact, with Ulster the way it was he would have been commanding a good deal more than that, certainly more than five surveillance teams and a few Special Branch men. But Duty had got in the way of predictable promotion, and Jack Butler would never wear red tabs on his lapels now, he would live and die a colonel on the general list, seconded to special duty with an obscure department of the Ministry of Defence. And live and die quite happily, by Mithras!
But that didn't mean that he had to like calling David Audley
'David' when he didn't even approve of David Audley.
It had been his god-daughter Catherine Audley who had finally led him to that, and even she hadn't been enough to make Butler glad to see her father.
'Politics, Jack.'
'Politics. Aye, politics.' Butler looked at his watch. 'We haven't much time.'
'No. Thanks for the photographs. I liked your messengers.'
Audley smiled. 'The boy didn't say a word, the girl did all the talking.'
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'That would be her.' Butler didn't smile back, but his face softened for half a second. 'I'm not supposed to communicate with your inside people, that's why— not even supposed to know who they are. But I've seen the young woman Fitzgibbon on the ridge.'
Audley nodded. 'Looks the part, doesn't she?'
'It suits her, I'll say that. And I wouldn't have thought so.'
'You wouldn't?' But he couldn't have Frances sold short.
'More fool you, then. She's a damn good one.'
That seemed to please Butler. 'If you say so.'
Which side would Butler have been on in 1643? thought Audley suddenly. That would be a pretty question to settle, with loyalty and duty and honour split right down the middle by common sense and those intellectual qualities which were hidden behind the archetypal red face.
But that wasn't today's problem, thank God!
'The other one's Paul Mitchell.'
'Hah!' That was as close as Butler ever got to laughing.
'You think that amusing?'
Butler's face shut like a portcullis. 'I think you've got two good ones then, that's what I think.'
Audley was irritated at the anger he felt. 'But you also think it's funny. Why?'
Butler looked at his watch again.
'Why?' Audley persisted.
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Butler shrugged. 'I think it's . . . interesting that you don't like him.'
'What d'you mean by that?'
This time Butler sighed, looking at Audley for a moment with his head on one side. 'Let's say ... I think you ought to look in the mirror sometime, and then look at Mitchell. But I'd prefer to bring you up to date, if you don't mind.'
Audley swallowed. 'Very well.'
'The London end is going satisfactorily. There's a rumour a foot thick in the City that Ratcliffe's credit isn't so good any more. We haven't attempted to define it, but the way it's come back to us is that there's been a break in the murder investigation which implicates him and that there's a technicality in the treasure trove law which no one has thought of before.'
'But we didn't start those rumours?'
Butler shook his head. 'No. We just put you in at the top, that's all. They've done the rest themselves . . . with a little help from your friend Fattorini. He's been a tower of weakness in the market.'
Audley smiled to himself at the thought of Matthew happily serving God and Mammon at the same time.
'And our five subjects?'
Butler took a sip of whisky. 'Ratcliffe is a bit rattled. He was close to clinching a deal on a nice little second- hand offset press—the printer's about to go bust—and this has nearly dummy5
scuppered it. We've helped someone else put in a cash bid for the same press backed with a government printing contract, too ... he doesn't know about the contract, but he does know about the bid. And his old printer is baying for the money he owes.'
'I'd heard about that.'
