Tomorrow he would go down to Winchester, where Paul Mitchell would give him his costume for the afternoon, and report that nothing of interest had happened, and that the Tenth Legion was getting bored with inactivity.
He read the scenario again, and began to drowse over it, staring out at the dying elms beyond the lawn. He would have to hire someone to cut them down—they were too big for him—and then the bark, where the infection lay, would have to be stripped off. And that would be damned dummy5
expensive, but he couldn't burn them where they fell; that would be wasteful as well as difficult. . . .
(It didn't matter now. The battleships were sinking and burning now, and the admiral had torn his epaulettes from his shoulders. Henry Digby was dead now.) He started to think of the CIA. In a way, by carefully failing now, he was protecting the Department from that fate. If he'd really tried to screw Charlie Ratcliffe he would probably have ended up by causing a big scandal, which wouldn't have done Counter-intelligence any good at all—with all those far-left-wing MP's asking awkward questions in the House of Commons about the infringement of personal liberties. Even William Strode had suspected that he was a fascist beast in disguise.
He forgot all about phoning Jack Butler. It was no longer of any importance.
Just after the grandfather clock struck eleven Faith returned, bearing cakes which old Mrs. Clark had baked for them, some of which she would pack up for the weekend expedition into seventeenth-century England.
It occurred to him that the best thing he could do would be to arrange for Charlie Ratcliffe to be part of the Special Effects Section's simulated magazine explosion, thus solving all problems. Which happy thought encouraged him to kiss her, which she mistook as an advanced farewell on account of his imminent departure for manoeuvres at Standingham Castle, and returned the hug with interest. And the late August sun dummy5
shone on them both.
Then the phone rang.
Audley removed one hand from his wife and reached back across his desk for the receiver.
'Stop it, love—if you whisper into one ear I'll never hear anything in the other. . . . Hullo. Audley speaking.'
For no particular reason he stared at the grandfather. The hands were on five past eleven.
Dr. Audley, this is—
Superintendent Weston has asked me to—
I'm afraid I have to tell you that—
He was still staring at the clock. The minute hand always jerked forward so strongly that it marked each advance with a shiver.
'Are you there, sir?'
'Yes. When did this happen?'
10.23. Henry Digby had been dead for . . . forty-three minutes
'Where?'
He listened.
'Where?' Time had stopped. 'What was he doing there?'
Not in a position to say.
'Get me Superintendent Weston.'
dummy5
Superintendent Weston was busy. Of course he was busy.
'Don't argue with me. You don't think he told you to phone me out of courtesy, do you? Get him.'
Hold the line.
'What's the matter, David? What's happened?' asked Faith.
'Henry Digby's dead.'
'This time next year he'll be Inspector Digby CID.'
'Well, you just make sure he is, that's all.'
'So you be careful of him . . . sir.'
Faith was no longer touching him, she was looking at him in appalled anger. 'What have you done, David?'
'I haven't done anything.'
'You mean it was an accident? A road—' But she could read his face like a book. 'But it wasn't an accident, was it? What have you done?'
He could only shake his head. 'I don't understand. He wasn't doing anything dangerous. I deliberately didn't put him in harm's way.'
'You said he'd have to take his chance.'
She was remembering the same conversation now. 'You said that.'
'That's what I said, not what I did.' But he was already dummy5
arguing with only half his mind; the other half was groping towards the immediate consequences.
'Well, you bloody well miscalculated, didn't you! Whatever you did.' And already her anger was changing also,
