Tomorrow's ghost

turning the word into a conspiracy between them, and a pass-word too. Suddenly Frances felt hand-in-glove with him, and part of all the rendezvous in which he had played the role of go-between - his discretion and loyalty bought for a blue fiver - for other Paul Mitchells and Frances Fitzgibbons over the years.

And, just as suddenly, the knowledge was painful to her, that there was no one now who would wish to buy that discretion for her and anyone else, for what Paul would have led this Head Porter to believe: a night in one of his double rooms - Where love throbs out in blissful sleep/Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath/Where hushed awakenings are dear...

If that had been the case, what would she say now?

'Was there a message... with the gloves?'

'Ah... Would you hold the line for a minute, madam?'

What was he doing? Turning on the tape? Putting the extension through? Or moving the Receptionist out of ear-shot?

'Thank you, madam... Now, if you please, on one side of your fireplace there is a book-shelf - am I right?'

'What?'

He cleared his throat. 'I am instructed to ask you, madam: on one side of your fireplace there is a book-shelf. What sort of books would there be on that shelf, now?'

Frances closed her eyes. The fireplace - to take precautions like this Paul had to be scared - the fireplace had books on each side of it, she'd made the bookcases herself during Robbie's second tour in Ulster ... Robbie's books on one side, hers on the other -

her Faulkner and Hardy and Fielding, and all her poetry anthologies -

God knows 'twere better to be deep/Pillowed in silk and scented down - but why was she thinking of those lines, from one of Robbie's favourite poems, and of all poems that one, the death one?

She opened her eyes. Paul had only noticed Robbie's books at his side when he had sat at that fireside, in the empty chair.

'Fairy stories and folk-lore.'

'Fairy tales - that's correct. Thank you, madam.' He drew a five-pound breath of relief. 'If you have a piece of paper and a pencil handy, I have a message for you, madam.'

There was a pad by the phone, with a biro on a string.

'Yes?'

''Ring 0254-587142'. Have you got that, madam?'

It may be he shall take my hand/And lead me into his dark land -

Damn! 'Yes. 0254-587142'.

''Ask for the Adjutant'.'

'Yes. Ask for the Adjutant.'

''Exercise caution'.'

Paul really was scared. And as of this moment, since Paul didn't scare easily - never had been scared in her experience - then Frances was frightened, thought Frances.

'Yes?'

'That's all, madam. Just that.'

'Thank you.' She waited, but he didn't seem inclined to hang up. 'Yes?'

'The gloves, madam. What shall I do with them?'

'Oh.' So there really was a pair of gloves. But of course there was: Paul wouldn't make that sort of error. And, by the same token, she must play her part in the charade.

'I'll be coming by to pick them up, probably tomorrow.'

'Then I'll leave them in Reception for you ... And ... good luck, madam.'

Click.

* * *

One good thing about being frightened, thought Frances analytically, was that it dissolved both poetry and feminine vapours - that would be Wing Commander Roskill's famous adrenalin overriding the central nervous system, making a superwoman of her.

0254-587142. Poor Isobel's phone bill!

'Guard Room.'

Frances frowned at the wall. 'I beg your pardon?'

'You've got the Guard Room, love.' The owner of the voice appeared resigned, though not unkindly, to explaining what was bound to be a wrong number. 'Queen's Lancashire Regiment, Blackburn Depot - Salamanca Barracks. Is that what you want?'

The adrenalin pumped. No need to wonder now what Paul was doing, of course; while she was excavating Colonel Butler's marriage, he was turning over Colonel Butler's military career, or some unresolved question mark in it - and who better than Paul Mitchell, the ex-military historian, to dig into that history?