'Yes. She died when Audley was very small. But fortunately for him she'd taken out an education insurance policy for him, otherwise the house would have had to go. It was that tight.' Stocker paused. 'But since then he's had the house repaired, and he's even bought back some of the land. So he's dummy5
picked up quite a lot of hard cash from somewhere, that's for sure.'
'He writes books though, doesn't he? And articles for magazines?'
History books—and learned magazines.' Stocker wrinkled up his nose at culture. 'And I doubt there's much profit in the early Middle Ages. You've seen the list of his works?'
Roche nodded. 'Hardly best-sellers, I agree.'
'Best-sellers? You couldn't rent a council allotment with
'So he makes his money some other way.' The more Roche thought about Audley's finances, the less he liked leaving such loose ends untied behind him. Stocker's facts had merely whetted his appetite for opinions the Major seemed incapable of giving. 'There are still ways of making quick money if you're clever. And he's clever.'
'Meaning dishonest?'
Stocker regarded him dispassionately. 'Very well, I'll go on digging. But I can't promise quick results there.'
Roche sighed. 'So what are you promising me ... sir?'
Stocker nodded out of the bar towards the dining room.
'Lunch first.'
And then?'
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'Half-an-hour's drive. We should reach Immingham just after the pub closes.'
'Immingham?'
'That's right. You want to know what sort of man Audley is.
Wasn't it Wordsworth who said 'the child is father of the man', eh?' Stocker looked at his watch. 'If that's true, then I think there's someone at Immingham who may be able to help you, Captain Roche.'
IV
THE RUGGER POSTS of the St. Martin's School, Immingham, 1st XV pitch stood tall and very white against their backcloth of Sussex landscape, on a vivid green field of late summer grass, dwarfing the two figures beside them.
Roche rounded the corner of the pitch and turned towards them at last, along the goal-line. But although he knew that they had seen him the moment he had appeared from behind the pavilion, they still took not the least bit of notice of him.
'. . . ah, well you may have it your way, Major Willis, sir—'
God! Another major!
'—but I say it's in good heart, and if we leave it alone it'll be right enough with no more fussing, if we get a drop of rain.'
'But will we get that, Mr Badger? You want to put your trust in God, and I say that God helps those who help themselves.'
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Major Willis bent down and examined the grass at his feet. 'I don't know ... I don't think it's as vigorous as it ought to be for the time of year—' he straightened up abruptly '—so let's have a third opinion, eh?'
'Eh?' The groundsman frowned at him, and then at Roche, since there was no other possible opinion in sight.
The schoolmaster also turned towards Roche. He was a slightly-built man, with a ferrety look which reminded Roche of Field Marshal Montgomery.
'Captain Roche, is it?' he inquired peremptorily.
'Major . . . Willis?' And also the Field Marshal's rather nasal voice. But not, judging by the smell of Scotch whisky, the Field Marshal's celebrated abstinence, thereby confirming Stocker's intelligence work. 'My—ah—my colleague, Major Stocker, phoned you, I believe, sir.'
'So he did—jolly good! Now then—' Willis gestured to the great open expanse of playing field '—are you a sportsman?
Of course you are, I don't need to ask, do I!'
Roche felt that he had been warned, yet insufficiently forewarned nevertheless.
'So what d'you think of it, then? Am I right—or is Badger here right?'
It was all just grass to Roche, and rather lush, if anything.
'My game was hockey, actually.' It might be a risk, admitting that, but it was less risky than remaining on the subject of grass.
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'Hockey?' Willis frowned at him. 'What club d'you play for?'
None, at the moment. I haven't played for some years—the last time I played was in Malaya, actually.'
Willis nodded. 'For the Army?'
