Soldier No More

grey-blonde curls with a quick, almost convulsive movement. 'He didn't know—but he knew all the same—like, he couldn't know, because he wasn't here those nights, when you went off, but he knew somehow, I don't know how . . . You know Mr Nigel, sir—he always knew everything somehow—'

Except which horse was going to win—'

'I mean about people, sir, Mr William, not horses.' She stared at Wimpy in silence for a moment.

Wimpy nodded into the silence. Now, this time, and for the first time, they were both oblivious of him, thought Roche: now they were both wrapped and enveloped in a secret play in which they had acted independently, here in this sweet-smelling room and also up the drive, in the house which he hadn't yet seen, where the Master, Mr Nigel, had lavished entertainment on his smart friends—

'So . . . what on earth did you do, Clarkie?' Wimpy watched her intently.

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'I told a lie, sir—a black lie.' She half-smiled, the recollection of the black lie warming her memory. 'You remember that Mrs Templeton, that went off in the end with Captain Wallace-White, and there was all that scandal?'

Wimpy's eyes widened. 'Phew! Do I not! Lottie Templeton—

phew! She was there—I remember that too, by golly!'

'That's right. And she fancied you, what's more, sir.'

'Lottie Templeton? She never did, Clarkie!'

'No, sir. She fancied you.'

'I fancied her. She just talked to me, that's all.'

'You made her laugh. And she said you were clever, I heard her say so. She fancied you, and that's a fact.'

Wimpy shook his head. 'Oh . . . come on, Clarkie! Mere schoolmasters weren't Lottie's style.'

'Begging your pardon, sir, anything in trousers was Mrs Templeton's style.'

The servants knew, thought Roche. The servants always knew. And, judging by Wimpy's failure to reply this time, the same thing was occurring to him.

Ada Clarke nodded. 'Yes, sir ... So it came to me, right on the spur of the moment, and I says to him—or I whispers to him, more like—'I think Mr William is looking after Mrs Templeton in the summerhouse, sir'.' She paused. 'And she was in the summerhouse too.'

'But not with me—' Wimpy blinked at her.

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'No, sir. You weren't quick enough off the mark! But he didn't know that—or ... he couldn't be sure, not without going after you, which he couldn't do, and wouldn't do—'

'You're wrong, Clarkie.' He shook his head again. 'He'd know better than that, whatever you say.'

He always knew everything about people. . .

She looked at him silently for a second or two, curiously without any expression on her face. 'Maybe he did, sir. But you know what he was like, about Master David—like he didn't want to know if he could help it? He was the same with those times the two of you went off—knowing, and not knowing at the same time . . . All he wanted was an excuse not to know, and that's what I gave him—an excuse. Because he said, 'Oh well, then that's all right then', and went off back to the party, to—' she caught Roche's eye '—back to the party he went, sir, Captain Roche . . . But it was him that gave Master David all that to drink, anyway, is what I'm saying.'

She nodded accusingly at Wimpy.

The schoolmaster sat back as though released from a spell. 'I don't think poor Captain Roche understands a word we're saying, Clarkie. He can hardly be expected to fathom our ancient and exceedingly byzantine history.'

There was an irony in that, though whether it was accidental or deliberate it was hard to estimate, thought Roche: it had been out of that byzantine family history and into genuine Byzantine history that 'Master' David had eventually plunged himself, as to the manner born.

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But meanwhile his role was to draw Ada Clarke out in whatever direction Wimpy indicated.

He looked at her expectantly, as one desiring enlightenment.

'Mr— Major Willis . . . brought the champagne down here . . . ?'

Mrs Clarke sighed. 'The Master was always very strict with Master David when there was a party up at the house, you see, sir—'

'Strict?' Wimpy cut in. 'He banished the boy at the drop of a hat, more like.'

'No, sir. That's not quite fair. Some of those parties, they were . . .' Mrs Clarke searched for a word descriptive of Major Nigel Audley's entertainments, '. . . not suitable.'

' 'Adults only',' supplied Wimpy. 'There is an element of truth in what Clarkie says—or doesn't say . . . This was the thirties, you have to remember, dear boy—gangsters in America, and Herr Hitler's little experiment in Germany, and Uncle Joe in Russia, killing off everyone in sight. . . and Mussolini in Italy, and Kim Philby reporting the war in Spain for The Times—and for Uncle Joe, of course ...'

And unemployment in England,' said Roche.

'And unemployment—for the unemployed,' agreed Wimpy.

'And for Nigel Audley and William Willis MA there was