Soldier No More

'My old brigadier and eminence grise,' said Audley. 'Why don't you split your bounty-money with him, for God's sake—

and leave me alone!'

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'Because he doesn't know—that's why. And you do.'

'Know what?' asked Jilly.

'Crap!' exclaimed Bradford. 'All you have to do is think—'

Roche stirred himself. 'Think what? Know what?'

Bradford turned towards him, screwing up his eyes in the darkness. 'I took the goddamn book to Forbes at Cambridge

—'

'But why?' asked Jilly.

'Because he's an expert on medieval history, honey. They gave me his name in UCLA—they said whoever wrote it is a historian.'

'But Antonia Palfrey wrote it, Mike.'

Bradford spread his hands. 'And who the hell's Antonia Palfrey? It's just a name on a book jacket—a nom-de- plume name, not a real one.'

'But there's her picture—'

'Sure. But with no address. And she just turns up at intervals, out of the blue . . . sometimes in London, but mostly in New York . . . and then disappears again before the press can catch her. Or anyone else.'

'But her publishers must know where she lives, Mike.'

'And her lawyers,' said Stein.

'Huh! Well... if they know, they're not telling me!'

“There are ways of finding out,' said Stein.

'Sure there are ways.' Bradford pointed at Audley. 'He's one dummy5

way—'

But why David?' Jilly looked from one to the other.

'Why indeed!' murmured Audley. 'Because that vindictive old swine Forbes set him on to me, of course! He hates my guts.'

But you were his favourite pupil, David,' said Stein.

'Favourite? That's rich!' Audley rocked on his stool.

'But you were, old boy,' said Stein. 'When you won the Hebden he even gave a party for you. I was there.'

'So you were. And so I was ... so long as I danced to his tune.' He nodded at Stein. 'I took the Hebden Prize from a chap at King's—Bodger, or Badger, or some such unlikely name—who was the pet student of old Professor Hedley, whom Forbes cordially detested . . . After which I had great plans for myself. And so did Forbes.' He rocked again.

'Unfortunately . . . unfortunately for me, that is ... the plans did not coincide.

'What plans?'

'Oh—the usual sort of thing,' said Audley airily. 'After my doctorate, a fellowship. There was one timed just right for me at Rylands, in medieval history. Number Two to Forbes, in fact.'

Jilly cocked her head. 'But David, if that was Professor Forbes's plan, why didn't you—'

'My dear Jilly, that wasn't Forbes's plan—that was mine.'

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The lamplight caught Audley's teeth again as he smiled, but for once the shadows seemed to Roche to betray his true expression in a mask of pain. 'Bodger—Dr Bodger—got the fellowship.'

For a moment no one spoke, then Stein emitted a sympathetic grunt. 'And what was Forbes's plan?'

'Oh. . .that was. . . rather different.'

What was it?' Stein persisted. 'More wine, Alexandra!'

An excellent idea!' said Audley heartily. 'And then we shall toast all the Forbeses and Bodgers of this world, that they may receive their just reward.' He held out his glass to Lexy.

'Fill it up, m'lady.'

'Not until you've told us Forbes's plan,' said Lexy. 'You can't leave us with only half a story.'

Audley waved his glass. 'I only tell that half when I'm drunk, Alexandra Champeney-Perowne.'

'But you are drunk, David.'

“Am I?' Audley looked around for confirmation.

'Sufficiently,' said Stein.