The Old Vengeful

'How far had he got?'

It was on the tip of her tongue to repeat her question, but she sensed that it might be easier to let him reach the answer in his own way. 'He was revising a chapter on one of the earlier Vengefuls. He hadn't really got down to collating the material he had on the last three Vengefuls, if you must know.'

He brightened. 'The twentieth century ones, those would be?'

'The ninth Vengeful. That's how far he'd got, Mr Mitchell.'

He thought for a moment, and then nodded as though she had confirmed information he already possessed. 'The Jutland Vengeful. Improved Admiralty M Class—975 tons, three 4-inch, four 21-inch torpedo tubes, 34.5 knots. Built by Hawthorne, Leslie and Company Limited on the Tyne at Hebburn, commissioned at Chatham—1913 -14 Estimates.

Right?'

'If you say so. There was one that fought at Jutland certainly.' If she had not already been inclined towards caution his finger-tip facts would have made her so. 'But you obviously know all about it already. You wouldn't be a naval dummy3

historian by any chance, would you?'

He shook his head. 'No, Miss Loftus, not a naval historian—a military one. Actually the 1914-18 War is my field—the war of the tenth Vengeful. Only it's the Western Front that's my speciality. The trenches . . . if you can call them a field.' The corner of his mouth twitched. 'I don't suppose you can discern any connection?'

'Is there one?'

'It was the same war, Miss Loftus.' He paused for a moment.

'You see ... a few years ago I was re-reading one of my favourite books, Charles Carrington's Soldier from the Wars Returning . . . Charles Carrington being the 'Charles Edmonds' who wrote the best and truest eye-witness memoir to come out of the trenches, Subaltern's War—do you know it?'

'No.' But what she did know was that he was what he said he was, she could recognise the glint in his eye, and the dogmatic assertion of the obsessed specialist, from her own experience.

'A pity. But no matter ... At one point, just before he comes up to Third Ypres. . . Passchendaele . . . he lets slip that the British soldiers, in the line didn't know a thing about the French Army mutinies. But they did know about the troubles in Russia and the U-boat crisis. Now ... I'd never really thought of the other two crises going on at the same time as Third Ypres—do you see what I mean?'

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Elizabeth blinked. 'I can't say that I do, Mr Mitchell.'

Her obtuseness didn't seem to worry him. 'Contemporaneity, Miss Loftus, contemporaneity. That's the point.'

'Indeed?' What she could still see was that glint. And that was the way it took some men—the pursuit of an idea and the thirst for knowledge. It was related to avarice, but it wasn't the same thing; it was more about finding than keeping, like gold fever.

'The same applies to 1916—Verdun, Jutland, the Somme—to me they'd become isolated events because of my over-specialisation: I knew all about the first and the last, but virtually nothing about the middle one. Whereas in reality the good scholar must look at the whole spread of contemporaneous events, to find out how they interlock, if he's ever to understand the truth about his smaller detail.'

He paused for breath. 'Did you know that the first convoy system—which was the answer to the U-boat—was developed to get coal from South Wales to France . . . because the German army was sitting on most of the French coal supply?'

She had to humour him. 'No, Mr Mitchell, I didn't know that.'

'Yes—' He caught himself suddenly, as though he realised that he was about to lose his broad spread in detail '—well, the fact is ... I've been busy for some time familiarising myself with naval history. And when I read the obituary on your father, and I recalled his earlier letter . . . I'm used to dummy3

handling research material and pulling it together—I did as much for Professor Emerson's book on the Somme a few years back, when he died before he'd finished it... it occurred to me that I might be able to finish your father's book for you, Miss Loftus.'

Good Lord! thought Elizabeth, frowning at him with a mixture of astonishment and irritation. He had indeed been after something—but it wasn't her money, let alone she herself—it was Father's research he wanted!

She opened her mouth, but he spoke again quickly before she could do so.

'Miss Loftus—let me make myself plain, I beg you!' He had clearly read the expression on her face. 'I'm absolutely not interested in either making money or a name for myself—I don't need to do either. The book would have your father's name, and you can have the royalties—you can have your own solicitor draw up any agreement you like. You can even veto the whole thing at any time if you don't like it—or me . . .

providing I can do the same, of course. Because I'd have to see the work that's already been done, naturally . . . My own contribution, apart from any necessary editing, would be to put together the twentieth-century chapters only, because I'm not an expert on the earlier periods . . . But otherwise, you can call the tune absolutely. So don't say 'no' out of hand, without thinking.'

That was exactly what Elizabeth was doing—she was thinking very hard indeed, trying to adjust her first reaction and her dummy3

instinct and her prejudices with the apparent generosity of his offer. Because there must be a catch in it somewhere.

'I don't quite see why you want to do this . . . under those conditions, Mr Mitchell,' she said tentatively, shying away from the direct rudeness of 'What's in it for you?'

He shrugged. 'Let's say . . . I'm not a naval historian—I'm not ready to write a whole book of my own on naval