The Old Vengeful

believed the gambling story, but had simply chosen never to question it.

A token resistance, for form's sake if not for honour's, was all she could make. 'What makes you ... so sure . . . that he didn't win it?'

'My dear—practically everything.' He gazed at her with a suggestion of sympathy which she found humiliating. 'Like, for instance, retired naval officers of an academic persuasion aren't often given to gambling ... or, if they are it's usually common knowledge. And the house would have been full of bits of evidence, from bookies' phone numbers in his address book to old race-cards shoved behind the cushions . . . And if it wasn't horses, then he'd be known around the clubs—

especially if he was a big winner, believe me.' He paused.

'Which, of course, he wouldn't have been—he'd have been a loser. And that's almost the clincher by itself. He just didn't have the right form.'

Of course, they would be experts on this sort of thing, reflected Elizabeth, because gamblers would always be security hazards. And, anyway, if Father's story had never really convinced her, it would be no match for them, just as she was no match for them.

'Apart from which there's your statement—Mitchell!' Audley passed the stapled sheets to her—not the original, she noted, but a photo-copied copy. 'This is your account of what happened yesterday, between the time you left the village fete and . . . Mitchell's second coming, if I may call it that—as dummy3

witnessed by Aske and written and signed of your own free will?'

He was closing in on her now. But however disastrous the revelation of the safe deposits might be, that wasn't her real worry, not now.

'Yes.' Being the only daughter of a new-deceased hero and an unworldly schoolmistress ought to count for something; and she might as well start rehearsing that role as of this moment. 'Actually, Mr Aske said I couldn't have the Sunday papers until I'd written it.'

If Father hadn't won it, where on earth had it come from?

'Very well. Page two, towards the bottom of it.' Audley had his own copy of the statement. 'You offered him what was in the box, and he said 'I don't want your money'.'

She saw that he had produced the spectacles he had worn for his photograph, and had perched them in the same ridiculous place. 'Yes. That's what he said.'

'Uh-huh. And that's also what you said to Mitchell—'he didn't want my money'. So what was he after, Miss Loftus?'

'I don't know.' Elizabeth blinked at him. 'I said that to Dr Mitchell too.'

'But it had something to do with France, and your father . . .

and HMS Vengeful—you told him that also.'

'Yes . . .' What had been rather vague and disjointed in her memory came back to her suddenly with disconcerting clarity. In the state in which she'd been, and with both the dummy3

brandy and Paul Mitchell egging her on, she'd said much more than she needed to have done. 'But it didn't make any sense—I told Dr Mitchell that too.'

'Why not?'

She gestured helplessly. 'How could anyone possibly be interested in the Vengeful?'

'Your safe deposits aren't in France, by any chance?'

'No—no, of course not. They're in London.'

'All of them?'

'Yes—there are only four . . .' Elizabeth faltered as she realised that this was the line of questioning the snake-man should have pursued yesterday, instead of fruitlessly pursuing Father's Vengeful research trips.

Audley nodded. 'So we come to the big question, Miss Loftus: what have you got in those precious boxes of yours?'

'I'm sorry?' She looked at him in surprise, then at Paul Mitchell.

'Come on, Elizabeth,' said Paul Mitchell. 'Get it over with.

We're bound to find out, one way or another.'

She frowned at him. 'Well—money, of course. I told you!'

'Money?' Audley returned the frown.

'What did you expect?' Now they were frowning at each other, as though she'd given an unexpected answer.

'Just money?' Audley persisted. 'In all four deposits?'

'Yes.' She shared her own bewilderment with them.

dummy3

'Look, Elizabeth . . .' Paul Mitchell abandoned his position by the suitcase, coming round the bed to squat on his heels in front of her, among the bank notes '. . .we don't want your money—okay?'

'Well—what do you want?' It ought to have been an angry question, but the way it came out there was a pleading note in it.

Paul Mitchell's encouragement slowly changed to doubt.