nature as against Del's—in that they were brothers, because doing nothing was boring, and because no one could shine while doing nothing. But here was Paul, nevertheless, conceding the short corner to Del. ...
'Wrong,' said David Audley, almost insultingly, pouring more port into his glass, and then offering the decanter to Elizabeth.
'No thank you, David. But why is Paul wrong?' She felt an absurd loyalty for Paul Mitchell now, in spite of his arrogance.
'Not wholly wrong, Elizabeth.' Audley pushed the decanter dummy3
towards Mitchell. 'Del must have his head—a free hand to scour everything south of the river—I agree . . . But we still have the edge on Kahn and Novikov, my dear.'
'How?' said Elizabeth quickly, before Paul could ask the same question. Because it was her turn to fight now, even if she didn't know why.
'Because we have what Oakenshaw was going to take from you—' Audley's hand had already been reaching inside his coat pocket '—and most particularly we have this—' he slid a piece of folded paper across the table to her.
It was a letter. Pale blue paper, shakily hand-written—
Dear Commander Loftus—
Elizabeth looked at the address—it was nowhere she had ever heard of: somewhere in Kent, near Tenterden . . . and, on the other side, was a name she had never heard of— Irene Cookridge (Miss)—
Dear Commander Loftus,
I saw your letter in 'The Times' today, regarding your wish to make contact with surviving members of the crews of the warship which bore the name 'Vengeful' during the first world war, or with any of their next-of-kin having material relating to their service, in connection with a book which dummy3
you are writing.
While I do not have any connection with such persons, or any such material, I have in my—
Possession? The writing was small and spiky—elderly, guessed Elizabeth—and the pen had spluttered over the second double-s successively; but extensive experience with juvenile hands, and bitter experience with Father's own scrawl, made that possession, beyond reasonable doubt—
— in my possession a slender volume relating in part to another vessel of that name, dating from a much earlier period in history; and while this does not answer your appeal it may provide you with a curious footnote to your researches.
Elderly, also beyond reasonable doubt. No modern education could have produced that semi-colon, never mind the particular words and the style itself: Miss Irene Cookridge was someone's great- aunt, or great-great-aunt, since she could not be anyone's grandmother.
This volume, which is hand-written, records conversations between my maternal ancestor, the Revd Arthur Cecil Ward, and the squire of his parish, Sir Alexander Gower, and it was among my mother's possessions which came to dummy3
me on her death in 1952.
She couldn't help looking up as she turned the page, and catching Audley's eye twinkling at her.
'Gold, genuine gold,' said Audley. 'The stuff that dreams are made of—and the best is yet to come, Elizabeth.'
These conversations relate chiefly to the memories of my ancestor, who in his younger days had been a Chaplain to the House of Commons, and Sir Alexander, who was an ensign with the Foot Guards at Waterloo. But there are also some twenty pages of the recollections of one Thomas (Tom) Chard, head gamekeeper on Sir Alexander's estate, formerly a gunner's mate on a ship named 'Vengeful' during the Napoleonic War. This relates briefly to a desperate battle with a French warship, a subsequent shipwreck off the French coast, Tom Chard's experiences in captivity, his escape therefrom, and his adventures on the long journey home in company with other members of the crew.
All this, I appreciate, does not fall within the terms of reference, as laid down in your letter. Yet I venture to think that, since it has never to my knowledge been revealed before, it may be of historical interest in such a book as yours. And, needless to say, I would be only too pleased to make it available to you—
dummy3
Elizabeth stared at Paul. 'You've read this?'
'Not read it. David told me about it ... and he's talked to her—
Miss—?'
'Miss Irene Cookridge.' Audley nodded between them. 'And I lave seen her book—half-leather, with a brass lock—but pure gold, both of them . . . Miss Cookridge and her book!'
'Pure gold, I'm sure—if I was finishing off the Vengeful book for Elizabeth.' Paul's face creased with irritation. 'But where does Danny Kahn come in? And where does Josef Ivanovitch Novikov figure? Come on, David—whatever pure gold Danny Kahn and Loftus may have found there, it's fool's gold when you mix Novikov into it—it's a con—it's a bloody classic con, in fact—'
'A con?' Del studied Mitchell sideways. 'Why a con, Dr Mitchell?'
