The Old Vengeful

'Wait and see,' said Paul rudely.

Twenty minutes later he seemed happier; or maybe he was beginning to regret being such a bear, decided Elizabeth.

'I'm sorry to push you like this, Elizabeth.' He tried to smile, and then looked past her and gave up the attempt. 'Where's that obnoxious fellow, for God's sake?'

'Mr Aske is trying to get me a better room. He thinks the one I've got will be too noisy.' Enough was enough. 'Why must you be so beastly to him? Has he ever done you any harm?'

'Not so far as I know—and he's not going to get the chance, either.' He shrugged. 'I hardly know him, actually.'

'You just dislike him on principle?'

'On several principles. I don't fancy queers, for a start.'

'Queers?'

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'God, Elizabeth! You're not that innocent, surely?'

She flushed—she could feel the blood in her cheeks, pumping at treble pressure because she was that innocent, but also because that explained her own unformulated doubts, and finally because such naked prejudice embarrassed her.

'It isn't a crime any more,' she said stiffly.

'No.' More's the pity was implicit there. 'I can see you've never been propositioned! But then you wouldn't be, would you . . .' He sniffed derisively. 'You're safe.'

That was more hurtful than he intended. 'No. I have never been propositioned.'

'I didn't mean that, and you know it.' The hardness in his face broke up. 'Damn it—if you want to be propositioned, just keep your door on the latch tonight—'

'No, thank you!' snapped Elizabeth.

He ran his hand through his hair, suddenly not at all the Paul Mitchell she knew and didn't understand. 'Shit! I always get this wrong, don't I! Frances, you are avenged!'

'Frances?'

'Doesn't matter.' His face came together again. 'I also dislike him because I don't know him . . . and in this game, if you have someone there to cover your back, that's not a comforting feeling. And I also dislike him because I associate him with someone I don't trust— someone I do know. And birds of a feather—' He stopped abruptly.

'Hullo there—sorry I'm late,' said Humphrey Aske. 'I've got dummy3

you an absolutely super room, Miss Loftus—quiet and comfortable—and a wonderful view across the old city.'

'Thank you, Mr Aske,' said Elizabeth, split disconcertingly down the middle between them. 'I hope it wasn't too difficult?'

He smiled at her. 'Not at all, actually. I just got them to swop Dr Mitchell's bag for yours. Nothing could be easier!' He turned to Paul. 'Now, Dr Mitchell—which way?'

'South, across the N2 as best you can, on to the D967, Aske.'

Paul embraced Aske's enmity like a lover.

'You've been there before, then?'

Paul looked through him. 'To the Chemin des Dames? Yes, I've been there before, Aske.'

Getting out and down from the old city of Laon, through the narrow streets, and down the winding hairpin road to the plain beneath, wasn't so easy in the rush-hour; and crossing the N2 ring road was hair-raising, even though Humphrey Aske drove with relaxed excellence and courtesy; so the question on the tip of her tongue delayed itself until Aske repeated the first name on the road signs.

'Bruyeres-et-Montberault?'

'About twelve miles, straight on,' said Paul. 'Then we cross the Chemin des Dames, and go down half a mile, to the British War Cemetery at Vendresse.'

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'Why, Paul?' asked Elizabeth.

'Why what?' He was staring straight ahead. 'Why the Chemin? Or why Vendresse?'

'Why. . .all of this?'

He stared ahead for a moment, without replying. 'I like the cemetery at Vendresse. It's only a little one, but it's one of my favourites.'

'What a perfectly macabre thought—to have a favourite cemetery!' exclaimed Humphrey Aske. 'You normally prefer the bigger ones?'

'And an interesting one, too.' Paul seemed not to have heard him. 'Late summer 1914—and then late summer 1918—the two turning points. I'll show you, Elizabeth.'

'But that simply can't be the reason, Mitchell—just to show us something . . . of interest?' said Aske.

Elizabeth found herself wishing that he wouldn't ask the questions which were uppermost in her own mind, instead of leaving the answers to the due process of Paul's own reasoning.

'You ought to know the reason, damn it!' snapped Paul. 'The only good cover is what's true. I don't usually fly to France—