The Old Vengeful

'And why was that unexpected?'

'The obvious direction was east—across the Rhine into Germany. That was the way many of the escapers went from the other fortresses, because they reckoned the Germans wouldn't give them up so easily. And the most direct route to England was north-west—or they could have headed due north, and then turned west when they reached the Low Countries.'

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'So they went southwards. And you think that was deliberate?' Aske sounded unconvinced.

'They were sailors, Mr Aske,' Elizabeth could see that Paul chafed under Aske's interruptions. 'They would always have known the points of the compass, with the sun or the stars overhead.'

Paul nodded. 'That's exactly right, Elizabeth. Chipperfield and Timms were both professional navigators. And all Tom Chard's recollections of their route are full of bearings and distances, as well as descriptions . . . like 'we bore southward that day five leagues, which, for nature of that country, was very wearisome by reason of the steepness of its many hills and valleys'.'

Aske considered the evidence briefly. 'So that would mean they were in the Vosges, would it?'

'The Upper Vosges. 'Great trees, tall and straight, enough to spar mighty navies' is how Tom Chard remembered it—and the humming of the insects up above in the tree-tops, and the crickets in the high pastures . . . and the goats with bells round their necks—Chard was country-bred, and he noticed all the differences between Sussex and Alsace. Although in fact he was much more surprised by the presence of familiar things from home—the jays and the magpies and the robins, and the cranesbill and harebells and foxgloves . . . and the rose-bay willow herb, which tipped off your father about Abraham Timms, Elizabeth.'

'Tipped him off. . . to what?'

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'That Abraham Timms was country-bred like Tom Chard, only much better educated—Chard said he knew the name of everything that lived, and what was edible and what wasn't. . . It's even possible that Chipperfield took Timms along because he knew how to live off the country. But most of all that he was an American.'

'An American?' Aske pursed his lips, and then nodded.

'Yes . . . well, there were a lot of Americans pressed into the Royal Navy—that was why they went to war with us. But where does the willow herb come in?'

'Which in his country was called by the savages 'Fire-weed', according to Chard. 'His country' and 'savages' and 'fire-weed' was what tipped Loftus off—not only that Timms was country-bred, but it was a different country. And the clincher that he was an American was when the waggon wheel broke, and Timms had to find wood to repair it—'

'What waggon wheel?' Elizabeth frowned.

'What waggon?' echoed Aske.

'The waggon in which they crossed half of France,' said Paul.

'They came down out of the Vosges somewhere near Gerardmer, so far as we can estimate. And first they bought a horse—Chipperfield had money. Tom Chard doesn't say how, but he had it—'

'PoWs always have money,' murmured Aske. 'And they often let the officers keep their personal possessions. Go on.'

'Then, a bit further on, they bought a farm cart. And a day dummy3

later they filled the cart with hay, and Chard and Timms hid under the hay whenever they came near a village, because they couldn't speak a word of French.'

'Nice—very nice!' said Aske admiringly. 'Nothing stolen—so no hue and cry . . . and nobody suspects a couple of farm labourers with a hay cart when the word's out for four desperate characters! I like it.'

'Not even a couple of farm labourers,' said Paul.

'Chipperfield was smarter than that, Aske.'

'Yes? I'm going to stop again soon—at that garage in the distance. So just sit tight.' Aske slowed the car. 'A man and a boy, of course, I'd forgotten the little mid-ship-mite—'

'What?' Paul sat up irritably. 'For Christ's sake, Aske—what are you playing at?'

'It's like yesterday, old boy. You are doing the talking and I'm doing the driving—okay?'

The previous halt was repeated, with the additional detail of a few litres of petrol to top up the tank.

'Off we go again—just let me do up my seat-belt,' said Aske.

'So . . . the little mid-ship-mite, and the waggon, and the mysterious Timms . . . who was an American cousin far from home, eh?'

'What the hell's wrong with the car?'

'Nothing that need worry you, Dr Mitchell ... A man and a boy, you were saying?'

The air, which had warmed up during their five-minute dummy3

delay, crackled between them in the ensuing silence, and Elizabeth looked at Paul unhappily. 'A man and a boy, Paul?'

With an effort Paul tore himself away from Aske. 'Not a man and a boy, Elizabeth,' he addressed her deliberately. 'Don't you remember?'

It came to her then, suddenly but quite easily, out of nowhere . . . no, not out of nowhere—out of the far distant memory of an owl flapping noiselessly across a college garden unreasonably disturbed by strange lights and stranger noises, disappearing into the darkness.

It had been a weird open-air production, by some smart undergraduate who had gone on from Oxford to great