The Old Vengeful

things in television— A Midsummer Night's Dream, with Titania and Hippolyta and Hermia and Helena all cast from the sixth form of a local prep school—

'The girl, of course.' It was simple when you knew the answer. 'They dressed the midshipman as a girl.'

'Of course!' Humphrey Aske chided himself. 'Thirteen years of age, so the childish treble ... or that delicious half-broken husky alto—no wonder no one spotted them! Clever Miss Loftus!'

'Clever Lieutenant Chipperfield, rather.' She could see that Paul was pleased with her, so this was the moment for becoming modesty. 'But he died at Coucy, Paul—how?'

'Just damned bad luck, that's how, Elizabeth.' His pleasure turned instantly to Chipperfield—identifying regret. 'The dummy3

cart broke down at Coucy, and they tried to repair it with what they could scrounge. But while they were working on it there was an accident of some kind . . . Tom Chard's a bit vague about what actually happened, but it looks as though something gave way, and Chipperfield was crushed underneath . . .' he trailed off for a moment '. . . not killed, but very badly injured. Fatally injured, as it turned out . . .

which is ... rather sad, when you think about it.'

He was no longer looking at her, but just staring into space as though he could see pictures inside his head.

And that, thought Elizabeth, was what he was seeing: rather sad concealed the same insight which had informed his account of the last efforts of the British and German soldiers locked in mud and exhaustion on the muddy slopes above the Aisne—he had been there with them in their embryonic trenches, just as he was there now, dying by inches under the cart at Coucy-le-Chateau.

All those years ago, and long forgotten, it had been first relegated to one old man's memories, and to a few pages in a commonplace book which had become an old lady's family heirloom until Father's letter in The Times had re-animated it. But once it had been a Great Adventure until rather sad—

she could almost love Paul for that understatement of the unendurable truth it concealed: that this almost anonymous third lieutenant of the Vengeful had brought his comrades so far, in safety against all the odds, with pursuit long out-distanced, only to die slowly and painfully by cruel accident dummy3

almost within sight of home.

'So what did Chard actually say, then?' Aske was quite oblivious to rather sad.

'Oh ... he was still angry after all those years about the cart breaking down that second time.' Paul snapped himself back to reality. 'He said, if they'd used seasoned ash instead of green elm it would have been okay, and Abraham Timms said that in his country there'd have been plenty of hickory-wood for the taking, which would have been even better—

that was what Chard thought was interesting, because that was what he remembered all those years after.' He looked at Elizabeth, seeing her again. 'Which was all quite meaningless until your father saw it, and after 'fire- weed', hickory was the clincher—and our experts zeroed in on it too . . . because hickory is the American equivalent for ash

—' Carya ovata, or Carya cordiformis, which is frequently confused with walnut, was rare in Europe in the early nineteenth century, but common in North America, from New York State to Florida'.' He smiled lop-sidedly at her.

'When you spend most of your time interpreting security tip-offs and Russian tit-bits a query about the origin of hickory-wood is like a breath of fresh air... But that's where your father picked up his final American clue—and why he went off at half-cock, following Abraham Timms for so long, instead of Colonel Suchet . . . not that Timms isn't a fascinating character, as I said.'

'What's so fascinating about him?' inquired Aske.

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Paul shook his head. 'He doesn't really matter. It's Suchet who matters ... all that matters about Timms—and Tom Chard—is that they had to bodge up the cart with inferior material, and it broke again while Chipperfield was underneath. And that was still bugging Tom Chard twenty-five years after—I think he felt that somehow he'd been responsible for his officer's death. He was a good man, was Tom Chard.'

'But not quite good enough,' murmured Aske, reaching down towards the dashboard. “Let's have some music.'

Elizabeth had just started to think but what happened next?

Because if Tom Chard came safe home, what happened to—

and then a sudden burst of pop music drowned her thoughts.

'For God's sake, man—' Mitchell leaned forward towards the radio.

'No!' Aske restrained him. 'Leave it on, Mitchell—not quite good enough—and we're not quite good enough either, it seems, old boy. Because we've got a tail.'

'What—'

'Don't turn round! Yes ... I think the great Dr Audley may have been careless somewhere along the line.'

'What do you mean, Mr Aske?' asked Elizabeth.

'I mean, Miss Loftus, that we're being followed,' said Aske calmly. 'And don't you look round, either—and don't shout—

I can see behind us perfectly well, and I can hear you well enough . . . The music's just in case they've got us bugged as dummy3

well as bracketed . . . and there is still just a chance, with that and all the rigmarole I've been through, that they may not be quite sure I'm on to them—just a chance.' He looked at Paul.