Gunner Kelly

“He’s German,” said Darren.

“He’s come to see the villa,” said Benje.

“He’s a civil servant,” said Darren. “He’s on holiday.”

“He’s an expert on Roman villas,” said Benje. “They’re his hobby

—like stamp-collecting, Becky.”

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Her eyes left Benedikt, softening suddenly into more-blue-than-grey as they switched to each of his defenders in turn. “Oh, yes?”

She smiled. “And he drives a Mercedes with CD plates?”

Benedikt glanced sideways, at Benje, and made an oddly moving discovery: just as there was an emotion described as hero-worship, which he had seen on very rare occasions in the faces of men and boys for other men and other boys, so there was also one of heroine-worship, quite devoid of any sexual undertones, which a boy at least (if not a man) could have for someone of the other sex ... Or which—he glanced quickly at Darren, and found no such look there—or which, anyway, this boy Benje had for this young woman, Miss Becky.

“You know about him?” Benje didn’t sound put out by his heroine’s omniscience, it merely confirmed what he already believed, Benedikt guessed.

“I am not. . . most regrettably, I must admit that I am not an expert on Roman villas.” He would have to beware of Benje’s loyalty—it might be safer to cultivate Darren; but meanwhile he must head off that misapprehension. “Roman roads are more my ... my speciality.” He smiled shyly at Miss Becky, and was relieved to find the remains of her softened expression still visible. “Miss Maxwell-Smith?”

“Yes.” Without that coldness behind the eyes, and even with her hair severely pulled back into a pony-tail, she was quite a pretty girl, though she fell well short of beauty—it was a face with character bred into it, but at first sight he could not decide whether dummy1

the jaw-line betrayed self-will and obstinacy, or determination and constancy.

“I am passing by ... on holiday, as my friends here have said, before I take up my post in our embassy in London.” He paused, and blinked at her as though taking time to sort out his English. “I am going to Maiden Castle, near Dorchester . . . and to see the country of Thomas Hardy.” Another pause. “But in London I was told of your villa, Miss Maxwell-Smith, by ... by Professor Handforth-Jones, of the Society for the Advancement of Romano- British Studies.”

He had not intended producing Professor Handforth-Jones, like a rabbit out of the magician’s hat, so early in his introduction. But Audley had come up behind her as he spoke.

“Tony Handforth-Jones?” Audley rose to the name.

Rebecca Maxwell-Smith half-turned, half looked up to the big man. “You’ve heard of him?”

“I know him. He’s a good friend of mine—and a damn good archaeologist too. But he’s more into military sites in Scotland at the moment—Agricola’s line-of-march, and the location of Mons Graupius, and that sort of thing.” He nodded at her. “But he’ll have heard of your Fighting Man, for sure.” He gave Benedikt a nod.

“Hullo again.”

Rebecca Maxwell-Smith looked from one to the other of them.

“You’ve already met?”

“We’ve met.” Another nod. “But we haven’t actually been introduced. The Mercedes with the CD plates—I told you.”

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“Oh!” She caught her mistake skilfully. “How silly of me! Yes . . .

well. . . Mr Wiesehofer—this is Dr David Audley, who is helping us with our excavations.”

“ ‘Helping’ is hardly the word.” Audley shook his head. “I’m no archaeologist—and Roman Britain isn’t my field. . . . The truth is, I’m a wheelbarrow-wheeler, and a cook-and-bottle washer, and a hewer-of-wood and drawer-of- water, is what I am, Mr Wiesehofer.

Not a professional.”

He had the build for manual work, thought Benedikt, smiling back at the disclaimer. But he was also a professional in another field, who wasn’t prepared to compromise his cover by lying about his qualifications for being here in Duntisbury Chase, even for the benefit of an innocent foreigner.

“Dr Audley.” He nodded again. It would be interesting to probe that cover further, to find out how Audley accounted for his presence. But it wasn’t in Thomas Wiesehofer’s own cover to show such curiosity yet.

“If you want to see the villa—here it is,” Rebecca Maxwell-Smith gestured around her. “We haven’t got very far with it, but of course you’re welcome to see what there is of it.”

“This is the end of the preliminary reconnaissance operations,”

explained Audley. “The big effort starts next spring.”

“Ah, yes.” What Audley had not added was that the reconnaissance had ended prematurely, somewhat to the archaeologists’ irritation.

At first, after the General’s death, they had been allowed to carry on, with only the loss of a single day for the funeral. But then Miss dummy1

Rebecca Maxwell-Smith had very recently indicated her wish that operations should cease for the time being, with the promise of generous financial aid the following year when she had full control of her inheritance. And with the estate trustees already obedient to her strong will, there was nothing the archaeologists had been able to do about it except to register their disappointment publicly—and their mystification at her change of heart privately. But Thomas Wiesehofer ought not to know any of that.