Gunner Kelly

reference.

He straightened up. “Sir . . . Chief Inspector . . .”

The thing to remember—Herzner on the Chief Inspector, and the Kommissar print-out from Wiesbaden on Colonel Butler—was that neither of them was a quite typical specimen of the breed he represented: the system had worked on them both, moulding them to its traditions, but they were also both meritocrats who had risen from the ranks, each therefore with his own element of unpredictability. And that wasn’t an altogether comforting thing to have to remember.

“Captain.” The Chief Inspector acknowledged him with a nod of recognition. “You found Duntisbury Chase, then?”

“Yes.” Benedikt had expected the Colonel to conduct the meeting, but the Colonel studied him in silence. “I have been there—I have looked around it, as you asked me to do, Chief Inspector.”

“Interesting place, is it?”

“Most interesting.” If the Chief Inspector was going to ask the questions, then he would ignore the Colonel until the Colonel dummy1

chose not to be ignored. “Duntisbury Royal is the name of the village. I arrived there just before midday. I went to the public house, which is named the Eight Bells. I drank a glass of Lowenbrau there, but I was unsuccessful in booking a room for the night. The landlord directed me to the Roman villa which is being excavated nearby. On the site I met Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith, who is the owner of most of the land around the village. She introduced me to Dr David Audley, who is presently staying at Duntisbury Manor, where she lives. I returned to the public house, where I had lunch. After lunch I walked round the village, and then on up to Duntisbury Rings, which is an Iron Age earthwork on the ridge to the south. From there I walked along the ridge, westwards, until I reached another earthwork, which is known as Caesar’s Camp, but which is certainly not a Roman construction—it is more likely a tribal fort, like the other earthwork, only much later in date. I then spent the rest of the afternoon ostensibly searching for the line of the Roman road which crosses the valley from south-west to north-east. I left the Chase at 1730 hours, and came directly here, as arranged with you yesterday.”

Chief Inspector Andrew nodded. About half-way through the recital he had flicked one quick look at Colonel Butler, after the mention of Audley. “What did Audley say to you?”

“We discussed the antiquities of Duntisbury Royal . . . briefly.”

“Oh aye? You know something about antiquities, do you? Iron Age earthworks and Roman villas?”

“I know little about earthworks. I know a Roman fort when I see one. But more about Roman roads, as it happens.” Benedikt dummy1

understood that, while he was replying to the Special Branch man’s questions, he was actually speaking to the Colonel, and being assessed on his answers. “You warned me that Dr Audley was in Duntisbury Chase, Chief Inspector. You did not tell me why I might be there, however . . . and it is not a place to which strangers are likely to come by accident—or perhaps it is only by accident that they may come there, when they wish to be somewhere else, so that they would not wish to remain there, as I had to do. So I needed a reason.”

They waited for him to continue.

“The Press Attache obtained for me photo-copies of newspaper cuttings in which Duntisbury Chase—or Duntisbury Royal—was mentioned.” He shrugged. “Mostly they concerned the death of General Herbert Maxwell ... or, so far as Duntisbury Royal was concerned, his funeral . . . But I could not think of any sufncient reason for Thomas Wiesehofer to be interested in a victim of terrorism—nor did I judge it prudent to display such an interest, even if I had thought of a reason .... However, there was a report of an archaeological discovery there, and of excavations in progress . . . And, you see, Chief Inspector, my father was for many years a professor of Roman Archaeology in Germany. As a boy I used to accompany him on his journeys, during the holidays . . . Later on, when I was at university, I used to drive him

—he lost an arm during the war, in Africa. Tracing Roman roads was one of his hobbies, so I am not unacquainted with the terms used—with the metalling and the alignments, and so on .... Even, Chief Inspector, I believe I may have identified a terraced agger dummy1

this afternoon, on the slopes of the ridge near Caesar’s Camp, though on chalk downland it may be difficult to prove, since such terraces were often unmetalled, and it may be only a pre-Roman tribal trackway, you see— eh?”

The Special Branch man gave him a thin smile. “You mean . . .

you think you can bullshit David Audley, eh?”

“He’s not an archaeologist,” said Benedikt mildly. “I believe he is a medievalist. . . among other things. Is that not so?”

The smile compressed into an unsmiling line. “What you want to ask yourself, Captain—or, let’s say, what’s more important—is . . .

whatever he is ... did you bullshit him?”

Benedikt shook his head. “That is impossible to say, Chief Inspector. I am not aware of having made any mistakes . . . But . . .

it is true that he warned me off—”

“Warned you off?” That made the Special Branch man frown.

“How?”

Benedikt smiled. “He told me what happened—or what might have happened—to another German who strayed into Duntisbury Chase.”

“What German?” Chief Inspector Andrew obviously didn’t know about the Fighting Man. “What happened to him?”

“He died there.” Benedikt raised his hand. “It was a very long time ago, Chief Inspector—in the last days of the Romans.” He didn’t want to antagonise the man. “They dug up the bones of an Anglo-Saxon warrior—a Germanic soldier. . . . He told me about it in some detail. But it was gently done; for me, if it concerned me, in dummy1