“Yes, sir. A Volkswagen Scirocco GL—a Jerry car, but very nippy, and I think your young lads will like it ... If you’ve no objection?”
Benedikt looked at Audley, then back at the Corporal. “No objection, Corporal. A Jerry car will do very well for me, thank you. No objection at all.”
Zu Ruhm und Sieg! A Volkswagen would be just right for that.
PART THREE
You pays your money, and you takes your choice The Old House,
Steeple Horley,
Sussex
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My dear Jack,
You will, of course, be getting my official report of occurrences in Duntisbury Chase both before and after my somewhat traumatic meeting with you. But that will be couched in the proper jargon, abbreviated and bowdlerised so as not to offend less understanding official eyes and ears than yours, furnished and ornamented with such excuses and explanations as may mitigate my crimes if not altogether exculpate me from censure, and— apart from the usual suppressio vert suggestio falsi— with one or two outright falsehoods which I consider necessary and which I confide they will swallow.
This private letter I am writing partly to set the record straight, but partly also because you may find out more from another source; and— not least because I must admit a gross original error of judgement— I would not wish you to be wrong-footed in such an event. I must also admit that if I was sure we could get away with it I would not be putting pen to paper now. But better from me now than from some enemy— or innocent source— later.
By ‘we’, you see, I mean your daughter Jane and me.
The fault, however, is all mine, not Jane’s. Becky Maxwell-Smith, a friend of hers at Bristol University, confided in her. Being your cleverest one Jane smelt bad trouble. But— still being your cleverest— she also knew that you were up to your ears in work (Cheltenham) and that I was on leave, so she turned to me.
Unwisely, as it turned out, but she can hardly be blamed for assuming that I represented Age and Wisdom, for not knowing that I was going through one of my accidie periods (why the hell didn ‘t dummy1
you give me Cheltenham? I’ve a friend teaching modern languages there at school)— bored out of my mind and ready for any mischief.
The moment I arrived at Duntisbury Chase I was lost: that marvellous place— a little world of its own under its unbelievable sky—and that Irishman.
You know my hang-ups about the Irish— which probably date from the time 1 fluffed a question at Cambridge on Elizabeth Tudor’s Irish policy: I just don’t understand them. But I’d read the Maxwell memo (saying that it was definitely not an IRA hit) before I went on leave. So he seemed a safe enough object for close study
— at least, that’s what I told myself.
Self-indulgence and stupidity— I know! But it was good fun— and I was able to watch over Becky, as I’d promised— until our loyal Bundesnachrichtendienst ally turned up out of the blue. I should have reported to you then, but I thought I’d stand a better chance with you if I came bearing gifts— namely, how and why the Germans had reached Duntisbury Chase ahead of us (or, in this case,you, Jack—to be brutally frank), as well as Gunner Kelly’s secret, whatever it might be.
As it turned out, Captain Schneider’s explanation for his presence was— and is— decidedly thin, which made me all the more curious about his appearance. I wanted more, but I had an appointment with one of my American contacts, who was digging dirt on Gunner Kelly for me in recompense for past favours.
And that, of course, produced the dynamite too unstable for me to handle, which I brought to you with my tail between my legs— not least because I was terrified that the next thing we’d get in dummy1
Duntisbury Chase was a herd of CIA tourists sampling the rural charms of the place, and making Michael bolt— and scaring off Aloysius (if he was alive).
The problem was, as I explained briefly when I saw you, that I couldn’t be in two places at once, for only saints have the gift of bi-location. But I had to see you— so I had to trust Captain Schneider.
Had to? That’s unfair to him: I sent him back to the Chase because I trusted him— not because I had no choice.
Or trusted him on one level, anyway. Because I’m damn sure he lied about his reason for being there. More likely— more humiliatingly likely, if their Wiesbaden computer is as good as rumour has it— he was there because he already knew about Aloysius
