For the Good of the State

‘Of course. Whereas my loyalty is beyond suspicion… of course.

Like yours?’

‘What?’ Just as he had shrugged unseen, so Audley must have nodded ironic agreement unseen.

‘So who are you working for, at this precise but nebulous moment, Tom Arkenshaw? To whom do you report back, at regular intervals?’

At least he had an answer to that now. ‘I’m seconded to Research and Development—Mr Frobisher and Colonel Butler have both agreed to that.’ The half-truth of that chained him fast. ‘I have no instructions from Colonel Butler. But maybe I should have. Next time you call him you might ask him if he’d like me to—what was it?—“learn, mark and inwardly digest”? But isn’t that a misquotation? Isn’t it “read”, not “learn”—?’ But maybe it was a mistake to be clever. ‘But I am sorry, David: I should have told you about Exmoor before. Just… things got in the way, that’s all.’

‘Yes.’ The ensuing silence suggested that Audley had noted what Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State he’d said, but without either agreeing with or accepting it. ‘So…

they’ve let him run free. And so have we.’ Audley spoke to himself.

‘Panin?’ Tom decided to accept the question. ‘I gather he has some sort of diplomatic status. Cultural-dipIomatic status, anyway.’

‘Oh yes?’ Audley perked up, as though his brutish minder had shown an unlooked-for vestige of intelligence. ‘Cultural—of course!’

That had been another nod-in-the-dark. ‘Something to do with an exhibition there’s going to be in the BM next year, I think.’ Tom gave him a matching nod. ‘The Ancient Scythians, would it be? He is a genuine scholar, I believe. Or he was, in the dim and distant past, wasn’t he?’

‘Uh-huh. Weren’t we all?’ Audley sniffed. ‘In the dim and distant past…’He trailed off into silence again.

‘I never was.’ Tom had to break the silence.

‘No?’ The old man came back to him abruptly. ‘Don’t languages count as scholarship? Manchester University, wasn’t it? Russian and French there? And English and Polish before. And how many more now? Plus Latin at Waltham School, of course—they’d never let a linguist go without a dead language in his knapsack, would they! So how many is that then—seven? Eight?’

With the question of his present allegiance unresolved, he was being reminded that the old man had done his homework on Arkeshhaw, Thomas Wladyslaw Archibald. ‘Give or take a couple.’

He remembered the Caesar on Audley’s desk. ‘But my Latin’s a bit rusty now, like yours, David. So if we meet one of the arcani, Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State or the frumentarii, sniffing around Exmoor, just don’t rely on me as an interpreter.’

‘Don’t knock your talent, Darling Boy. “The gift of tongues” is more of a negotiable asset than a nodding acquaintance with medieval history—or Ancient Scythia. If you blot your copybook with Frobisher, someone will always give you a job.’ Sniff. ‘Come to that, Jack Butler certainly would! He’s always on the look-out for people who can read between the foreign lines, not just translate them. Especially if I put in a good word for you.’

There was something odd here. ‘Are you offering rne a job? Or merely bribing me, David?’

‘Do you need bribing? Didn’t your late father do rather well with his merchant banking? Wasn’t he in on the Great Singapore Miracle

—and a good friend of Lee Kuan Yew?’ The old man’s inside information was offered sardonically. ‘Or has your dear mother got all the loot? But then… she sounded most affectionate. And you are the only son of your house —?’

The old devil was laying it on a bit thick. ‘Money isn’t everything.’

‘Isn’t it? Now, that is a great untruth beloved of those who have never been short of a buck. Because there’s always a bill for what you want… always supposing you’re wise enough—or lucky enough—to know what’s good for you, apart from what you want… But there’s always a bill—like self-respect, or honour, or peace of mind, or some such little thing… or talent wasted, even…

Believe me, I know, Tom. Because I have been poor—or briefly embarrassed, anyway. And I may well have lost something then, while I was busy disembarrassing myself… before I got lucky Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State again—’ Audley caught himself quickly. ‘But that’s ancient history, before your time. So… no, I’m not bribing you. Because Jack Butler won’t make you rich. At least… not unless you would count plenty of spare time in which to study those exceedingly esoteric mottes and baileys of yours—huh!’ Audley chuckled throatily. ‘Now, if that isn’t scholarship… But have you published anything yet, Tom? Wasn’t there something just recently?’

Christ! These weren’t defences! thought Torn. Somehow, Audley had reversed their roles, so that now he was the besieger, softening him up with mangonels and ballistas and trebuchets and belfreys—

‘I had an article in History Today not long ago—’ Short of a clever answer at short notice he was only able to defend himself conventionally and inadequately ‘—on Ranulf of Caen’s adulterine castle- building.’ He felt his defences weakening under Audley’s well-informed probing, much as Ranulf’s own had so quickly crumbled at Thackham under King Stephen’s lightning assault.

‘Ranulf of Caen?’ Audley pondered the name for a moment. ‘Now, Ranulf of Chester I know… Interesting man, that. But really rather before my own prime period, of course… But Ranulf of Caen…

He wouldn’t by any remote chance be the double-agent in Stephen’s army at Oxford in ’42? The one who fixed it so that the Empress Matilda could escape—when the old harpy shinned down the castle walls in a white sheet in the snow, in ‘42?’

Audley knew too damn much. ‘It could have been him, yes.’

‘Uh-huh?’ Audley pretended to be pleased. ‘You know, I’ve always had a weakness for King Stephen. A weak and foolish man, Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State I know—always making the wrong decision if it was the easy one.