A Prospect of Vengeance

Jenny still waited.

'And then it was easy, of course.' Audley nodded.

'Easy?' He wasn't talking about the woman now.

'O'Leary was the best — the best, Miss Fielding.' He nodded.

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'Your Paddy MacManus wasn't in the same class: he was just a pale carbon-copy of the real thing.' He cocked his head dismissively towards the dispersing column of smoke in the plain between the Greater and Lesser Arapiles. 'O'Leary might have screwed up once, if he'd had very bad luck. And he did have very bad luck, when Frances Fitzgibbon turned up out of the blue, at Thornervaulx. But he didn't have any bad luck at the University. And he must have had Jack Butler right in his sights at Thornervaulx.' He stared at her. 'What my old Latin master used to say . . . God rest his lovely soul! . . . was that 'nonsense must be wrong!', Miss Fielding.'

Still, he stared. 'What if O'Leary didn't screw up? What if he did exactly what they paid him to do — to make us concentrate on Jack Butler — and not on Philip Masson?'

'And then it was easy', just as he had said: it was like the scales falling from her eyes, in the Bible story she'd once had to learn by heart, to take her O-level Religious Studies exam.

He saw that she understood. 'The irony is that dear Frances deceived us both: because of her we both had blinkers on: we couldn't think of anything except her — and Jack Butler. And we weren't getting any answer because we were asking the wrong question. But we got there at last, anyway.' Audley nodded. 'Your 'Philly' was a great guy, Miss Fielding: we did him over after that, right from his birth to what we no longer believed was his accidental death. Although we still believed that he'd been drowned, of course — we never expected him to turn up again. And it took us a long time, I can tell you . . .

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Because we couldn't ask any of our questions obviously — in case we alerted the Other Side.' Nod. 'Because, either way —

if he was theirs, or if he wasn't — we didn't want to let them know that we were on to them. Because that would have given the game away.'

Jenny felt her mouth fall open.

'No — he wasn't on their side, my dear.' Audley reassured her quickly. 'Your 'Philly' was absolutely on ours, you have no need to worry.'

She wasn't worrying; it was insulting even to suggest that.

They simply didn't want him to see one of our most secret files — that's all, Miss Fielding.' He accepted her silence gently. 'And it took three of us — Mitchell and me, and someone I cordially detest — four months to find that file: three of us, and four months of hard labour ... So that I know all about you, and your father as well as Philip Masson — all about the Korean War, and how he won his Military Cross ...

I know all about that. . . And about his career, after that. And his hobbies — and his girl-friends . . . and the girls he took on that boat of his — the Jenny III was it? ... And when he took you for a holiday in France, that time — in that cottage in the Dordogne — ?' The next nod was expressionless. 'Because your father was worried about that: because you were only fifteen years old, and he thought his old friend might just fancy you — ? And his tax returns — everything, Miss Fielding.'

Jenny felt the sun burning her head, but a dreadful chill far dummy2

below, where it hurt. 'That's ridiculous — '

His mouth twisted again. 'That's what we thought at the time, Miss Fielding.'

God! They hadn't quite got it right, even though they were clever — and even though Daddy had appeared then, out of the blue! Because it had been her — almost-sixteen-year-old-Jenny — who had had hot-pants for him, without knowing how to take desire further, when he'd discouraged her —

God!

But she didn't even want to think about that now. 'Who killed him, Dr Audley?' She felt empty as she rammed the question at him. 'Who killed him?'

He relaxed. 'Oh, come on, Miss Fielding! You know I can't answer that!'

He was also like Mitchell: of course he was like Mitchell!

But . . . she would never have a better chance than now.

'Then I'll have to work harder, Dr Audley — to find out for myself. With or without Ian. And it may not be such a good book without him. But there are other writers who'll work for me.'

'Whatever the risk?'

She shrugged. 'Maybe I'll write it myself.' She put on her obstinate face. 'Someone had him killed. And I'm going to ruin the bastard — whoever he is.'

He nodded. 'You really did love him.' The nod continued.

'And not just like a good god-daughter, of course!' The dummy2

nodding stopped. 'Well, then I shall have to tell you the rest of the story, Miss Fielding.'

He was too sure of himself for comfort. 'I'm listening, Dr Audley.'

He stared at her in silence for a moment. 'It hasn't occurred to you that your revenge has already been accomplished?'

Somewhere in the stillness of the valley an engine started up.

Jenny was drawn towards the sound: the armoured personnel vehicle with the little turret-gun had started up; nearer to them, at the foot of the plateau in the gap in the fence beside the track, Paul Mitchell was in earnest