A Prospect of Vengeance

picked up the vibration of something strange happening.

'Miss Fielding.' Audley spoke at last, drawing her back to him even as relief suffused her. 'I do recognize you, actually. I saw you on the television once. That time you escaped in Beirut.

And, of course, I've read your books.'

He had a nice voice. And, although the pictures of that rather battered face hadn't lied in any factual detail, he seemed much younger than Willy Arkenshaw had suggested: old was as much a slander with David Audley as it had been with Philly: old was in the mind —

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God! She was betraying Philly now —

'Oh, Daddy!' Cathy Audley exploded.

Jenny was aware that more of her hair was coming down; and there were beads of sweat crawling down the side of her face, and elsewhere —

But he was so very like — so very like, even though he was quite unlike — so very like Philly! And she bloody-well fancied him! And — what was so ultimately worse: what rocketed that betrayal into unimaginable orbit — was that he fancied her, too!

'Mr Robinson knows all about the battle, Daddy.' Cathy Audley's patience ran out. 'He wants to talk to you about General Le Marchant.'

'He does?' Audley let go of Jenny unwillingly. 'Does he?' The letting-go stretched itself until it had to snap. 'Mr Robinson . . . You are the writer, of course.' He smiled at Ian.

'And you have a rare grasp of good English. A quite unjournalistic grasp, if I may say so — ?' All the smile went out of Audley's face. 'But that would be because you were at Princess Mary's Grammar School, and brought up on the classics? Like Gibbon having the Bible hammered into him?'

Jenny looked at Ian, and caught him with his mouth open.

Audley nodded. 'Hennessey — Henworth — ? Henworthy ...

he was your High Master, of course. And he was taught by my old Latin Master, as an inky child, before he gravitated to higher things.' He nodded again. 'There's a descent in such dummy2

matters, among schoolmasters. Not quite as good as breeding through pedigree bulls, perhaps . . . but it leaves its mark, nevertheless, I'd like to think.' Another nod, but this time accompanied by a terrible cold smile. 'I particularly enjoyed your book on the Middle East. It had several interesting insights, as well as some quite deplorable flights of fancy.'

Jenny felt her own mouth open — Audley wasn't perfect: the

'rare grasp of English' and the Hennessey/Henwood one-upmanship was fair enough at a smart cocktail party; but if Audley thought he could patronize Ian Robinson, he had much mistaken his man! But then it was too late, because Ian was reacting —

In fact, Ian was smiling. 'Your daughter has told us about your ancestor, Dr Audley — who was killed in the charge here?' He gave Audley back a nod. 'But . . . was he just another bone-headed English dragoon? Or was he one of Wellington's 'Research and Development' officers — the

'exploring' officers, were they called? Andrew Laith Hay — ?

Or John Waters, or Somers Cocks? Or Colquhoun Grant? Or Dr Paul Mitchell?'

Christ! That was giving him both barrels! thought Jenny.

Ian, being Ian, really had done his homework!

'You're interested in the battle of Salamanca, Mr Robinson?'

Audley, being Audley, was taking Ian's measure now.

'Not in the least, Dr Audley.' Ian smiled at Audley. 'But—'

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'Daughter!' Audley interrupted Ian rudely. 'Go and see how your mother is — ' He nodded past the monument, into a stone-quarried gap behind him, which divided the Greater Arapile super-tanker into two parts, fore and aft on its port side here, below the tall stone shaft. 'She's reading her book ... or sunbathing, or something — down there — yes?'

Cathy Audley stared at her father, the huge sunglasses concealing what would certainly be a frown.

'Go on, Cathy.' Audley's voice was gently level now, neither pleading or commanding.

The sunglasses turned towards Ian for an instant. But now the tightened lips and the anger-lines around the mouth told their own story.

'Off you go.' This time he actually smiled. 'There's nothing to worry about.'

Cathy came back to him. 'I told them you received a phone-call, I think they pretended not to be interested in it. I'm sorry.'

Audley shrugged. 'So I received a phone-call. That's nothing to be ashamed of, love. So — '

'Yes — 'Off I go'.' The child started to go, but then stopped.

'But I'm forgetting my manners — aren't I!' She swung towards Jenny. 'They all say 'Don't talk to strangers — forget about good manners!' But, I forgot my lesson, didn't I, Miss Fielding?' No child now — not for her, and not for Ian, in his turn: for Ian, a look which, if he'd been a British dragoon, dummy2

and Cathy Audley a Frenchman sighting him along her musket, would have knocked him stone-dead from his saddle, beside her ancestor and General Le Marchant. 'And goodbye, Mr Robinson.'