The Memory Trap

And that means someone else should be worrying a lot more than us.' He nodded at her, with a half-knowing, half-bitter little smile. Then glanced sidelong again at Audley over his outstretched arm. 'One of my successors, eh? Well, he never bought that on his pay — thanks, Sophie dear — but then, the Department of Intelligence Research and Development always favoured well-heeled young gentry, didn't it?' He sipped his drink. 'But it did give me a bit of a turn, I tell you.

I saw the lights from the copse by the road — that was fair enough, I just thought you'd been quick off the mark. But then I saw the back of the car . . . very nice, I'd have thought at any other time — like Cardinal Alberoni when he saw Philippe d'Orleans' backside: Que culo d'angelo . . . but not your sort of car, David. And that worried me for a bit . . .

Still, he must trust you, to lend you his Porsche. In fact, if he knows how you drive, he must be a friend indeed!'

There was an edge of bitterness there as well as strain, beneath the old banter: once upon a time Richardson had taken an equally ridiculous car of his own like that for granted. But Audley was not of a mind to soften the contrast dummy1

by recounting the tale of Mitchell's purchase of the thing second-hand, for cash, after last autumn's Stock Exchange debacle. Instead, he let the thump of Buster's over-worked tail fill the silence between them.

'David was just explaining . . .' Sophie moved loyally to break the deadlock, and then faltered '. . .he was just telling me why he knew you'd be here, Peter . . .' She faltered again.

'Oh yes?' Richardson sank into one of the dog-battered armchairs.

'But I still don't see how — ?' She waited for him to take up the story. Then when he failed her, she turned back to Audley. 'Which of you won the champagne, David?'

Audley watched Richardson. 'Peter bought the champagne —

the extra crate.'

Sophie recognized the unstraightness of the answer, but couldn't make sense of it. 'So you lost, Peter — ?'

Richardson was watching Audley. 'Fred Clinton said I was going to lose.'

'He said the same to me,' murmured Audley deliberately.

But. . . typical Fred, to spur them each in the same way!

'He also told me that David Audley didn't like to lose.'

Richardson smiled at her suddenly. 'He omitted to tell me that David Audley was a dirty player.'

'I didn't play dirty.' Audley addressed Sophie. 'I simply let Peter see my version of the evening, that's all.'

'Not all. He advised me that it would be better if I conceded dummy1

defeat. So I did. But mine would have been the winning entry, if we'd played fair.'

Sophie frowned interrogatively at Audley. 'I don't understand.'

To his surprise he didn't want her to think ill of him. 'I did give him Fred's champagne. So the honours were equal in the end.'

'You had a bad conscience!' Richardson accused him. 'You lost.'

'Not at all, my dear fellow! I was your host that night. I couldn't let you be out of pocket.'

'I still don't understand —' Sophie accused them both.

They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to speak.

'It's really . . . quite simple.' Audley decided that he must break first. 'We didn't know about Fred Clinton's game, of course.'

'But we played a game of our own, that evening, Sophie. You see.' Richardson cut in. 'Or . . .it was that tame Member of Parliament of yours — the barrister? Sir Laurie Deacon — it was his idea.' He stared at Audley. 'But he called it the

'Kipling game'. So it may have been yours originally, David

— was it?' He shook his head, as though to clear it. 'So—'

Candlelight.

dummy1

Faint smell of damp beneath the fading dinner smells.

(Those were the days when Faith hadn't quite defeated the rising damp; and, of course, the cellar-door had been opened, to bring up another bottle).

Laurie Deacon: ' That fellow you've all been looking for — the one who did a bunk . . . The word is that you've found him, David — right?'

'Not me, Laurie. Peter here did the finding.'

Peter Richardson: ' Not me, either. It was Sir Frederick who did the finding — like Sherlock Holmes. He said the chap hadn't really done a bunk — hadn't defected . . . He'd just had a bit of a breakdown. And he wanted to be found . . .

only by someone sympathetic, that's all. So it was just psychology.'

Laurie Deacon: ' Ah — yes! He'd be one of Fred's old mates, from the