The Old Vengeful (8 page)

He thought for a moment. “Did the
Vengeful
—Number Seven— have anything interesting on board?”

“Interesting?” It was a stupid question. “She was just an ordinary frigate coming home for a refit. Or maybe to be broken up—she was in a rotten state even before the fight with the
Fortuné
…
What do you mean ‘interesting’?” Elizabeth heard herself slur the word, and shook her head. “Interesting?” she repeated.

“I mean treasure, or something like that, Elizabeth.”

“Treasure?” Another stupid question. “Good heavens, no! She’d been on convoy duty for months and months, escorting supply ships for Wellington backwards and forwards, and backwards and forwards … Nothing at all interesting happened to her until she was coming home that last time, and met the
Fortuné
—the French ship. She was so dull before that, that Father had to put in pages and pages about frigates, and how they were built, and so on, and so forth …” She nodded. “I typed out his books—and cooked his bloody meals, and cleaned his bloody house, and washed—“
What was she saying
!— “I mean … I know all that because I did his typing for him.”

He was staring at her, maybe with surprise, maybe with embarrassment, maybe with pity. But it didn’t really matter much now, because she was obviously useless to him as a source of information if that was what he wanted.

“So, you see, it really doesn’t make any sense at all—twice over, it doesn’t.” She wanted to go on talking now that she’d started, even though she had nothing to give him. “A man … a man like that, wanting to know about Number Seven—the seventh
Vengeful
, I mean … or any of the other ones, come to that… It’s just naval history, you see, that’s all… And if it wasn’t… I mean, if it was something to do with Father in France … then I’d be the last person to ask.”

“But your burglar didn’t know that,” said Paul.

“No, I suppose not.” Elizabeth conceded the point miserably.

“So you don’t know what he was after?” He sounded disappointed too.

“I know he wasn’t after my money—the money in the house— because he said so.” The misery deepened; in another moment her eyes would be swimming. “I’ve got rather a lot of it, Father left a whole box full of it. It’s in Father’s
Vengeful
box.”

“His what?”

“His
Vengeful
box. It was the surgeon’s box, for his instruments, with his name on the top picked out on a brass plate—he kept his money in it… they gave it to him.”

“Gave it to whom?” He frowned at her. “Whose name?”

“The surgeon’s name—the ship’s surgeon—Williard—no,
William
Willard Pike—“ Elizabeth corrected herself”—he kept his scalpels, and his forceps, and saws and things in it—at least, that’s what Father thought.” Something seemed to be confusing him. “They gave it to him.”

“Who gave it to whom?”

Now she was confused too. “What?”

“The surgeon kept his instruments in it.” He scratched his head. “But your father also kept his money in it. Did the surgeon give it to your father? Not that it matters—“

“Of course not!” How could he be so obtuse? “The surgeon’s patients gave it to him—it says so on the inside of the lid. Father kept his money in it—my money now.” She caught herself slurring her words again. “I mean, it’s just an old box—an old mahogany box with brass hinges and the inscription plates on it, that’s all.”

“I see.” He nodded. “And the surgeon gave it to
him
.”

“No! I told you—“

He lifted his hand. “It really doesn’t matter—“

“No! Father’s
crew
gave it to him—the survivors in 1942. They found it in an antique shop in Portsmouth, somewhere … not with the instruments in it, of course—it was empty, but it just had room for a few bottles of very old wine—or port, or brandy, or something. It was their present to him—a sort of keepsake, the box was, after they’d drunk the brandy—you see?” she looked at him hopefully.

“Yes …” He listened as another car went by. “And that was why he called it his
Vengeful
box—I see.”

“Yes—
no
—no … that was because of Dr Pike.”

He frowned again. “What? Dr Pike?”

“The surgeon—I told you!” Elizabeth was consumed by a desire to get the facts straight, if that was possible. “Dr Pike was the surgeon on Number Seven—the old
Vengeful
…
only he must have drowned with the prize crew when the
Fortuné
went down on the Horse Sands off Portsmouth—“ She hiccupped suddenly. “Pardon! It’s all in the Number Seven chapter in Father’s book—he thought the box must have drifted ashore from the wreck … It was really the box that gave him the idea of writing the
Vengeful
book, I think. Do you want to hear about it? Because Father thought—“

“That’s all right—I can read about it, Elizabeth,” said Paul Mitchell quickly. “And he kept his money in it—that’s very interesting.”

He didn’t look as though he was very interested, thought Elizabeth. He looked as if he was listening to something else.

Suddenly she wanted to interest him. “Father was a gambler, you know—
he gambled
…
And I never knew it—would you believe that?” It was almost a relief to tell someone at last. “He left me a letter—and he left me lots of money. Lots and lots and lots of money—would you believe
that
?”

Now
he was interested. “Oh, yes?”

“Oh, yes—“ After a brief moment of gratification, caution set in abruptly “—it’s all … quite safe. Apart from what’s upstairs in the
Vengeful
box.”

“That’s good.” He stared at her. “What was it—the horses? Or the football pools?”

“He didn’t like football.” Come to that, thought Elizabeth, he hadn’t liked horses either. “But … I don’t really know—“ she was about to add “Would you believe that?” when she remembered having said it several times before, and decided against a further repetition “—he didn’t say, actually.”

He stood up suddenly. “You stay here—just stay where you are, and don’t move. Okay?”

She blinked at him, unaware that she had shown any sign of wanting to move. She didn’t even think that she
could move
, even.

The front-door bell pealed out before he was half-way across the room.

In the doorway he turned back towards her. “It’s all right. Just you stay put, Elizabeth,” he said soothingly.

She watched the door close. For a few seconds his words reassured her, then her brain began to work again, and she was no longer reassured.

He had heard something which she had missed—that was why he had moved before the bell rang: she had been listening to her own voice—she had been talking too much—
God
!

And
—God! She couldn
’
t just sit here like a dummy!

This was the reinforcement he’d been waiting for—it had to be that, because burglars’ friends would surely never ring the bell. But even so, when she heard the safety-chain rattle before the clatter of the latch it was evident that he was still taking his precautions.

There came a faint murmur of voices, and then the chain rattled again as he released it. Elizabeth almost sank back into the chair with relief, but the spark of her curiosity refused to let itself be extinguished: she still couldn’t be sure that it was relief she ought to be feeling, and this might be her only chance of confirming it on her own account.

Levering herself out of the chair was more difficult than she had expected, and her knees wanted to fold under her so that she had to support herself from one piece of furniture to the next for the first few steps, until she could stumble the last yard to reach the wall beside the door.

Leaning against it, she put her ear to the crack—

“I wish to God that I did!” That was Paul Mitchell’s voice, but it was no longer soothing. “Only that’s the least of our problems at the moment. You’d better send Bannen to the nearest phone—that’s the one I phoned you from, about a mile down the road, just where the houses start … I don’t fancy using the one here. We need an ambulance—gunshot wounds, two in the chest, one in the lung by the look of him … and one in the leg … and Bannen must get on to the local Special Branch to get him put under wraps, wherever they take him—no, wait!”

“What?”

“We need a meat waggon too. And we’d better have that first.”

“Christ!”

“For two. One’s in the room there … the other’s in the garden at the back, in the bushes by the back-gate—“

“
Christ
!” The second voice graduated from surprise to consternation. “What the hell’s happened?”

“Sssh! I’ve got the woman in there. I don’t want her to hear all this.”

“You haven’t shot her too, by any chance?”

“Don’t be funny, Aske. Just tell Bannen to get moving.”

Two?

Two
! Elizabeth’s knees weakened, and only the wall supported her. She wanted to get back to the safety of the armchair in case he came to check up on her, but her legs had mutinied.

She heard the car start up, and then the front door closed again. Relief flooded over her as she heard the second voice again.

“What the devil have you been doing, Mitchell? You said this was just routine, damn it!”

Paul Mitchell half-grunted, half-groaned. “So it was! If I hadn’t spotted Novikov … my God, man—I’d have walked in here like a lamb to the slaughter!”

There was a moment of silence. Then she heard the study door open with its characteristic squeak.

Again she wanted to move, but couldn’t.

In the garden at the back, in the bushes—

Lamb to the slaughter—
meat waggon
—

The door squeaked shut. “Who the hell’s that?”

“Don’t ask me—I don’t know any of them, they’re not in any files I’ve ever seen.” Paul Mitchell sounded as though he disbelieved himself. “They’re all new to me.”

“What about
her
?”

“You may well ask!” Pause.

“What d’you mean?”

Elizabeth held her breath.

“They were just about to do something very nasty to her when I crashed their party.” Pause. “I tell you, Aske … whatever they want here, they want it badly, and that’s the truth.”

“What sort of state is she in?”

“Not bad, considering what she’s been through—and considering what I’ve done to her, filling her up with brandy while she’s still in shock. I wanted her to talk—and now I can’t stop her.”

“Charming! What are you going to do to her next?”

A tear ran down Elizabeth’s cheek. He had been so kind and sympathetic, she had thought. And she had confided in him.

“I’m not going to do anything to her—you are.” Pause. “I’m going to take this house apart.”

“And just what exactly am I going to do to her?”

“Take her to the safe house. David Audley will have to decide what to do with her after that.”

“And if she doesn’t want to go?”

Elizabeth’s knees weakened, and she slid down the wall to the floor.

“She’s in no condition to argue,” said Paul Mitchell harshly. “Tell her it’s for her own good—tell her anything you bloody-well like, Aske. But just get her out of here.”

“Mmm … well, if this massacre is anything to go by, it probably
is
for her own good. Because, I must say … it
does
rather look as though the Russians mean business this time, old boy.”

The Russians? She must have misheard—the Russians didn’t make sense … But then nothing made sense.

“For God’s sake don’t mention the Russians—I didn’t mean that. She’s frightened enough as it is, I don’t want her to have hysterics,” Paul Mitchell whispered angrily.

She hadn’t misheard. It still made no sense, but she hadn’t misheard.

“She’s the hysterical type is she? Just my luck! And Bannen tells me she’s plain as a pikestaff, too,” groaned Aske. “All right—let’s get it over.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes for an instant. Then, because she didn’t trust her legs, she began to crawl back towards her chair.

She wasn’t going to have hysterics—she wasn’t going to give them that satisfaction: that was what anger did for her.

On the other hand, the way she felt, she was about to be unpleasantly sick to her stomach.

ONE THING SHE
had learnt in nearly 24 hours, thought Elizabeth, was that none of them looked like any sort of policeman—not hateful Dr Mitchell, not polite Mr Aske and monosyllabic Mr Bannen, and certainly not the man in the doorway.

“Good afternoon, Miss Loftus.” He closed the door behind him. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting so long.”

The voice was wrong. He was a big ugly broken-nosed boxer running to seed, in an old shirt with a frayed collar and a pair of clean but paint-spotted khaki slacks. But for that tell-tale Oxbridge voice he could have been the gorilla-man of hideous memory from yesterday.

“But we’ve had a lot to do, and Sunday isn’t the best day for doing it—please don’t get up—“ he motioned with his hand as she started to move “—not if you’re comfortable where you are.”

Elizabeth rose from the scatter of Sunday papers on the carpet around her. Mr Aske had said his boss was coming, it was almost the only thing he had said. And this gentle-voiced paint-spotted thug was that man, those words and that voice both told her—and therefore more to be feared than any of them.

“I’m afraid you’ve had a bad time—and I don’t suppose we’ve made it seem any better … Do please sit down—“ he indicated the one comfortable chair in the bedroom “—and then I shall be able to sit down too.”

Elizabeth pulled the stool from under the dressing table and sat on it. It seemed strange to her, with all she wanted to say, that no words came to her at all. But then, when she began to think about it, silence seemed quite sensible.

The big man sank into the armchair and stared at her for a few seconds.

“No questions, Miss Loftus?” He smiled suddenly. “But then my colleague, Dr Mitchell, did say that you were a brave young lady. And a resourceful one, too.”