Authors: Anthony Price
“Chard and Timms got away, remember!” Aske moved to make amends.
“But they gave the box to Burns—of all men—“
Aske seemed to be trying not to smile. “But it didn’t matter either way by then, Miss Loftus. There wasn’t going to be an invasion by then, anyway. It was all for nothing from the start—that’s what I mean. Don’t you see the irony of it?”
Irony? thought Elizabeth. It was the uselessness of all that courage and endurance and ingenuity which cut so deep. The irony was merely an insult added to that injury.
“But cheer up, Miss Loftus.” Aske managed to make the smile almost kindly. “Professor Wilder may still be quite wrong, you know. There could be other explanations—dozens of them … We don’t know who Dr Pike was yet, for a start—or how he and his amazing box got aboard the
Vengeful
…
And Timms could have been an American agent—a sort of prototype CIA man—and we don’t know how he joined the
Vengeful
either… All we know is that we’ve a lot more work to do. But now at least we know where to start looking.”
Professor Wilder reached down to close the lid of the box, replacing the
Guardian
on it as though to cover up the dark tale he had conjured from it. “And I can probably help you there. I have contacts on both sides of the Atlantic.”
They were both trying to jolly her out of her depression, but she couldn’t be lifted so easily. There was something malevolent about that box—and about the long-lost
Vengeful
herself, too. The
Vengeful
was to blame for everything, it seemed to her suddenly.
“She was an unlucky ship.” The words discharged her feelings. “She killed them all—all but two.”
“My dear … they were all unlucky ships, the
Vengefuls
,” said Wilder softly.
“What?” She looked at him in surprise.
“Didn’t your father ever tell you? They had the reputation for being killers. Great fighters too, to be fair—‘
Storm and tempest/fear and foes/ They
’
ll be with her where/ the Vengeful goes
’
—that’s what they used to say about her. Didn’t he tell you?”
She shook her head.
“That was one reason why they re-named the thirteenth
Vengeful
, my dear. Add unlucky thirteen to a bad-luck name, and that’s a sure recipe for disaster.” He pointed to the box. “And the navy’s got too much riding on
her
for anything to be allowed to go wrong this time.”
“What d’you mean—this time?” She didn’t understand.
“It’s in the paper today.” He stooped and picked up the
Guardian
— it had been the newspaper, not the box, at which he had pointed. “’
Wonder ship on missile tests
’
—“ he passed the paper to her “—you can read it for yourself.”
Elizabeth took the paper automatically. There was a large, slightly blurred picture of one of those ugly modern warships, all top-heavy with modern gadgetry, which were so different from the greyhounds of Father’s time.
She read the caption: “
HMS Shannon, the Navy
’
s new anti-submarine command vessel, leaving the pier at the Kyle of Lochalsh base for trials with the air-dropped Stingray anti-submarine missile and the new generation heavyweight torpedo
”.
And the story was in bold type below the
Wondership
heading:
“
High ranking American and NATO naval officers shipped aboard the latest addition to the Royal Navy
’
s anti-submarine capability, the command vessel HMS Shannon, yesterday.
“
They left the new pier at the Kyle of Lochalsh for a demonstration of anti-submarine warfare in Europe
’
s only offshore range, the British Underwater Test and Evaluation Centre, in 10 square miles of the inner Sound of Raasay, off the west Ross-shire coast of Scotland.
“
The
‘
Shannon
’
will show off weapons systems which the Government hopes to sell to NATO on the top-secret range, which boasts a multi-million pound installation of sea-bed hydrophones and cable links to a mainland computer
…
”
“What wonder ship?” asked Aske.
“The
Shannon,
”
said Elizabeth.
“
In attendance will be a small fleet of auxiliary ships and one of the navy
’
s nuclear-powered attack submarines, HMS
‘
Swiftsure
’
, which it is thought will be playing the part of a Soviet intruder
…
”
“What’s that got to do with us, for heaven’s sake?” said Aske a little tetchily.
“See for yourself.” Elizabeth handed him the
Guardian
.
“
Wonder ship on missile tests
?” Aske wrinkled his nose at the headline, and then studied the text briefly. “Very interesting, I’m sure … But, more to the point, Professor—can you give us the names of those contacts of yours? I think we’ll be needing them.”
Wilder inclined his head. “In anticipation of just that request, Mr Aske, I have prepared a little list for you.” He produced a long white envelope from his breast pocket. “For the Americans I have also written brief letters of introduction. For the English, it will be sufficient to mention my name … And now I must be away, regretfully.” He bowed to Elizabeth.
Aske looked at Elizabeth quickly. “But won’t you stay, Professor? I’m sure Mrs Audley will expect us to ask you to … and we do still need your brains, sir.”
“No. I think you’ll do very well without me.” Wilder spoke with the resolution of a grandee. “Besides which, at my age one becomes a creature of habit, and my housekeeper has a steak-and-kidney pie and a bottle of Beaune waiting for me … And these August evenings are closing in, and it will be dark soon, and the forecast is for rain … and I have an hour’s drive ahead of me. So thank you—but no.” He turned for a last time to Elizabeth. “Miss Loftus … it has been a pleasure. And I hope you will regard me as a friend now, and will call on me. I see far too few young women these days.”
“Professor …” In any other circumstances she would have been nattered by that, and would have reacted to it somehow. But her mind was bobbing wildly in the
Shannon
’
s
wake, somewhere between Kyle of Lochalsh and the inner Sound of Raasay.
“I can see that your brain’s full of new thoughts!” He smiled impishly. “And that’s what makes the historian, Miss Loftus—the sudden fertilisation of knowledge by intelligence, to breed some tiny embryo of truth! Nurture it, Miss Loftus, nurture it and cherish it!” He swung back to Aske. “Now, Mr Aske—?”
Aske gave Elizabeth another of his quick looks. “Yes, Professor … Allow me to see you out—“
They went, leaving Elizabeth to her own thoughts, which were carrying her on an irresistible tide past the old
Vengeful
on the rocks of Les Echoux and the
Fortuné
on the Horse Sands, towards the
Shannon
—
The door-latch clattered again eventually.
“That wasn’t overwhelmingly civilised, Miss Loftus, if I may say so,” Aske chided her. “The old boy expected a more graceful dismissal, after all his trouble, you know.”
She heard him, but the words hardly registered; she could think only …
if I can see it, why can
’
t he see it
?
He shook his head. “Maybe he wasn’t quite expecting a peck on the cheek. But you could at least have shaken his hand.”
Her confidence ebbed. If it meant nothing to him when it was so obvious, then perhaps it
was
nothing—a thing long since considered and discarded.
“Now the poor old boy believes you still haven’t forgiven him for whatever it was he quarrelled over with your father—“
Whatever it was?
“—and we still may need his help, Miss Loftus.”
He didn
’
t know
! It seemed impossible to her. But then, when she remembered how contemptuous Paul had been of him, and how Paul had gone about everything, it suddenly didn’t seem so unlikely—it almost became inevitable, rather—
“Miss Loftus?” He had realised at last that she was only half listening to him.
“Don’t you know what they quarrelled about, Mr Aske?”
“Does it matter?”
Did it matter? Even if he didn’t know, Paul did—and Dr Audley must know too … Was it possible that they hadn’t seen the wood for the trees? Or was there simply no wood to see?
“It was over the
Shannon
, Mr Aske.”
“Oh?” His glance flicked to the
Guardian
. “Well, I hardly think that matters.” He sounded as though he was finding politeness difficult. “Does it?”
“She was originally named the
Vengeful
—until about eighteen months ago, when they were fitting her out. Father got very angry about the re-naming.”
“Did he, indeed?” He started to yawn, then quickly put his hand to his mouth. “Mmm?”
“Doesn’t that …” Diffidence almost froze her, but for a tiny red spark of anger which his boredom kindled “… doesn’t that suggest anything to you?”
“Well … to be honest, Miss Loftus, the only thing I can think about at the moment is my dinner. That’s what the Professor’s steak-and-kidney pie did for me, I’m afraid.” He indicated the door. “Shall we go and see what that precocious child is up to?” He smiled. “Then—“
The spark blazed into fire. “
Mr Aske
!”
He raised his hands. “All right, all right! The
Shannon
was once the
Vengeful
. Then so what?”
“Can’t you see? Isn’t it possible that we—that you—and Dr Mitchell and Dr Audley—that you’ve all been following the wrong
Vengeful
?”
He looked at her strangely, no longer bored, but with an expression in which so many emotions conflicted that there was no room for any one of them. “What do you mean—the
wrong
—?”
She had to get it right. “This finding out what really happened in 1812, Mr Aske—you don’t really care about that—you
can
’
t
care about it … It’s what’s happening
now
that you care about—about …” she licked her lips “… about what the Russians are doing.” She forced the bogey-name out, even though it sounded unreal to her, on her own lips: she shouldn’t be telling him this—it had nothing to do with her.
“The …
Russians
, Miss Loftus?” He seemed to sense her embarrassment, but was not disposed to help her. “The
Russians
?”
Only her anger sustained her. “Paul told me about this thing—this Project Vengeful—“
“He told you
that
?” Aske’s own anger sparked suddenly. “He had absolutely no right to do any such thing! That’s quite appalling!”
“But he did, Mr Aske.” She hated Aske then, as irrationally as she loved Paul, so that both emotions were equally painful to her. “He trusted me.”
“That’s what’s so appalling!” snarled Aske. “My God! I’ll see him hang for that!”
“You’ll see him hang?” Elizabeth’s loyalty fixed itself irrevocably on Paul. “But you’ll phone London first, Mr Aske.”
“I’ll phone London?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
Why? But she wasn’t going to argue with him. “Because I want you to do that—that’s why.”
Not for Humphrey Aske was Paul’s Theory of Contemporaneity— that would only make him laugh at her, and at Paul too!
“That’s not a reason, Miss Loftus. I’m not about to make myself a fool for you.”
Then more fool he! But she wasn’t, in her turn, about to explain why the timing of the Russians’
Vengeful
Project and the re-naming of the
Vengeful
made sense to her: if that was foolishness, it must be hers, not Paul’s. That was the least she could do for him.
“Then I’ll phone London, Mr Aske. Cathy will give me a number—she’s precocious enough for that. Or there’ll be a number somewhere—I’ll go on phoning until I get it, starting from 999 and working upwards, even if I’m still trying to find it when Faith Audley gets back—and then she’ll give it to me.” She looked down at him obstinately. “And then we’ll see who’s the fool—you or me.”
“I already know who the fool is.” He tried to stare her down, and she felt his will harden against hers, as it had never hardened before. But that only made it a straight contest, and in a contest she outnumbered him—all the ghosts from the past crowded behind Commander Loftus’s daughter: Lieutenant Chipperfield and Midshipman Paget, and Tom Chard and Abraham Timms, who had kept faith and had done their duty after their fashion, even though faith and duty had made fools of them.
His will crumbled against such odds. “Very well. I give you best, Miss Loftus—I’ll telephone for you, if that’s what you want. But on your head be it. What do you want me to say?”
“Just remind them that the
Shannon
used to be the
Vengeful
.”
“Is that all?” He seemed on the point of refusing again, but then thought better of it. “All right. But you stay here while I phone—if I have to make a fool of myself I’d prefer to do it by myself. I’ll do it on those terms only.”
“Thank you, Mr Aske.”
He stared at her. “I think I’d rather you didn’t thank me, Miss Loftus.”
Time stood still as she waited: the effort of imposing her will on him seemed to have drained her energy, and she found it impossible to concentrate on anything except the need to wait patiently. The house was very quiet, she thought.
Then the door opened, and Aske was staring at her again. “I’m sorry, Miss Loftus,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“I owe you an apology.” His lips tightened. “We have to go to London now—at once.” The skin had tightened on his face too, heightening the cheek-bones and jaw-line with stress; except that such a transformation must be in her own mind, imagined out of the change in his manner.