Here Be Monsters (2 page)

‘Do you really think so?’ Well, all that money and art could do—her money and the combined art and advice of Madame Irene and Monsieur Pierre—had been done, and would have to do.

She leaned forward, pretending to check her eye makeup
(
‘
The Eyes
—
they are Mademoiselle
’
s best feature
’
)
. ‘Is the Deputy-Director in yet, Mrs Harlin?’ she inquired casually.

‘Yes, Miss Loftus.’ The nuance of disapproval was because of the eye make-up: Mrs Harlin was old-fashioned there. ‘I was about to say—to remind you -that your appointment with him is due now, and that he’s already asking for you.’

‘Oh yes?’ Elizabeth transferred her attention to her cheek-bones. The object of Madame Irene’s strategy, so far as she could decipher from the euphemisms, was to draw attention away from Admiral Varney’s salient features. Some hope! ‘Is he?’ She knew Latimer was in the building, having observed his well-scraped Vauxhall in the underground car park and squeezed her beloved Morgan in as far away as possible from the area in which he might manoeuvre it subsequently. But that hadn’t been the car which really worried her, nevertheless. ‘Is anyone else in?’

‘Anyone else?’ It wasn’t quite an improper question, yet Mrs Harlin knew that Elizabeth’s present assignment did not involve direct liaison with anyone else in Research and Development other than Chief Superintendent Andrew, who (as they both knew) was up on some embattled miners’ picket line in Yorkshire until Saturday, pretending to throw rocks at his fascist colleagues. But when it came to business Mrs Harlin was properly close-mouthed.

So she had better improve on that, thought Elizabeth. ‘I take it Dr Mitchell isn’t in?’

‘Ah!’ Mrs Harlin sighed sympathetically. ‘As a matter of fact he is in this morning, Miss Loftus.’

Elizabeth stopped looking into her own eyes
(
‘
They are Mademoiselle
’
s best feature
’
was at least partially true, because she had missed Admiral Varney’s little piggy eyes, if the National Portrait Gallery picture was to be trusted), and turned to Mrs Harlin in surprise. For Paul’s car hadn’t been there when she arrived, and Paul should have been safe in Cheltenham at the moment. ‘He is?’

‘He arrived just after you.’ Mrs Harlin could hardly know the full extent of the problem. But she knew that there was one.

‘I thought he was at GCHQ.’ Hopelessness engulfed Elizabeth. Paul was so clever in every other way; not simply—unsimply—intellectually clever, but shrewd in such a Byzantine, Machiavellian, self-interested way that it would have been embarrassing to watch him bare an Achilles heel of stupidity at the best of times; but actually to be his blind spot, his weakness, herself—to be
his
Achilles heel, when she admired him so much—was almost more than she could bear.

‘He was.’ Sympathetic understanding warred with departmental protocol, if not with security, in Mrs Harlin. ‘But the Deputy-Director sent him an SG yesterday, Miss Loftus, to be here this morning without fail.’

‘Oh,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Where is he at the moment?’

‘Dr Mitchell is … well, he’s hovering in my office at the moment, Miss Loftus,’ admitted Mrs Harlin, Elizabeth’s tortured silence weakening her normal circumspection. ‘He’s talking with Commander Cable. Or … he was when I left, after Commander Cable had been with the Deputy-Director and with Major Turnbull. And Dr Audley is also here.’

‘Oh!’ She repeated the
oh
knowing that Mrs Harlin would relate it only to Paul, and not to this suspicious gathering of the clans. ‘Well, let’s get it over with, Mrs Harlin, then.’

‘Don’t you worry, Miss Loftus.’ Whatever it was which accompanied the words, it wasn’t a smile, and it boded no good for Paul, even though Mrs Harlin had a motherly soft spot for him. ‘You have an appointment with the Deputy-Director—remember?’

‘Elizabeth!’ James Cable saw her second, but welcomed her first, with his own special mixture of gentleness and good manners, which together always put him ill at ease in the presence of an ugly woman. ‘It
is
good to see you again—and you look like a million dollars, too—don’t you agree, Mitchell?’

‘I don’t know about a million dollars.’ An edge of unrequited love sharpened Paul’s answer quite unnecessarily, in spite of his lack of embarrassment. ‘But she certainly looks expensive, I grant you that, Commander.’

‘Expensive?’ Dear, very dear James—how father would have loved James, with all his naval ancestors striding back across their quarter-decks, from Trafalgar to San Carlos Bay! It was a bitter thought that in a year or two some wretched, mindless, suitable girl, who knew the Princess of Wales and was approved by his bone-headed mother, would get Commander James Cable for sure. ‘Expensive?’ In his own way, James was just as smart as Paul, or he wouldn’t be here. Indeed, he might not be pretending stupidity now, for he was not burdened with Paul’s weakness where she was concerned. ‘What d’you mean—“expensive”?’

Mrs Harlin loomed from behind Elizabeth. ‘The Deputy-Director will see you now, Miss Loftus,’ she said blandly.

‘I mean, just look at her, Jim-boy,’ said Paul. ‘Apart from coiffure and the paintwork—and God only knows what that cost—look at the dress, which is probably a little French something from Welbeck Street, or that new place round the corner there, where she gets her trousers and those other things—is it
culottes
or
sans-culottes
? Or maybe it’s German, because Faith Audley’s also on a German jag of some sort at the moment, so I’m told.’

‘He has been asking for you, Miss Loftus.’ Mrs Harlin cut through Paul’s unlikely fashion intelligence, ‘
If
you’ll excuse me, Dr Mitchell?’

‘Of course, Mrs Harlin.’ Paul shriveled slightly, well aware that he was over-matched. ‘I’m sorry—‘

‘Thank you, Dr Mitchell.’ Because she had a soft spot for him, Mrs Harlin accepted his surrender gracefully, with one of her thin smiles.

‘But—‘ Paul drew a breath ‘—but I must talk to Miss Loftus nevertheless.’

‘Tripod masts,’ murmured James Cable, swaying slightly towards Paul. ‘Tripod masts—remember?’

‘What’s that, Commander?’ said Mrs Harlin dangerously.

It wasn’t in the least surprising that they both knew what a tripod mast was, the naval officer and the military historian—the sometime-sailor and othertime-scholar. But what the devil did those masts signify here and now?

‘Tripod masts—yes.’ Paul nodded to his friend, then braced himself in Mrs Harlin’s direction. ‘Nonetheless … and in spite of the Deputy-Director … I will speak with Miss Loftus now, Mrs Harlin. On a purely professional matter. And an urgent one.’ He turned towards Elizabeth, and pointed at the entrance door behind her. ‘Just two minutes, Elizabeth—outside.’

‘Dr Mitchell!’ snapped Mrs Harlin.

‘Professional business, Elizabeth. Flag of truce on other matters—that’s a promise. Scouts’ honour.’

‘
Dr Mitchell!
’

‘It’s all right, Mrs Harlin.’ Elizabeth could see that Paul was genuinely worried, and that he didn’t care about hiding his real feelings. So that was perhaps the right moment for her to start worrying too. ‘Very well, Paul. Two minutes.’

‘Hmm … ’ The sound indicated that Elizabeth had gone down a snake in Mrs Harlin’s estimation. ‘Very well, Miss Loftus. But I shall inform the Deputy-Director that you are on your way.’

‘Well, Paul?’

‘I’m sorry I fluffed it out there, Elizabeth—with the fashion bit. But I always do, you know me … Just, I prefer you unadorned.’

Naked and unadorned
? remembered Elizabeth. He was still fluffing it. ‘Two professional minutes, you said.’

His face set, almost expressionless. ‘We haven’t seen each other for an age, Elizabeth. We’ve both been busy.’

She felt absurdly disappointed with his breach of trust. ‘Paul—you
promised
—
‘ She broke off.

‘I’m not breaking any promise. We’ve all been busy.’

‘Then get to the point.’

‘That is the point. I know what you’ve been doing here: you’ve been co-ordinating the Cheltenham inquiry—Audley’s big job.’

Elizabeth stared at him. There was no reason that he should know who was on the computer at this end. No reason, except that he was Paul Mitchell.

‘I know because I’ve been not only supplying you with some of your information, but also answering some of your questions, Elizabeth.’ He seemed to be able to read some of her mind. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that everyone has an individual style of mind—mind, as distinct from literary style? And once you know the person, it’s almost as good as a fingerprint. Like a mind-print … But, anyway, I know—okay?’

That was really quite interesting, and not least because it warned her how much she still had to learn. ‘So what?’

‘So it’s quite important, in its way, what you’ve been doing. And you’re asking the right questions. You’re good, Elizabeth—I hate to have to admit it, but you
are
good. You sit here, in that little nunnery cell of yours, and you actually
think
. And you think to some purpose.’

‘Now you’re being patronizing—that’s what I’m thinking at this moment.’

His eyes clouded. ‘Of course. Don’t you realize that that’s my doom, Elizabeth—the one gift the Good Fairy denied me? If I love someone I always say the wrong thing to her, no matter what I mean to say. But we’re talking business now.’

‘I’ve yet to hear any.’ She couldn’t afford to weaken. ‘Come to the point.’

‘I’m still there, I haven’t left it. I—‘ He stopped suddenly, and shook his head, though more at himself than at her, Elizabeth thought. And, in spite of his redoubled promise, that suggested that he still wasn’t talking business. ‘Look, Elizabeth, I obviously haven’t got a lot of time, so I can’t explain in any detail how I know what I know, so what I
think
may not seem very convincing to you. But I want you to listen—and to bear with me, please.
Please
?’

‘For about thirty seconds.’ She didn’t look at her watch. ‘You heard what Mrs Harlin said?’

‘Oh—the hell with her!’ He gestured. ‘And bugger Oliver—
Fatso!
Blame me, if you like.’

‘It’s easy for you to say that. You’re old establishment. I’m hardly fledged.’

He stared at her. ‘Not so easy, actually. I’m on a bloody knife-edge with our Deputy-Director. But … not that I care. Just trust me this once, enough to listen to me, Elizabeth—Miss Loftus, if you like.’ The stare became fixed. ‘In fact, if you listen to me now, you can be
Miss Loftus
for ever after. And that’s another promise—until the Sun stands still, and the Moon ceases to rise. Okay?’

The offer took her aback. He was offering her … he was offering her too much, in terms of what he had to offer. Or perhaps he was offering enough to frighten her, on those terms.

She had to devalue it, to make a jest of it. ‘Okay, Paul. But only if you’ll tell me what “tripod masts” means, between you and James—?’

Again that clouded, defenseless look. Then it vanished. ‘That’s easy—James was just warning me to lay off. To run for my life, before Mrs Harlin sank me without a trace.’ He almost smiled. ‘
Tripod masts
—
you ought to have got that one,
Miss
Loftus, with all those naval histories of your father’s that you copy-typed for him.’

The reminder of past drudgery hardened her heart finally: he knew altogether too much about that past of hers, and by recalling it he merely encouraged her to hold him to his latest promise. ‘I know what tripod masts are, Dr Mitchell.’

He took the point: she could see him reading the full meaning of the smallest print of the agreement he had proposed. ‘Not what they
are
, but what they
meant
.’ The fixed emotionless stare was back. ‘Perhaps not inappropriately on this occasion, more than Commander Cable meant himself.’

There was no percentage in trying to read his riddles. ‘And what did they mean?’

‘Death, Miss Loftus, just death.’ He let the word sink in. The Battle of the Falklands—not the recent unpleasantness, but the original one in 1914. James and I both read it up when he got back from there, just for curiosity. Before he closed in on Port Stanley in 1914, von Spec sent in a light cruiser to have a look. And the poor devil in the crow’s nest spotted tripod masts in the harbour. And he knew in that second that he was a dead man, because they meant
battle-cruisers
—
too big to fight, and too fast to out-run—I’m sure you remember that, Miss Loftus.’

Elizabeth did remember that, from Father’s cold comparison of the customs of naval warfare in the good old days of wooden ships, when a man could surrender to superior force without losing his honour, and the rules of the supposedly more civilized twentieth century, in which no quarter was asked or granted—‘the logical requirement of democratic warfare, which was of course conducted not for vulgar profit, but for noble causes.’

‘I see.’ And on a quite juvenile level she could see that James had warned Paul not to tangle with Mrs Harlin, who certainly had tripod masts. But, on a more serious level, Paul had seen the masts, yet had stayed to fight. ‘So what is it that you have to tell me, that’s so important it can’t wait?’

‘Okay.’ While she had been thinking, so had he been. ‘I think we have all the ingredients of a panic. And, as we don’t have them very often here, they always scare the pants off me.’

‘What sort of panic?’ The
why
could come later.

‘I don’t know, exactly. But all the signs are there.’

Better to let him have his way. She must be late already, but she could handle the Deputy-Director, at a pinch. ‘What signs?’

‘We’ve all been taken off what we were doing. And I know what I was doing—and what you were doing, close enough. And I know what Major Turnbull was doing, for other reasons, which I don’t intend to bore you with … And I’ve a pretty damn good idea what old James was up to, come to that.’