‘secondary school’, you call it?”
“Comprehensive? Grammar?” hazarded Andrew. “Public?”
“It was named after a king of England. And they both learnt Latin.”
“They still learn Latin at comprehensive schools, or some of them do,” said Andrew. “Thank God!”
“They had scholarships—”
“Never mind!” snapped Butler. “What you’re saying . . . what you are saying is ... the whole village?” The adjustment still taxed him, dummy1
too. “The children . . . the tractor driver—and the Land Rover driver . . . the woman on the bicycle, and the man with the shot-gun . . . ?”
“The petrol-station attendant at the garage,” supplemented Andrew. “Him too. And the publican.”
“And Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith.” The Colonel added to the roll-call. “And Audley.”
Benedikt began to feel foolish. Behind the Iron Curtain was one thing, from the Elbe to the Vistula and along the Danube . . . But not in England, surely! Or ... if in Toxteth and Brixton, maybe . . .
not in Duntisbury Royal, anyway—
Yet Colonel Butler was nodding at his Chief Inspector. “That could be it. Remember how she said ‘we’?‘ We really have a chance’?”
Benedikt stopped feeling foolish. “A chance of what, sir?”
Butler came back to him. “Let us get this absolutely straight, Captain. You believe, having been to Duntisbury Royal, that they are waiting for a man to arrive there?”
“A man—or men, perhaps.” Benedikt nodded. “Or someone.”
“With hostile intent?”
He could only shrug. “I cannot tell that. But they had no flags out—
no garlands of welcome. They wished to be warned of the approach of strangers, and they were concerned to identify such strangers.” In the end he had to commit himself. “What I am saying is ... subjective, of course. Since you asked me to look there, I went there looking for something. And there was Audley . . .”
dummy1
“And there was Audley.” A corner of the Colonel’s mouth twitched. “And you would know that where Audley goes there is trouble—that would be on your computer.”
“Yes.” No point in denying that, even though Audley had not operated in Germany for many years. He stared at the Colonel.
“Hostile intent. . . yes. Or the intent may be with the stranger. So perhaps defensive intent, sir.”
“And the whole village is involved in this . . . defensive intent?”
That was still the sticking point. “I did not meet the whole village.
It seems . . . unlikely.”
“Unlikely?”
“In England unlikely. There are places where it would not be unlikely—places where the government of the country is hated, and where strangers are feared and distrusted—where the laws are unjust and oppressive . . . And also in peasant communities, where there is still traditional leadership and strong feelings of local solidarity. In such places it is the objective of the regime to cut off such leadership and undermine such feelings, but sometimes such efforts have the opposite effect. But. . . .”
“But?”
“But I do not think I am describing England in the last quarter of the twentieth century, Colonel. That is the difficulty.”
Colonel Butler nodded. “Yes. So it is possible that you have imagined all this?” He smiled suddenly. “Not altogether unreasonably ... on the basis of your instructions, and the presence of David Audley . . . and also perhaps because of your own dummy1
experiences elsewhere, eh?”
“I did not imagine the searching of my baggage.”
“No. But that could have been an ordinary thief—ordinary, but skilful—on the look-out for money and a good German camera.
There’s a lot of that about in England in the last quarter of the twentieth century, I’m afraid, Captain.”
Welclass="underline" there was the challenge. And all the rest of what they had said could have been merely leading him on.
“My car was parked very publicly, outside the public house, beside what passes for the main street in Duntisbury Royal. It would have had to have been a very skilful thief.” Benedikt played for time.
“Oh, we’ve got a few of them.” Chief Inspector Andrew cocked his head ruefully. “They just don’t go around in cloth caps and striped jerseys any more, carrying bags labelled ‘Swag’.”
No more time.
He looked the Colonel in the eye. “No. Duntisbury Royal is different. There is something very wrong there. I cannot prove it, but I feel it.” His confidence strengthened as he spoke. “It is . . .
what I feel is ... it is a most beautiful and peaceful valley, where the people are kind and helpful— and I was glad to get out of it in one piece, Colonel.”
They stared at each other for one more moment, then the Colonel turned to his colleague. “Aye . . . Well, show him the papers, Andrew. Sheet by sheet, if you please. He’s ready for them now.”
The Special Branch man half-turned, to pick up a grey folder which had been hidden behind him within the jumble of stacked dummy1
ecclesiastical furniture half-filling the cell. From the folder he passed a single sheet of closely-typed paper to Benedikt.
Herbert George Maxwell was born in 1912, the son of Lieutenant-Colonel Julian Robert Maxwell MC, Grenadier Guards, who was killed in action in 1917 shortly after succeeding to command the 2nd/21st West Yorks at Ypres, and who as ‘Robert Julian’ was widely recognised as one of the most lyrical of the war poets while his military identity remained a close secret shared only with a few close friends.
The Maxwell family has lived at Duntisbury Manor, in Duntisbury Chase, Dorset, since the Reformation. From the time of Marlborough the first-born son of the house without exception has served the sovereign as a soldier, invariably rising to command a distinguished regiment of cavalry or battalion of infantry, and often retiring from a higher command still.
‘Robert Julian’s’ poems were nothing exceptional in the Maxwells; most of the soldiers among them were considered by their colleagues to be ’brainy‘, and army gossip and gaps in their recorded service indicate a remarkable range of interests, from the collection of antiquities in Italy and Greece to friendship with Darwin and Huxley. At the same time, the Maxwells traditionally devoted much of their lives to the service of the family estate, of which the Manor was the centre and the surrounding farms of Duntisbury Chase the greater part, which pursuit was not in those days incompatible with a military career.
Herbert Maxwell differed from his ancestors only in joining the dummy1
Royal Artillery. After his father’s death he was brought up by his mother, but with help from her brother, Major William James Lonsdale, who had lost an arm commanding a troop of field-guns at Mons in 1914, and who looked after the estate at his brother-in-law’s request until 1917 and thereafter until his nephew’s majority, retiring to Bournemouth then, where he died in 1934.
Herbert was educated, as his father had been, at Wellington, and, as his uncle had been, at the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich.
He was commissioned in 1932, serving subsequently with pack-guns on the North-West Frontier and later with the Home Forces, latterly as an instructor in Gunnery at the School of Artillery, Larkhill, not far from his beloved Duntisbury Chase. He was a devoted—