Here Be Monsters

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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 dummy2

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.

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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.'

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'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.'