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Elizabeth blinked. "I can't say that I do, Mr Mitchell."
Her obtuseness didn't seem to worry him. "Contemporaneity, Miss Loftus, contemporaneity. That's the point."
"Indeed?" What she could still see was that glint. And that was the way it took some men—the pursuit of an idea and the thirst for knowledge. It was related to avarice, but it wasn't the same thing; it was more about finding than keeping, like gold fever.
"The same applies to 1916—Verdun, Jutland, the Somme—to me they'd become isolated events because of my over-specialisation: I knew all about the first and the last, but virtually nothing about the middle one. Whereas in reality the good scholar must look at the whole spread of contemporaneous events, to find out how they interlock, if he's ever to understand the truth about his smaller detail."
He paused for breath. "Did you know that the first convoy system—which was the answer to the U-boat—was developed to get coal from South Wales to France . . . because the German army was sitting on most of the French coal supply?"
She had to humour him. "No, Mr Mitchell, I didn't know that."
"Yes—" He caught himself suddenly, as though he realised that he was about to lose his broad spread in detail "—well, the fact is ... I've been busy for some time familiarising myself with naval history. And when I read the obituary on your father, and I recalled his earlier letter . . . I'm used to dummy3
handling research material and pulling it together—I did as much for Professor Emerson's book on the Somme a few years back, when he died before he'd finished it... it occurred to me that I might be able to finish your father's book for you, Miss Loftus."
Good Lord! thought Elizabeth, frowning at him with a mixture of astonishment and irritation. He had indeed been after something—but it wasn't her money, let alone she herself—it was Father's research he wanted!
She opened her mouth, but he spoke again quickly before she could do so.
"Miss Loftus—let me make myself plain, I beg you!" He had clearly read the expression on her face. "I'm absolutely not interested in either making money or a name for myself—I don't need to do either. The book would have your father's name, and you can have the royalties—you can have your own solicitor draw up any agreement you like. You can even veto the whole thing at any time if you don't like it—or me . . .
providing I can do the same, of course. Because I'd have to see the work that's already been done, naturally . . . My own contribution, apart from any necessary editing, would be to put together the twentieth-century chapters only, because I'm not an expert on the earlier periods . . . But otherwise, you can call the tune absolutely. So don't say 'no' out of hand, without thinking."
That was exactly what Elizabeth was doing—she was thinking very hard indeed, trying to adjust her first reaction and her dummy3
instinct and her prejudices with the apparent generosity of his offer. Because there must be a catch in it somewhere.
"I don't quite see why you want to do this . . . under those conditions, Mr Mitchell," she said tentatively, shying away from the direct rudeness of "What's in it for you?"
He shrugged. "Let's say . . . I'm not a naval historian—I'm not ready to write a whole book of my own on naval matters.
But ... I admire your father's work—I think The Dover Patrol was a fine book . . . and I could do this." He paused. "Also . . .
I'm between books myself at the moment, so I have several spare months."
Well, there was an opening, even at the risk of emphasising her ignorance. "Forgive me for asking. . . but you must understand that I don't read books about the World Wars . . ." It was harder than she'd expected, and she felt the blood rising in her cheeks.
"What books have I written?" The laughter lines crinkled on his face as he came to her rescue, making it older again, where his recent embarrassment had made him seem younger. "Or were you going to ask whether I write under my own name?"
"Oh no—that's the coward's question!" She felt herself melting under such candour. "But honestly, I haven't seen any of your books—and I'm sure that's my fault for being unobservant—"
"I doubt it. But I did have a modest success with my book on dummy3
the Hindenburg Line a few years back. And then there was the one on the battle of the Ancre . . . after which I completed Professor Emerson's definitive work on the Somme, though I can take no credit for that, of course . . . And finally, I have a new one coming out in the spring, about the Irish Guards in the war— Watch by the Liffey, that is ... When the last survivors of the 1st Battalion were hanging on to the edge of Zillebeke Wood on the outskirts of Ypres in '14 they heard a German band playing 'Die Wacht am Rhein', and one of them said 'Well, we'll give the bastards "Watch by the Liffey" in reply'."
On the back of a book in Margaret's shop—was that where she had seen him, his face? thought Elizabeth.
"Plus the obligatory thesis, and the articles on this and that."
He fumbled in his top pocket. "Perhaps I should have given you my card to start with."
She read the card: Paul Mitchell . . . and on one side beneath, The King's College, Oxford, with a telephone number; and, on the other, 21B Namier Street, London WC2E 8QJ, with another number.
"And, if you'd like to check up further . . . I'm really a sort of civil servant, but I have this prolonged sabbatical, and the Hobson Research Fellowship at the King's College to make it economic—for me and the Civil Service both ... In a year's time Whitehall and Oxford and I must decide where my proper home should be." He smiled disarmingly at her. "But in the meantime you can call either the Master's secretary at dummy3
the King's or Sir Terence O'Shea at the Home Office, and they'll each give you the same dull answer. I'm perfectly respectable."
In spite of all her previous second thoughts about him Elizabeth was perversely disappointed. The respectability was all there, but the romance was lost in the safety of such references.
"The only thing is that I'd like to—" Paul Mitchell stopped abruptly, staring past her.
"Ah, Dr Mitchell!" The Vicar materialised at Elizabeth's shoulder. "I see that you have found our Miss Loftus . . .
Elizabeth, I confide that you have had a profitable afternoon?"
For the first time the "proposition" became real to her. Since Father's death she hadn't seriously thought about his unfinished book—indeed, she hadn't really thought about it at all. Yet now she realised that in its relatively advanced state and with this man's expertise—alleged expertise, anyway
—it could become a real book, making real money for her . . .
Except that money was now something she didn't need.
But then, she didn't need to keep it: she could easily solve that problem, and even assuage her conscience a little, by assigning the royalties to St Barnabas' tower.
That thought, and the discovery that having so much had not made her eager for more, raised her spirits. "Yes, Mr Bickersteth, I do believe that I have." She swept the piles of dummy3
10p pieces into her cash-box with a flourish so that each of them could take that how he liked.
"I'm glad to hear it." Dr Mitchell's cheerfulness clearly indicated his interpretation. "And I liked that 'confide' too, Vicar. Would that be ecclesiastical usage or something from your naval background? Didn't Nelson try for 'Nelson confides' first before Trafalgar, only his signal lieutenant edited to 'England expects' to save the extra flags?"
The Vicar chuckled, but Elizabeth found herself speculating about Dr Mitchell again. It was reasonable enough that he should have asked the Vicar to point her out, and Crockford's Directory would have supplied details of the Vicar's naval career. But why had he gone to such trouble?