"For you," she said, holding it out to Mitchell.
Mitchell accepted the gift with one hand, and then swept off his plumed hat in the elaborate figure-of-eight bow with the other. "My lady . . . and you, sir—" he looked down at Master Nigel "—remember what I told you—
God for King Charles! To Pym and such carles The devil that prompts 'em their treasons parles!
—don't forget. And if they want to know where your father is, dummy5
tell them he's riding with Prince Rupert, like every other true-hearted English gentleman."
Audley slid the photographs out of the envelope.
Robert Davenport—a lean, nondescript face sandwiched between the tall black hat and the plain white collar of the Puritan divine.
David Bishop—button nose and chubby cheeks, a baby-face made more for laughter than for the steel helmet perched incongruously above it.
Philip Gates—another ordinary Anglo-Saxon face, fair hair falling across eyes which stared in surprise directly into the camera.
John Lumley—those at least were memorable features, the arched nose and jutting chin framed by the black cavalier wig and beard: it had to be a disguise because that sort of expression went with short hair in the twentieth century, no matter what the fashions of the seventeenth might have decreed.
He watched as Frances and Mitchell swopped the prints between them, noting Mitchell's cheek muscles tighten with irritation as he came to Lumley's.
"Philip Oates knew he was being photographed," said Frances, holding up the snap.
"I hope they all knew they were being photographed," said dummy5
Audley. "These are four people we're leaning on—I told you.
Plus Charlie Ratcliffe himself. All five of them, they're going to hear their phones go 'click' when they lift the receiver.
They're going to notice cars parked across the street from where they live—the same cars that were parked across the road from where they work. Their friends are going to tell them that people have been asking questions about them.
And the people they see aren't going to be the people who are doing the real watching, either. They're each getting the VIP
treatment."
Frances frowned. "You mean . . . Fail-Safe Surveillance?"
"For a week, yes."
"Even for a week, that's pretty expensive stuff." Frances's brow furrowed with the effort of the mental arithmetic she was doing. "I didn't know your budget stretched to that sort of thing just now."
Mitchell laughed suddenly. "Maybe we're expecting a profit for once. A ton of gold would pay a fairish dividend on the deal."
"Don't be silly, Paul."
"I'm not being silly, honeybunch. If David does pull this rabbit out of the hat not even the Tribune Group will be able to complain about the high cost of security —we could probably put in for a Queen's Award for Industry, I shouldn't wonder."
"But there's something not right about this." Frances dummy5
shrugged him off simply by staring at Audley. "There are too many people getting involved, David. First there were just the three of us—or four, with that policeman of yours. But now there are five surveillance teams . . . and they can't possibly operate at fail-safe level without four to a team. Plus a field controller and a technical services adviser for the electronics." She shook her head. "That's an awful lot of people, David."
"Plus the red-haired, red-faced gentleman," murmured Mitchell. "But of course we do have 'friends' helping us this time, according to David."
"Special Branch," said Frances, still watching Audley.
"Special Branch doing the harassment bit—which they hate doing. And we hate making them do it... So you can talk about us leaning on Charlie Ratcliffe, but it feels more like someone's leaning on us."
Another bright one, thought Audley. But then Mitchell, the trained military historian, had enjoyed his part of the assignment, which was little more than doing what came naturally to him. Whereas Frances, who had cut her teeth on very different problems, would have little sympathy for her task, and none at all for dressing up like this. And that had spurred her on to question its nature.
But with such a bright one, doubt was a corrosive which had to be treated seriously. "There's a political angle to this, Frances," he said gently. "Sometimes the politicians require us to pick their chestnuts out of the fire, and we have to do it.
dummy5
"Of course there's a political angle,” said Mitchell dismissively. "Charlie Ratcliffe is a political animal. And the lunatic left is a political force—a disproportionate force too, even without a war-chest full of gold. We've got to take his goodies away from him, Frances. It's as simple as that."
"It isn't simple at all," snapped Frances.
"No, it isn't simple." Audley recognised the source of her doubt: it was the knowledge that there on the left, but for the grace of God, went Frances herself, in the ranks of Charlie Ratcliffe's regiment. "But it isn't improper either. If Ratcliffe had played straight to get his gold, we wouldn't touch him.
But he didn't play straight, he played dirty. He had another human being killed—" he had to hold her here "—like a rabbit."
Kill it, Audley—go on, man—kill it!
"Yes—" Mitchell started to speak, but caught Audley's eye just in time. As though to stop up his mouth he started to munch the parsley which Mistress Henrietta had given him.
"Like a rabbit, Frances," Audley repeated. "And he didn't even have the guts to do his own killing. He hired someone."
He could feel her doubt weakening. In the end it was always a matter of trust and now she wanted to trust him, not knowing that he had won her by summoning up that old, dark memory of the harvest field.
She stared at him. "You're sure?"
No.
dummy5
But that trust was a two-way thing, like the feudal bond he had almost accepted in the Minister's car.
"Yes."
No more doubt: it was gone like a shadow in the sunlight.
Frances would serve now, consenting to whatever had to be done.
"So what next?" asked Mitchell through the parsley. "You really want me to lean on John Lumley?"
"I don't want you to do anything, either of you. Keep an eye open for them, but don't do anything. Just fight your battle today the way it's scripted. You're my Tenth Legion."
"More like Fifth Column. So what are we being reserved for, my lord?"
"The storming of Standingham Castle next Saturday."
Mitchell's eyes lit up. "Of course! Forgive me for being so dim, David—I'd got my parts mixed up."
"Your what?"
Mitchell laughed. "I was still doing my Henry V bit—your favourite play, as we all know, David—
To horse, you gallant princes! Straight to horse!"
"Don't be a pain, Paul," said Frances.
"You can't talk, Frances dear. You've been doing it far worse dummy5
than me—
But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath a heavy reckoning to make ..."
What a young snake the boy was, thought Audley ruefully.
"But now you know our cause is just, our quarrel honourable, you can safely shift from Agincourt to Elsinore, my lady."
Mitchell was enjoying himself. "Because we're going to be Hamlet's Players in The Murder of Gonzago—
the play's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
"Bravo and good on you, David. We'll pronounce our lines trippingly, I promise you. Is there anything else you want?"
Yes, just one thing so far as Mitchell was concerned, thought Audley fervently. But he would have to settle for something less drastic.
"Yes, there is one thing," he said heavily.
"Be my guest."
"I'd like to know why the hell you're eating parsley."
But that only stopped Mitchell for a fraction of a second.
"Mistress Henrietta's gift? But of course—I asked her for it."