tread carefully with him, Butler.
Butler stared at Epton doubtfully, wondering what a radical was in the 1970s. Vietnam was old hat now, so maybe it was Ulster and South Africa.
Epton returned the doubtful stare with interest. Maybe it was the uniform that stuck in his throat. To good radicals khaki always meant repression first and defense second— until the enemy were knocking at the gates.
“Could you spare Butler a bed, Charles?” said Hookham, deliberately leaving the unfortunate man with no room in which to manoeuvre. “There must be a corner in that place of yours. Maybe not a dry one, but I expect he’s used to roughing it!”
“I couldn’t possibly impose on you,” exclaimed Butler harshly, carefully making matters worse.
“You could earn your keep,” said Handforth-Jones grinning mischievously. “Belisarius’s siege train in exchange for bed and board sounds fair enough, eh? Of course there isn’t much of the Wall to see near Castleshields, it’s all been swallowed up by the house. Not until you get to High Crags, but it’s superb there. And you’re well placed for Ortolanacum.”
“I think the Society might even rise to a presentation copy of the new guide to Ortolanacum,” said Hookham, producing a booklet from his briefcase. “In return for whatever comes of the visit, of course.”
They had effectively and unashamedly by-passed Epton’s defenses, leaving him no opportunity to put off his uninvited guest—or even to invite him. All that was left was to acknowledge his own hospitality as though it had been offered from the start.
“It will be a pleasure to have you with us, Butler,” he said quickly. “You can stay as long as you like—and I assure you there’s nothing wrong with our guest room, as Professor Hookham well knows. In my father’s time it might have been different, I admit; but now the university pays the bills you have nothing to worry about.”
It was done, whatever it was they intended to do: you have nothing to worry about.
Tonight that might just be true: anything else seemed unreal in the midst of these men of letters who fought their fiercest battles in learned journals, shedding only ink. But Neil Smith, whoever he was, whatever he had done, was dead. And so was the unknown man who had so nearly made an end of him, the real Butler, in the blazing attics of Eden Hall.
So there were other demons loose beside that one he had given the slip.
“Your taxi, Colonel Butler.”
A hand touched his shoulder. It was his chaperone, steering him out of the crush in a flurry of good-mannered farewells before the inconvenient questions started. He was glad, in the midst of them, that he was able to take more formal leave of Hookham and Handforth-Jones, who had performed so admirably—the professor maintained a straight face to the last, but there was a glint of curiosity in the younger man’s eyes and a twitch of sardonic amusement on his lips.
“I hope you have a profitable time on the Wall, Colonel,” he said, grinning. “I may see you up there. But in any case, keep an eye open for the Picts—and the Winged Hats!”
Butler grunted and nodded non-committally, his gratitude evaporating. This was where the whole thing became ridiculous—the Picts were the aboriginal Scots, but who the Winged Hats were he hadn’t the least idea. They sounded mythological.
He shook his head as he followed the Ministry man up the stairs and out into the long hallway. He had been a fraction slow answering to his new rank several times, and that too was bad—the sort of small error which aroused suspicion. The fact was that he operated better on his own, away from chaperones who did his thinking for him.
As if divining his thought Cundell did not follow him into the taxi which rolled out of the London half-light and drew up at the curb beside them, outside the Institute.
“This is as far as I go, Colonel. Goodbye—and good luck to you!”
The door slammed and the taxi pulled
Butler stared at Epton doubtfully, wondering what a radical was in the 1970s. Vietnam was old hat now, so maybe it was Ulster and South Africa.
Epton returned the doubtful stare with interest. Maybe it was the uniform that stuck in his throat. To good radicals khaki always meant repression first and defense second— until the enemy were knocking at the gates.
“Could you spare Butler a bed, Charles?” said Hookham, deliberately leaving the unfortunate man with no room in which to manoeuvre. “There must be a corner in that place of yours. Maybe not a dry one, but I expect he’s used to roughing it!”
“I couldn’t possibly impose on you,” exclaimed Butler harshly, carefully making matters worse.
“You could earn your keep,” said Handforth-Jones grinning mischievously. “Belisarius’s siege train in exchange for bed and board sounds fair enough, eh? Of course there isn’t much of the Wall to see near Castleshields, it’s all been swallowed up by the house. Not until you get to High Crags, but it’s superb there. And you’re well placed for Ortolanacum.”
“I think the Society might even rise to a presentation copy of the new guide to Ortolanacum,” said Hookham, producing a booklet from his briefcase. “In return for whatever comes of the visit, of course.”
They had effectively and unashamedly by-passed Epton’s defenses, leaving him no opportunity to put off his uninvited guest—or even to invite him. All that was left was to acknowledge his own hospitality as though it had been offered from the start.
“It will be a pleasure to have you with us, Butler,” he said quickly. “You can stay as long as you like—and I assure you there’s nothing wrong with our guest room, as Professor Hookham well knows. In my father’s time it might have been different, I admit; but now the university pays the bills you have nothing to worry about.”
It was done, whatever it was they intended to do: you have nothing to worry about.
Tonight that might just be true: anything else seemed unreal in the midst of these men of letters who fought their fiercest battles in learned journals, shedding only ink. But Neil Smith, whoever he was, whatever he had done, was dead. And so was the unknown man who had so nearly made an end of him, the real Butler, in the blazing attics of Eden Hall.
So there were other demons loose beside that one he had given the slip.
“Your taxi, Colonel Butler.”
A hand touched his shoulder. It was his chaperone, steering him out of the crush in a flurry of good-mannered farewells before the inconvenient questions started. He was glad, in the midst of them, that he was able to take more formal leave of Hookham and Handforth-Jones, who had performed so admirably—the professor maintained a straight face to the last, but there was a glint of curiosity in the younger man’s eyes and a twitch of sardonic amusement on his lips.
“I hope you have a profitable time on the Wall, Colonel,” he said, grinning. “I may see you up there. But in any case, keep an eye open for the Picts—and the Winged Hats!”
Butler grunted and nodded non-committally, his gratitude evaporating. This was where the whole thing became ridiculous—the Picts were the aboriginal Scots, but who the Winged Hats were he hadn’t the least idea. They sounded mythological.
He shook his head as he followed the Ministry man up the stairs and out into the long hallway. He had been a fraction slow answering to his new rank several times, and that too was bad—the sort of small error which aroused suspicion. The fact was that he operated better on his own, away from chaperones who did his thinking for him.
As if divining his thought Cundell did not follow him into the taxi which rolled out of the London half-light and drew up at the curb beside them, outside the Institute.
“This is as far as I go, Colonel. Goodbye—and good luck to you!”
The door slammed and the taxi pulled
Similar Books
