Gunner Kelly by Anthony Price Page A

predictably on his mettle after the debacle of the names. “You’ve come to see … Miss Becky, have you?”
    “Miss Becky?” That was a disconcertingly sharp little assumption, but having admitted it in the Eight Bells pubjic house ten minutes ago he could not deny it now. “Miss … Rebecca Maxwell-Smith is that?”
    “ ‘Sright.” The boy folded his arms and appraised him with a customs officer’s eye, as though waiting to hear what he had to declare.
    “Yes.” He would dearly have liked to ask how Benje had reached that conclusion. But he had to bind them to him with trust before he started asking questions, so that the settlement of their curiosity took priority over his own. “That is to say …1 had thought to speak with General Maxwell—with the Old General. But it is with Miss Rebecca Maxwell-Smith that I must speak now, it seems.”
    “Why d’you want to see her?” Darren continued the interrogation with all the delicacy of a GDR border guard.
    “It is not her I wish to see, not really.” He nodded at them, as though revealing a confidence. “It is the Roman villa—the Duntisbury Roman villa … it is on her land, yes?”
    “The Roman villa?” Darren frowned at him.
    “It is on her land, I believe—yes?”
    “Yes.” Benje nodded at him. “All the land round here’s hers—it was the Old General’s, but it’s hers now—from Caesar’s Camp to Woodbury Rings on the top, and along the stream down here, both sides—she owns the lot.” He paused. “Why d’you want to see the Roman villa? There isn’t much to see, you know.” He shook his head. “Until they started digging it up there wasn’t anything to see. It was just a field, that was all it was.”
    “My Gran knew there was something there long before they dug anything up.” Darren wasn’t going to let Benje do all the talking. “She says, when she was a girl there were lots of rabbits down there, an‘ there was always lots of stuff—bits of brick an’ such like—where they dug their holes—” He stopped suddenly. “Why d’you want to see the old Roman villa?”
    Benedikt was ready for that one. “Because I am a student of such things.”
    Benje stared at him in disbelief. “A student?”
    Darren gave his friend a sidelong glance. “Schoolmaster,” he murmured.
    “No.” That would never do! “I am not a schoolmaster. Looking at Roman things is my interest—my hobby—like stamp-collecting.” He grinned at them. “We had Romans in Germany too—did you know that?”
    “Huh!” Benje scowled.
    Benedikt looked at him questioningly. “Did you not know that?”
    Darren’s face split into a wicked grin. “Oh, he knows it! Germani multum , Benje—eh?”
    “Germani multum—huh!” Benje’s freckled features twisted. “Germani flipping multum … ab hac consuetudine differunt; nam neque druides habent, qui rebus divinispraesint, neque flipping sacrificiis student.”
    The contrast of the impeccable Latin—or it sounded impeccable, anyway—with the boy’s accented English took Benedikt aback almost as much as the words themselves. He struggled for a moment with their meaning, rusty memories grating on each other — it was something about the Germans being different … not having Druids or making sacrifices — and then cut his losses.
    “You are a Latin scholar — ” He cut off the statement as it doubled Darren up with laughter.
    “Ha-ha-very-funny,” said Benje to his friend. Then he sniffed and turned to Benedikt. “He thinks it’s a joke that I had to learn a whole flipping page of Caesar — King Edward’s is a very old-fashioned school — everyone says so.” He blinked suddenly. “If you want to see the villa I can show you the way. It’s just the other side of the church.”
    “Thank you.” Benedikt leaned forward slightly towards the boy. “I went to an old-fashioned school too — I had the same trouble.”
    “With Latin?” Benje pointed the way.
    “With English, actually,”