Other Paths to Glory by Anthony Price Page A

odd about the time sequence of it all … They had come to him and he had sent them to Emerson, an action which he had regretted at the time, but which had turned out to be a fortunate one for him. Yet Emerson had already been dead by then and his own death had been decided on…
    ‘You said you got my name from the War Museum?’
    Coincidence, that was what was odd. He had felt somehow that Audley was sparking events, but that couldn’t be the way of it any more. They’d been converging on him independently from both sides. Audley and - the unknown ones.
    ‘I did.’
    Again that sidelong glance.
    ‘If I read you right I rather think it’s time to admit that we weren’t quite - ah - straightforward with you this afternoon, Colonel Butler and I.’
    ‘I never doubted it,’ Mitchell tried to sound more knowing than he felt. ‘But I found your obsession with the Somme - well, confusing, to say the least.’
    It seemed to be Audley’s turn for silence now; he drove slowly, though not very expertly, for about a mile before speaking again, as though the effort of becoming more straightforward was a considerable one.
    ‘Y-ess … well, you see, Paul - it wasn’t your name we started off with. It was Emerson’s.’
    ‘Emerson’s?’
    Mitchell was suddenly at a loss for words.
    ‘That’s right,’ Audley said gently, as though he was aware that he might be injuring his listener’s self-esteem. ‘And the War Museum gave us his telephone number, but we couldn’t get through to him - his phone was dead.’
    The phone had been in the study, Mitchell remembered.
    ‘So we called the Museum back, and they told us about you. They said you’d be in the Institute, and if anyone knew where Emerson was to be found, you would … They also said you were the best young researcher in the business, if that’s any consolation.’
    It wasn’t really so ego-bruising. He had been a little surprised as well as flattered by their arrival at the Institute, but to be overshadowed by Charles Emerson was no disgrace.
    ‘Why didn’t you ask me straight out where he’d most likely be?’
    Audley gave a small shrug.
    ‘We prefer not to advertise our intentions unless we have to. I suppose you could say we make a habit of using the indirect approach.’
    Again Mitchell subsided to digest his latest shreds of information. The fragment of Somme map was the only tangible clue he’d seen, and he knew now at least that Audley’s interest in the battle was no smokescreen, but the starting point of whatever he was doing. He knew also that Audley and the killers had been concerned with Emerson, not with him. He was reduced to a bit player, almost an innocent bystander.
    But a victim nevertheless.
    ‘Why the hell do they want to kill me?’ he exploded angrily, outrage supplanting fear as he stared down again into the river.
    There came a dry grunt, almost a chuckle, from beside him.
    ‘For the oldest and best reason in the world, my lad - you know too much!’
    ‘But, Christ -‘
    ‘And you know the wrong man, too. At the wrong time, as well - because you were there this morning, weren’t you?’
    This morning. God! It was unbelievable that it had only been this morning.
    ‘Talking to him in that conservatory of his next to the study for all to see - for them to see,’ went on Audley. ‘Looking over papers, poring over maps - did you do that?’
    ‘Yes, but-‘
    ‘You were setting yourself up, Paul. That is, if you weren’t already set up.’
    ‘But why ?’
    ‘Well, let’s look at it from their viewpoint. Emerson knows something they don’t want anyone to know. So he must die. But then there’s his former research assistant, Master Paul Mitchell, who did half his leg-work in France last year and still comes to see him twice a week. It’s a damn good bet that what Emerson knows, Paul Mitchell knows. So Paul Mitchell must die too - simple.’
    All the outrage was gone as Mitchell felt himself cringing inwardly with