Colonel Butler's Wolf (6 page)

There was nothing surprising about Stocker’s pull in Fleet Street, where so many good turns were always being sought and done. But what would have happened if he had refused? The answer followed the question instantly: of course they knew him as well as he knew them, so they had confided from the start that he would do his duty.

“But tonight?” Sir Frederick persisted, prodding Stocker.

“Yes—well tonight, Colonel, is the quinquennial O. G. S. Crawford lecture at the Institute of Archaeology in Gordon Square. It’s organised by the Society for the Advancement of Romano-British Studies and everybody who is anybody will be there.
Just
the thing for you, Colonel.”

Butler frowned. “Just the thing I should avoid, I would have said.”

“Absolutely the contrary, my dear Butler. We have arranged a chaperone to protect you from outrage. And to see you are introduced to the right people. Believe me, it’s all laid on. And there’s more to it than just showing you off—you must wear your uniform, incidentally, so everyone will notice you—“

“Damn it! But I never—“

Stocker overbore him. “This once, Colonel, this once! I know it’s not the done thing, but there’s a very particular reason why you must be there.”

Clearly there was no further point in questioning even small details of the operation; it had been all worked out by the experts, and there was some comfort in knowing that with Sir Frederick looking on the experts would be doing their best. But oddly enough there was something about this planning that struck a chord at the back of his mind—he couldn’t quite place it, but in time it would come to him. And somehow it was not quite reassuring . ..

“What exactly do I have to do then?” he said carefully, purging the resignation from his tone.

“Tonight, Colonel—nothing. It will all be done for you.”

“Sit back and enjoy the lecture, Jack,” Sir Frederick smiled. “You never know your luck—it may be quite interesting.”

SOMEWHAT TO HIS
surprise, Butler found the details of the excavations of the
vicus
at the Roman fortress of Ortolanacum uncommonly interesting.

This was all the more unexpected after he had discovered from his chaperone, a gaunt Ministry of Works man named Cundell, that a
vicus
was not a formation of the Roman army, but their camp-followers’ village.

Butler had encountered similar holes outside British Army cantonments in India, and did not cherish the memory. It was a sad commentary on the continuity of military life that the Romans had also had a hard core of deadbeats determined to get blind drunk, if not actually blind, and to catch whatever exotic venereal diseases the local native British girls were willing to sell. But to hear about such beastliness in archaeological jargon was an uninspiring prospect, so it seemed.

And yet despite himself he was caught both by the speaker’s enthusiasm and by the agreeable absence of bullshit in his thesis. It seemed that Roman forts were not only dull—the rustle in the audience there suggested that some backs were being rubbed the wrong way; that might be the reason why the hall was so packed—but also only fit for unskilled labour. When you’d dug one, you’d apparently dug the lot, and those concerned with adding real knowledge must turn to the humbler sites.

It might be arrogant, but it made sense, thought Butler. And more, as he listened it seemed to him that the archaeologist mirrored the virtues he admired most in his own calling— virtues of patience and objectivity that were far more desirable than courage and daring.

That train of thought was brought unexpectedly on to the main line at the end of the lecture, when the speaker stepped from the rostrum and made directly for him.

“Colonel Butler!” he exclaimed loudly. “I’m delighted that you were able to come tonight!”

Whatever was up tonight, this wicked-looking prematurely-grey young man was part of it, evidently.

Butler rose from his reserved seat in the front row of the lecture theatre, deliberately presenting his profile to the entire audience. It went against the grain, but it was half the object of the evening—to print name and face together in the right memories.

“A great pleasure, Dr Handforth-Jones,” he bellowed. “Most interesting paper, most interesting. Very glad to be here. Time someone said what you’ve said—most interesting!”

Their meeting in front of the rostrum suddenly became the focus of the People Who Mattered, with introductions flying. Butler found himself shaking hands with Professor Hookham, the president of the society, like a long-lost friend, and then with the celebrated Miss Sidgewick, in quick succession.

Professor Morley—Colonel Butler , . . Dr Graham (watch out for him Colonel—he’s the author of a fat book on the Roman army)—Colonel Butler … Sir Mortimer Wheeler … Professor This … Doctor That … Mister The Other!

He had never met any one of them before, but if any one of them recognised his false colours there was no indication of it; either the other Butler—he refused to think of the man as the real John Butler—was totally unknown outside his written work, or there were more in the plot besides Handforth-Jones. It was not important, anyway; all that mattered for him was that the onlookers should see what was happening. This deception must not only be done, it must be seen to be done.

“Charles, come and meet Colonel Butler,” he heard Professor Hookham exclaim beside him. “Colonel, if you’re planning a descent on the Wall, as I gather you are, then Charles Epton’s the very man for you—he runs Cumbria’s study centre at Castleshields. Perhaps he could put you up for a week or two—“

Remember Charles Epton, Butler. There’ve been Eptons at Castleshields for over 500 years, as many a Scottish raider learnt to his cost. They used to hang ‘em in droves, the Eptons did. But there’s been a radical streak in the last few generations: Hunt and Corbett used to stay there, and young Charles was in the International Brigade on the Jarama. You 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 away before he could answer, or give any instructions to the cabbie.

He slid back the glass partition. “You know where I want to go, do you ?”

“Yes, guv’—once round the square an’ left an’ right an’ left again, an’ pick up y’friend, an’ Bob’s y’r’uncle!”

He couldn’t quite decide whether the fellow was trying to be cheeky or simply repeating what he’d learnt by heart— probably a bit of both. But evidently someone was still doing his thinking for him, and all he could do was to hope that this “friend” round the corner would lighten his darkness.

He shrugged and stretched—the grip of the tunic as well as the faint lavendery odour of mothballs reminded him how long it had been since he had worn it last—and sat back into the darkness.

Then the taxi decelerated sharply and cut in towards the kerb. The door was jerked open—

“Good God Almighty!” Butler barked. “I should have known!”

Audley rapped on the driver’s window and sank back into the seat beside him.

“Should have know what? That it was me? They didn’t tell you, then?” Audley sounded satisfied rather than inquisitive.

Butler nodded his head, but more to himself than to the man at his side. The armed truce between them was no special secret so perhaps they’d reckoned that even his celebrated obedience might have baulked at this.

“And why should you have known?” Audley repeated mildly.

They would have been wrong, of course. Personal likes and dislikes didn’t come into it. Only a man’s capabilities mattered, and no one doubted Dr David Audley’s capabilities. If anything, Audley was just a shade too capable for his own good.

But there was a question to answer—

“It had your mark on it, what little I’ve been allowed to pick up so far,” he said.

Audley gave a short laugh. “I’m complimented!”

“Don’t be! It’s another damned devious concoction you’ve mixed up!” Butler gestured in the darkness. “Even this.”

“Ah—now you must understand that I’m not supposed to be in London at all. As a matter of fact I’m in a cinema in Carlisle at this very moment, watching
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
I believe—an excellent film. The RAF kindly gave me a lift in a Harrier trainer—they do enjoy showing it off still—“

“For God’s sake, man!” spluttered Butler. “What the devil are you up to ? And what are
we
up to ? I tell you, you may be having great fun—I’m sure you are—but I was damn near burnt alive this morning!”

Audley’s head nodded soberly. “Yes, so I hear. And I’m sorry about that, Butler. But it wasn’t on the cards I do assure you,though.”

“So did Sir Frederick, but—“ Butler checked the run of tongue. Apologies and assurances of sympathy were the last things he wanted of Audley. “Damn it, I don’t object to the risk—it was my own fault. What I dislike is being in the dark.”

“Naturally. My dear chap, that’s exactly why I’m here. Fred could have put you in the picture, but I wanted to do it myself. Tell me first though—did things go well this evening?”

“I’ve been invited to Castleshields House, if that’s what you mean. Or Colonel John Butler has, if
that
’
s
what you mean.”

“Hah—very good! That’s exactly what I mean! And my congratulations on your promotion, Colonel.”

Butler snorted bitterly. “I presume that I’ve Hugh Roskill’s game leg to thank for that. He was your first choice, wasn’t he? Were you going to put him up to Group Captain?”

He despised himself for the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. The plain fact was that Roskill’s public school accent would have gone down better in academic circles than his own bark. It was childish to object to being second choice, when the first choice was self-evidently correct. As usual he was letting Audley nettle him, and if they were going to work in tandem that was something he would have to curb.

Starting now—with no excuses.

“No—I’m sorry, Audley,” he forced the words out carefully. “That was a half-baked thing to say.”

“It was rather,” Audley replied ungraciously. “In view of the fact it isn’t strictly true. We were sending Hugh down to Eden Hall because we thought that was routine—and thank God it was you who went, because Hugh might have bought it with his leg. But Castleshields House is all yours. You have to admit, Butler—your namesake makes you the obvious candidate.”