The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [83]
“Yes, sir?” repeated Widmerpool.
“I’m afraid you’re going to be proved to have made a big mistake, my son,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.
He snapped the words out like an order on the parade ground. Widmerpool did not speak.
“Barking up the wrong tree,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.
Widmerpool pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. Even in the despondent state to which he had been reduced, he was still capable of anger.
“You brought a series of accusations against an old and tried soldier,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, “by doing so causing a great deal of unpleasantness, administrative dislocation and unnecessary work.”
Widmerpool began to speak, but the Colonel cut him short.
“I had a long talk with Diplock yesterday,” he said, “and I am now satisfied he can clear himself completely. With that end in view, I sanctioned a day’s leave for him to collect certain evidences. Now, I understand you may be leaving us?”
“I …”
Widmerpool hesitated. Then he pulled himself together.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m certainly leaving the Division.”
“Before you go,” said Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, “I consider it will be necessary for you to make an apology.”
“I don’t yet know, sir,” said Widmerpool, “the new facts which have come to light that should so much alter what appeared to be incontrovertible charges. I have been with A. & Q. earlier this afternoon, who told me you had made the arrangement you mention. He had informed the D.A.P.M., thinking Diplock should be kept under some general supervision.”
Even though he said that in a fairly aggressive tone, Widmerpool’s manner still gave the impression that his mind was on other things. No doubt – his own fate in the balance – he found difficulty in concentrating on the Diplock case. It looked as if Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson, like a cat with a mouse, wanted to play with Widmerpool for a while before releasing information, because, instead of communicating anything he might know that had fresh bearing on Diplock and his goings-on, he changed the subject.
“Then there’s another matter,” he said. “Certain moves made with regard to the Reconnaissance Battalion.”
“The General has just been speaking on that subject too,” said Widmerpool.
Hogbourne-Johnson was plainly surprised at this admission. His expression showed he had no knowledge of the disturbance proceeding, at a higher level than his own, on the subject of Widmerpool’s Recce Unit intrigues.
“To you?”
“Yes,” said Widmerpool bluntly. “The General told me a Major – now, of course, Lieutenant-Colonel – Deanery has been appointed to that command.”
If he had hoped to score off Widmerpool in the Recce Unit sphere, it seemed Hogbourne-Johnson had overreached himself. He reddened. No doubt he knew Widmerpool had been fishing in troubled waters, but was not up to date as to the outcome. If Widmerpool’s candidate had been turned down, so too, it now appeared, had his own. This fact was most unacceptable to the Colonel. His manner changed from a peculiar assertive, sneering self-assurance, to mere everyday bad temper.
“Ivo Deanery?” \
“A cavalryman.”
“That’s the one.”
“He’s got the command.”
“I see.”
For the moment, Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson had nothing to say. He was absolutely furious, but could not very well admit he had just heard news that showed his own secret plans, whatever they were, had miscarried. That Widmerpool, whom he had come to harass, should be the vehicle of this particular item of information must have been additionally galling. However, something much worse from Hogbourne-Johnson’s point of view, also much more dramatic, happened a second later. The door opened and Keef, the D.A.P.M., came into the room. He was excited about something. Clearly looking for Widmerpool, not at all expecting to find Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson there, Keef appeared taken aback. A gnarled, foxy little man – like most D.A.P.M.s, not a particularly agreeable figure – he was generally agreed to handle soundly his section of Military Police, always difficult personnel of whom to