Matlock's System

by Reginald Hill

  They got in the car which started before Francis had finished closing the door. It was an ancient car. Even Matlock, who had not been used to very luxurious travelling in recent years, could not remember anything older. He did not know whether the external noise it made was within the limits laid down by law, but inside it was the most deafening din he had had to put up with in years.

  He looked round in alarm and momentary fear as Francis poked the gun into his ribs, but realized the Friar merely wanted to attract his attention.

  “What?” he yelled.

  “Sorry about the noise, Brother,” screamed Francis. “But we always assume we are being listened to.”

  For a second Matlock could not understand what he meant, but then it came to him that the racket was merely an apparently accidental jamming device against any hidden microphones.

  He was not sure whether this additional evidence of rationality was reassuring or not.

  The car was now deep in a Curfew Area. They had passed the neon rings minutes earlier. The psychologists had found none of the long promised answers to criminality and in the end the creation of what in effect were criminal ghettoes was the chosen solution. Every large town had its Curfew Areas. Matlock knew most of them. He had found his meetings channelled there more and more frequently in recent years. Not everyone who lived here was a criminal, of course, but these were the known habitats of known criminals. An hour after dark the Curfew Wagon swept everyone it met off the streets into its iron belly.

  Matlock looked uneasily around. It was still only the middle of the day, but he was deep in unknown territory.

  Finally the car drew up outside a small undistinguished house. From its dull, unimaginative construction, Matlock reckoned it was a rare survival from the mid twentieth century. There was no value in its rarity. It was just surprising that it had not fallen down long before.

  The wizened chauffeur unlocked the door and led the way in. Matlock followed and Francis came carefully behind.

  The inside was as drab as the exterior.

  “Why are we here?” he asked with distaste.

  “Please lead on,” said Francis motioning to a door in the wall which faced them.

  “Why are we here?” asked Matlock firmly, standing still.

  Francis walked by him, keeping far enough away to be safe from any attack, and pushed open the door.

  “We’ve come to see the Abbot,” he said. “Please go in.”

  He motioned politely. The gun had re-appeared. Matlock went through into the room.

  If he had expected improvement, he was disappointed. The walls were scarred and cracked and of an undeterminable colour. Two hard chairs stood on either side of a small television set. Otherwise the room was empty.

  Matlock turned to the door where Francis still stood.

  “Where’s your Abbot then?” he demanded.

  “Why, here I am, Mr. Matlock. I’m sorry you have been kept.”

  Into the room smiling with what appeared to be genuine pleasure came the wizened chauffeur. He extended his hand and Matlock automatically grasped it. It felt firmer and stronger than he had expected.

  “You look rather surprised, Mr. Matlock. I’m not a very distinguished figure out of uniform, am I? But I look fairly formidable when I’m dressed up. Oh yes. Here, let me show you.”

  He leaned forward and pressed a switch on the T.V. The screen lit up almost instantly into a rainbow swirl of colour which quickly flowed and formed into sky and trees and buildings. The picture held for a moment while Matlock pried into his store of memories. This had to be Fountains Abbey. He had visited it once in his late teens and he could just about re-create a picture of the majestic ruins in their splendid natural setting.

  But the picture he looked at now was of no glorious ruin. The broken cloisters were whole again; the once empty frame of the great east window glowed with light and colour even though the afternoon sun cast the shadow of the great buttresses across it.

  The Abbot adjusted a switch with an apologetic smile. The picture faded, the colours swirled and re-formed into an interior. Matlock realized they were now looking at the east window from the inside.

  Slowly the camera panned down until they were looking straight up the main aisle of the Abbey. A service was in progress and the telescopic lens of the camera carried them swiftly over a forest of long-haired heads towards the sanctuary where on the third of the five altar-steps stood a solitary figure.

  “Now, there I am,” said the Abbot with a note of self-congratulation in his voice. “Is that impressive enough for you?”

  By the pressure of a switch he held the figure full length in the picture.

  Matlock had to agree that this was impressive enough. The flowing white robes shone with a startling radiance against the dull gleam of gold from the altar rails and table. At his breast on a simple silver chain hung a gleaming blue stone.

  Now the camera swooped their gaze under the bowed forehead right into the face.

  Matlock found he was looking at the features of the man who stood beside him.

  “I told you it was me,” he said triumphantly, then added, in response to Matlock’s unspoken puzzlement, “Oh, no. It’s not a recording. That’s happening now.”

  Another switch. A grey-bearded face appeared and nodded at the screen.

  “All is well, Brother Gareth?”

  “All is well.”

  “Good.”

  The picture faded and the screen went blank. The Abbot sat down on one of the hard chairs and motioned Matlock to the other.

  “You see, Mr. Matlock, either I had to come to you — or you had to be brought to me. Now, while it was impossible, of course, to prevent them from knowing we wished to contact you …”

  “Them?” interrupted Matlock.

  The Abbot raised his eyebrows a fraction.

  “Why, anyone who wants to know such a thing. As I say, it was impossible to conceal the desire, even the attempt. But it did seem possible to keep the fact of a personal meeting a secret. That could be important, you know.”

  “Why not take me to Yorkshire?”

  “Time, and secrecy. We can’t keep you out of sight for very long without someone noticing. Whereas, as you have seen, I can stay away almost indefinitely.”

  “That other’s an actor?”

  “Of course. In fact, he really was an actor before he joined us. He is also a much loved and respected member of the inner circle of the Brotherhood.”

  “Do the others all know?”

  “My dear Mr. Matlock, what do you take me for? Some naive curate with a touching faith in his fellow men? I know at least half a dozen of my Brethren who have been planted there by Browning. How many others there are, God alone knows.”

  “And hasn’t yet told you? So now you wish to talk to me, Abbot — I should call you ‘Abbot’, should I?”

  The Abbot was amused this time.

  “There is no need, if it offends you.”

  “Only pointless mysteries offend me.”

  “You are right. I will be naive, Mr. Matlock, and take your puzzlement at its face value, though as you have already been approached by the Prime Minister, and will be soon by the Scottish Ambassador, you can hardly be totally ignorant.”

  Matlock’s training made it fairly easy for him to take the reference to the Scottish Ambassador without reaction, but his mind buzzed with conjecture. There had to be a common denominator somewhere.

  “Go on,” was all he said.

  “Well, now. I will accept, however, Mr. Matlock, that you probably are ignorant about certain areas of importance.”

  “Geographical or political?”

  “Both. You have, in fact, led a very sheltered life for many years.”

  Matlock half rose from his chair.

  “Do not be offended,” said the Abbot. “I do not mean to denigrate you or understate the valiant efforts you have made to establish contact with the people. But you must have been aware yourself of the rigid limi
ts of activity and influence permitted to you by your former party.” “I have been aware,” said Matlock slowly. “But I have met with some success in stepping beyond them.”

  “Less perhaps than you think. A rebel must be given some encouragement if he is not to be driven to desperation. This is true, is it not?”

  Matlock remembered bitterly his own growing sense of uselessness, of outside control. It was no comfort to have his fears confirmed.

  “It is true.”

  “Good. You would not be the man I think you are if you did not know it. Less obvious to you has been the interference with your own few channels of information and communication. You have had to rely on others as your eyes and ears for a long time now. You have been a man without friends for almost as long.”

  This time Matlock did rise, his chair falling behind him.

  “What do you mean?” he demanded, leaning over the small seated figure of the Abbot.

  The door opened a fraction and Brother Francis appeared. The Abbot motioned him away.

  “Perhaps more, perhaps less than you think. Do sit down.”

  Matlock passed his hand over his forehead and swayed slightly. He reached out a hand and steadied himself against the wall.

  “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Matlock?” said the Abbot. “This has been a very distressing morning for you, I know.”

  Matlock wondered how much he did know. His head was quite clear now and he felt more alert than he had done since leaving Browning. But he shook his head again.

  “No, I’d rather stand for a moment or two. You were making certain implications. Please continue.”

  The Abbot frowned and the terrible sternness which settled on his face for a moment gave Matlock some indication of the man’s real quality.

  “I imply nothing, Mr. Matlock. I was about to give you some facts. Here they are for what they are worth. You were I think threatened this morning with a forged family link between yourself and your secretary Miss Lizzie Armstrong, and your assistant Mr. Ernst Colquitt. Right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. This is a threat you would do well to disregard.”

  “Why?” asked Matlock, knowing already the answer he was going to hear.

  “They are Browning’s creatures.”

  Ready though he had been, Matlock could not hold in an outcry of protest.

  “I won’t believe it. I know them too well. No one could …”

  He tailed off as he regained control of himself.

  “You are involved in a confusion I find hard to understand in a mind of your calibre. But it’s an old confusion. You don’t really believe all Unirads should have horns and tails, do you? You don’t really believe that you and your few supporters have a monopoly of virtue, of honesty, of pleasing personalities, do you?”

  “No. But these are my friends.”

  “And their friendship is, I am sure, sincere. It has built up in the years they have known you. It may even have developed to the point where there is a dangerous tension between their beliefs and their friendship. Though I’m sure Browning has kept a careful check on that. But to them, their friendship and their party’s policy have long had the same aim — to keep you out of the public eye — to let you indulge in activity without effect. You trouble no one, so the Party is pleased. You are in no danger, so their friendship is pleased.”

  “Prove this,” said Matlock as dispassionately as he could. “Prove it.”

  The Abbot’s eyes looked at him sympathetically from the small wrinkled face.

  “How can I prove it? What proof would you accept? You have seen ‘proof’ already today that you are a married man with a son. What proof can I offer strong enough to overcome the memory of that?”

  “Forget it,” said Matlock. “True or false, you have tried to reduce me to a cypher. But this is not the end. I know I have done little in these past thirty years. I know I have been out of touch. I know, whatever the details may be, that I have been spied upon, and manoeuvred, and suppressed, and misinformed. But I know also that I can have a seat in the Cabinet tomorrow. I know that I can be the cause of a complicated religious charade two hundred miles away. I begin to suspect that there may be others, silent as yet, who wish to speak soft words in my ear.”

  “Oh, there are. There are. There’s an invitation from the Scottish Ambassador being delivered to your flat even now.”

  “For a cypher, I am doing well. I’ve had the Browning version of the reasons why I’m suddenly in demand. Now let’s have yours.”

  “Mine is no version, Mr. Matlock.

  Mine is the simple truth. Or rather, the complicated truth, for it was only recently that I myself came to understand it. The point is this, that there is in the North a highly complex and organized Underground resistance movement, which is on the verge of open war.”

  Matlock was stunned. This was such arrant nonsense that he could hardly believe he was hearing it.

  Finally he laughed contemptuously. “Don’t be stupid, Abbot. This is a dream. My lines of intelligence may be suspect, but if such a thing existed on such a scale, I must have heard of it. It is impossible that I should not have heard of it.”

  The Abbot leaned forward thoughtfully. He produced from an inside pocket a packet of long herbal cigars one of which he lit. The yellow smoke drifted across to Matlock and the sweet smell rubbed itself against his nostrils.

  “I find it strange that you should say that about this Movement,” said the Abbot slowly. “Especially in view of the fact that you are its most honoured and respected Leader.”

  4

  It was after four when Matlock returned to his flat. The door was flung open as he approached and Lizzie rushed out to him, her face pale with worry.

  “Matt,” she said, “Matt. Thank heaven you’re back.”

  She pressed her head against his chest and dug her hands into his back. Automatically he rested his hands on her shoulders. Over her head and through the door he could see Ernst and Colin, their faces alight with relief also, but hanging back in the face of — or rather, the rear of — Lizzie’s emotionalism. He forced a smile and they came to him.

  “Are you all right, Matt? For Godsake, where have you been?”

  This was Ernst. Relief, with a hard core of curiosity. The friend and the heir apparent both on show.

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  Colin said nothing but reacted just as typically. He prised Lizzie loose and led Matlock into the room. His eyes, Matlock knew, were unobtrusively but efficiently examining his face and head for damage.

  He sat down, took the glass which Ernst offered him and sipped a little of the drink. He wrinkled his mouth in distaste at the comparison evoked with Browning’s Scotch.

  “I’m sorry I’m a bit late,” he began. “But I see no reason for you all to get in a panic.”

  “But Matt, we got your note about Browning and waited for ages. Then Colin made some enquiries at the House. All the reporters there had seen you go in, but no one saw you come out. We were worried sick.”

  “My dear Lizzie. What did you imagine had happened to me? That Browning had whisked me off to some dungeon under the Thames where I was being put to the test on the rack?”

  Lizzie flushed violently enough for something like this to have been her actual fear.

  “So what did happen, Matt?” asked Colin.

  “Why, Browning offered me a seat in the Cabinet and I slipped out by a back way and went for a little walk to think things over. I was rather abstracted, I’m afraid, and quite forgot to telephone you. I am very sorry.”

  He sipped his drink slowly and through half closed eyes watched their reactions closely. Lizzie and Ernst looked at him in disbelief, their amazement at the news aggravated by the casual way it had been offered. Only Colin looked unperturbed and nodded slowly as though confirming something in his own mind.

  “You’re joking, Matt,” said Ernst.

  “No,” said Matlock. “Fill me up again will you?”
r />   He handed over his empty glass. It made a useful stage-prop. From now on, he realized, he would be acting all the time, never knowing who was acting with him. He was faced by a bewildering complex of possibilities through which the straightest way seemed to be to assume that he could trust no one, that everything he said would be reported back to Browning.

  “I am nearly seventy years old,” he had said to the Abbot. “And you are asking me to be without friends. You are telling me that in seventy years all I have collected round me are my enemy’s spies.”

  “No,” the Abbot had replied, “they are your friends. But to love a man does not mean to love his beliefs. Just as to love a belief does not mean you must love those who share it. In any case I have spoken against only two people. Of the man, Peters, I know nothing damaging. Nor of the great mass of your sympathizers.”

  Perhaps the straightest path, he thought now, would be to tell them everything. But Colin’s slowly spoken question made him realize he had not the right to do this.

  “Why,” he asked, “should Browning think you dangerous enough to be offered such a bribe?”

  Matlock imagined he sensed a tensing in the other two as they waited for his answer.

  If what he said now was going to be reported back to Browning, then his answer must ring true. But the crux of the matter would be whether or not Browning knew of his contact with the Meek. Twenty-four hours earlier he would have said that he was not important enough to be shadowed everywhere. Now he was certain he was, but whether his exit from Westminster had been surreptitious enough to throw them off the scent, he did not know.

  He decided to sit on the fence. To hint knowledge, but not its source. Let Browning take it as he liked.

  “I’m not sure. That’s what I’ve been trying to work out in these past few hours.”

  “And?” It was Ernst, his face eager. Too eager? Or was it just that his own importance must swell in direct proportion to Matlock’s?

  “I’m not sure. There are too many factors.”