“It will be a relief,” said Mr. Calder.
“Stokes thinks you ought to leave tonight. He thinks I shall be all right. You might not be.”
“That was thoughtful of Stokes. But I’d as soon stay. That is, unless you want to get rid of me.”
“Glad to have you,” said the colonel. “Besides, if they see you’ve gone, they may put it off. Then we shall have to start all over again.”
“Did you contact the number I asked you to?”
“Yes. From a public call-box in Thetford.”
“And what was the answer?”
“It was so odd,” said the colonel, “that I was afraid I might get it wrong, and I wrote it down.” He handed Mr. Calder a piece of paper.
Mr. Calder read it carefully, folded it up, and put it in his pocket”Is it good news or bad?”
“I’m not sure,” said Mr. Calder. “But I can promise you one thing. You’ll hear a sermon tomorrow which you won’t forget.”
When the Rector stepped into the pulpit his face was pale and composed, but it was no longer gentle. Mr. Calder wondered how he could ever have considered him nondescript. There was a blazing conviction about the man, a fire and a warmth which lit up the whole church. This was no longer the gentle St. Francis. This was Peter the Hermit, “whose eyes were a flame and whose tongue was a sword”.
He stood for a moment, upright and motionless. Then he turned his head slowly, looking from face to face in the crowded congregation, as if searching for support and guidance from his flock. When he started to speak it was in a quiet, almost conversational voice.
“The anti-Christ has raised his head once more. The Devil is at his work again. We deceived ourselves into thinking that we had dealt him a shrewd blow. We were mistaken. Our former warning has not been heeded. I fear that it will have to be repeated, and this time more strongly.”
The colonel looked anxiously at Mr. Calder, who mouthed the word, “Wait.”
“Far from abandoning its foul work at Snelsham Manor, I have learned that it is not only continuing, but intensifying it. More of God’s creatures are being imprisoned in its cells and tortured by methods which would have showed the Gestapo. In the name of science, mice, small rabbits, guinea-pigs and hamsters are being put to obscene and painful deaths. Yesterday a cargo of African tree beavers, harmless and friendly little animals arrived at this—at this scientific slaughterhouse. They are to be inoculated with a virus which will first paralyse their limbs, and then cause them to go mad with pain, and finally to die. The object of the experiment is to hold off the moment of death as long as possible—”
Mr. Calder, who was listening with strained attention to every word, had found it difficult to hear the closing sentence and realised that the Rector was now speaking against a ground-swell of noise, which burst out suddenly into a roar. The Rector’s voice rode over the tumult like a trumpet.
“Are we going to allow this?”
A second roar crashed out with startling violence.
“We will pull down this foul place, stone by stone. We will purge what remains with fire. All who will help, follow me.”
“What do we do?” said the colonel.
“Sit still,” said Mr. Calder.
In a moment they were alone in their pew with a hundred angry faces round them. The Rector, still standing in the pulpit, quelled the storm with an upraised hand. He said, “We will have no bloodshed. We cannot fight evil with evil. Those who are not with us are against us. Enoch, take one of them. Two of you the other. Into the vestry with them.”
Mr. Calder said, “Go with it. Don’t fight.”
As they were swirled down the aisle, the colonel saw one anxious face in the crowd. He shouted, “Are you in this too, Stokes?” The next moment they were in the vestry. The door had clanged shut and they heard the key turn in the lock. The thick walls, and nine inches of stout oak cut off the sounds. They could hear the organ playing. It sounded like Miss Martin’s idea of the Battle Hymn of the Republic. A shuffling of feet. A door banging. Then silence.
“Well,” said the colonel. “What do we do now?”
“We give them five minutes to get to the rectory. There’ll be some sort of conference there, I imagine.”
“And then?”
Mr. Calder had seated himself on a pile of hassocks, and sat there, swinging his short legs. He said, “As we have five minutes to kill, maybe I’d better put you in the picture. Why don’t you sit down?”
The colonel grunted, and subsided.
Mr. Calder said, “Hasn’t it struck you that the miracles we’ve been hearing about were of two different types?”
“Don’t follow you.”
“One sort was simple animal magnetism. No doubt about that. I saw the Rector operating on Rasselas. Nearly hypnotised the poor dog. The other sort – well, there’s been a lot of talk about them, but I’ve only heard any real evidence of two. The bells that rang themselves and the food that materialised in a locked cupboard. Isolate them from the general hysteria, and what do they amount to? You told me yourself that the key of the vestry had been mislaid.”
“You think someone stole it. Had it copied?”
“Of course.”
“Who?”
“Oh,” said Mr. Calder impatiently, “the person who organised the other miracle of course. I think it’s time we got out of here, don’t you?”
“How?”
“Get someone to unlock the door. I notice they left the key in it. There must be some sane folk about. Not all the farmers were in the church.”
The colonel said, “Seeing that the nearest farm likely to be helpful to us is a good quarter of a mile away, I’d be interested to know how you intend to shout for help.”
“Follow me up that ladder,” said Mr. Calder, “and I’ll show you.”
The Rector said, “Is that clear? They’ll be expecting us on the southern side, where we attacked before. So we’ll come through the woods, on the north. Stokes, can you get the colonel’s Land-Rover up that side?”
“Easily enough, Rector.”
“Have the grappling irons laid out at the back. Tom’s tractor follows you. Enoch, how long to cut the wire?”
“Ten seconds.”
This produced a rumbling laugh.
“Good. We don’t want any unnecessary delay. We drive the tractors straight through the gap and ride in on the back of them. The fire raising material will be in the trailers behind the rear tractor. The Scouts can see to that under you, Mr. Smedley.”
“Certainly, Rector. Scouts are experts at lighting fires. If we start upwind, that should give you time to get the animals out before it takes hold.”
“Excellent. Now, the diversion at the front gate. That will be under you, Miss Martin. You’ll have the Guides and Brownies. You demand to be let in. When they refuse, you all start screaming. If you can get hold of the sentry, I suggest you scratch him.”
“I’ll let Matilda Briggs do that,” said Miss Martin. “She’ll enjoy it.”
Enoch Clavering touched the Rector on the arm and said, “Listen.” Then he went over to the window and opened it.
“What is it, Enoch?”
“I thought I heard the bells some minutes ago, but I didn’t like to interrupt. They’ve stopped now. It’s as it was last time. The bells rang themselves. What does it signify?”
“It means,” said the Rector cheerfully, “that I’ve been a duffer. I ought to have seen that the trap-door to the belfry was padlocked. Our prisoners must have climbed up, and started clapping the tenor and the treble. Since they’ve stopped I imagine someone heard them and let them out.”
Miss Martin said, “What are we going to do?”
“What we’re not going to do is lose our heads. Stokes, you’ve immobilised the colonel’s car?”
Stokes nodded.
“And you’ve put the telephone line out of communication, Mr. Smallpiece?”
“Same as last time.”
“Then I don’t see how
they can summon help in under half an hour. We should have ample time to do all we have to.”
“I advise you against it,” said Mr. Calder.
He was standing in the doorway, one hand in his pocket. He looked placid, but determined. Behind him they could see the great dog, Rasselas, his head almost level with Mr. Calder’s shoulder, his amber eyes glowing.
For a moment there was complete silence. Then a low growl of anger broke out from the crowded room. The Rector said, “Ah, Calder. I congratulate you on your ingenuity. Who let you out?”
“Jack Collins. And he’s gone in his own car, to Thetford. The police will be here in half an hour.”
“Then they will be too late.”
“That’s just what I was afraid of,” said Mr. Calder. “It’s why I came down as fast as I could, to stop you.”
There was another growl, louder and more menacing. Enoch Clavering stepped forward. He said, “Bundle him down into the cellar, Rector, and let’s get on with it.”
“I shouldn’t try it,” said Mr. Calder. His voice was still peaceful. “First, because if you put a hand on me this dog will have the hand off. Secondly, because the colonel’s outside in the garden. He’s got a shotgun, and he’ll use it if he has to.”
The Rector said, gently, “You mustn’t think you can frighten us. The colonel won’t shoot. He’s not a murderer. And Rasselas won’t attack me. Will you, Rasselas?”
“You’ve got this all wrong,” said Mr. Calder. “My object is to prevent you attacking us. Just long enough for me to tell you two things. First point, the guards at Snelsham have been doubled. They are armed. And they have orders to shoot. What you’re leading your flock to isn’t a jamboree, like last time. It’s a massacre.”
“I think he’s lying,” said Mr. Smedley.
“There’s one way of finding out,” said Mr. Calder. “But it’s not the real point. The question which really matters – what our American friends would refer to as the sixty-four thousand dollar question is – have any of you ever seen a tree beaver?”
The question was so unexpected that it fell into a sudden pool of silence.
“Come, come,” said Mr. Calder. “There must be some naturalists here. Rector, I see the Universal Encyclopaedia of Wild Life on your shelf. Would you care to turn its pages and give us a few facts about the habits of this curious creature.”
The Rector said, with half a smile of comprehension on his face, “What are you getting at, Mr. Calder?”
“I can save you some unnecessary research. The animal does not exist. Indeed, it could not exist. Beavers live in rivers, not in trees. The animal was invented by an old friend of mine, a Mr. Behrens. And having invented this remarkable animal, he thought it would be a pity to keep it all to himself. He had news of its arrival at Snelsham passed to a friend of his, who passed it on to a subversive organisation, known as the International Brotherhood Group. Who, in turn, passed it to you, Rector, through their local agent.”
The Rector was smiling now. He said, “So I have been led up the garden path. Sancta simplicitas! Who is this agent?”
“That’s easy. Who told you about the tree beavers?”
There was a flurry of movement. A shout, a crash, and the sound of a shot.
“It is far from clear,” said Mr. Calder, “whether Miss Martin intended to shoot the Rector or me. In fact, Rasselas knocked her over and she shot herself. As soon as they realised they had been fooled, the village closed its ranks. They concocted a story that Miss Mardn, who was nervous of burglars, was known to possess a revolver, a relic of the last war. She must have been carrying it in her handbag, and the supposition was that, in pulling it out to show to someone, it had gone off and killed her. It was the thinnest story you ever heard, and the Coroner was suspicious as a cat. But he couldn’t shake them. And after all, it was difficult to cast doubt on the evidence of the entire Parochial Church Council supported by their Rector. The verdict was accidental death.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Fortescue. “It would have been hard to prove anything. In spite of your beavers. How did the Rector take it?”
“Very well indeed. I had to stay for the inquest and made a point of attending Evensong on the following Sunday. The church was so full that it was difficult to find a seat. The Rector preached an excellent sermon, on the text, ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s’.”
“A dangerous opponent,” said Mr. Fortescue. “On the whole, I cannot feel sorry that the authorities should have decided to close Snelsham Manor.”
7
Signal Tresham
“You are my Member,” said Colonel Mounteagle.
“Indeed, yes,” said Mr. Pocock, sipping nervously at the glass of sherry which the colonel had thrust onto him when he arrived.
“You represent my interests in Parliament.”
“Yours, and other people’s.”
“Never mind about other people. It isn’t other people’s land this feeder road is going to ruin. It’s my land.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” agreed Mr. Pocock. “But you have to bear in mind that by taking the pressure off the road between your lodge gates and the roundabout, a number of people with houses on that stretch will be relieved of the heavy flow of traffic just outside their front gates. Danger to children—”
“Irrelevant,” said the colonel. “People who buy houses on the main road must expect to see a bit of traffic. That’s not the point. When a road is going to invade the privacy of a land-owner – is going to trespass across his fields – he must be allowed some say in the matter. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Up to a point.”
“Right. Have some more sherry.” Without allowing Mr. Pocock to say yes or no he refilled his glass. “Now, you’ve got a chance to do what’s needed. You’ve drawn a place – third place, I believe – in the ballot for private members’ bills. I’ve told you what’s wanted. A simple three- or four-clause bill saying that where a new road is planned, the land-owners affected by it will have a right to veto it. If there are several of them, the verdict to be by a straight majority. That’s democratic, isn’t it?”
“In a way,” said Mr. Pocock. He wished he could dispose of the sherry, but if he drank it too quickly he was going to choke.
“But one has to look at the other side of the coin. The new road will be a great benefit to a number of householders.”
“Including you.”
“Yes. It’s true that my present house happens to be on that stretch of road. But I hope you don’t impute—”
“I don’t impute anything,” said the colonel. “I state facts. Mine is the only property which is going to be invaded, and that means that I am the only person directly concerned.”
He gazed out of the window. From where he stood he could see, across two fields, the line of hedge which marked the main road – a thick hedge of well-matured beech. What he now had to face was the thought of a road, a loathsome snake of tarmacadam, giving right of access to every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a stinking motorcar or a roaring motorcycle, violating lands which had been in the Mounteagle family for two and a half centuries. Was it for this that they had fought Napoleon, Kaiser William, and Hitler, that one Mounteagle had fallen in the breach at Badajoz, and another in the sodden wastes of Passchendaele, that he himself—?
He looked down at his left hand from which three of the middle fingers were gone. Mr. Pocock, not fancying the expression on his face, managed to swallow most of the sherry in his glass.
“It may not be easy to push such a bill through,” said the colonel. “But it’s a chance. And maybe your last chance to settle this matter without bloodshed.”
“Metaphorically, I hope you mean,” said Mr. Pocock with a nervous smile.
“I’m not in the habit of talking in metaphors,” said the colonel. “If you put me with my back to the wall, I shall fight.”
“And, oh dear,” said Mr. Pocock to his wife that evening, “I’ve got a feeling he mean
t it.”
“You can’t possibly promote an anti-social bill of that sort.”
“If I did, it would be the end of me, politically. And it wouldn’t get a second reading. It would be laughed out of Parliament, and me with it.”
“Then,” said his wife, “what’s the difficulty? You just say no.”
“You didn’t see his face,” said Mr. Pocock.
“When I was in India,” said Mr. Fortescue, “there was a saying that all sappers were mad, married, or Methodist. Colonel Mounteagle is a bachelor, and a staunch upholder of the established church.”
“So he must be mad,” said Mr. Calder.
When Mr. Fortescue, manager of the Westminster Branch of the London and Home CountiesBank, wished to make contact with Mr. Calder or Mr. Behrens, both of whom lived in Kent, he would convey a message to them that their accounts were causing him concern. The precise form of the message indicated the gravity of the situation. On this occasion it had been of very moderate urgency, and directed to Mr. Calder only.
“Madness is an imprecise term,” said Mr. Fortescue. He steepled the tips of his fingers and looked severely at Mr. Calder over his glasses.
“If you mean, is he certifiably insane, the answer must be in the negative. But his conduct in recent months has been causing concern in certain quarters. A number of my people have, as you know, succeeded in establishing themselves in positions of some confidence in IRA cells in this country. One of my people has managed to become friendly with Michael Scullin.”
Mr. Calder knew that the people referred to were very brave men who took their lives into their hands every day of the year. He also knew that the systematic penetration of IRA groups was one of the ways in which bomb outrages were kept within manageable limits.
He said, “Scullin? He’s their electronics expert, isn’t he?”
“One of them. He specialises in detonation by remote control, and devices of that sort. He learned his trade in Russia.”
Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens Page 14