Unholy Writ

by David Williams

  ‘What happens then?’ demanded Treasure sharply. The road was temporarily veering away from the river and there was now no way of telling whether they were keeping up with the fugitive, or even whether he was still following the bridle path.

  ‘He’ll come out in Thames Road or Cleeve Road – it all depends,’ replied Humble without further qualification. Then in mitigation he added, ‘They both end in T-junctions with the main road just this side of the Goring and Streatley Bridge. But there are three or four roads leading up to the road we’re on from the bridle path.’

  ‘No, he’ll stick to the river,’ said Treasure firmly. This was also the opinion of Royal Marine Reserve Lieutenant Trapp, who had already credited the Filipino with the sense to take whatever tactical advantage he could from the terrain.

  ‘So we have to beat him into Goring,’ Treasure observed quietly as he saw the speedometer needle move up to ninety. They were passing through open country, rolling farmland rising to the left of them while on the right, where the ground sloped downward to the river valley, they passed small clusters of houses, and side roads posted to the villages and hamlets that punctuated the progress of the Thames. ‘Keep an eye open at the junctions just in case.’ Treasure himself was concentrating too hard on the twisting road ahead to follow his own injunction.

  Constable Humble, in the front seat, tried surreptitiously to fasten his seat-belt and stopped worrying about his mother as the Rolls swept forward at a hundred miles an hour.

  ‘There he is,’ cried Trapp, ‘I can see his headlight.’

  ‘He’s still on the bridle path, sir,’ said Humble, who now had the seat-belt so tightly fastened that he could only move his arms and head. ‘It leaves the river about here and moves up closer to the road.’ They passed a signpost.

  ‘Two miles to Goring,’ cried Trapp.

  ‘We’re coming to a built-up area, sir,’ said Humble, conscious of his responsibilities to any unsuspecting citizen who might take it into his head heedlessly to cross the road at two in the morning. Treasure braked the car as it made the sharp descent to a crossroads, but accelerated again up the hill on the other side.

  A minute later Humble spoke up again. ‘We need to turn right over the railway soon, sir … It’s easy to miss the turning,’ he finished apologetically, and really meaning it would be impossible to take the sharp bend to the railway bridge at sixty miles an hour. Treasure had worked this out for himself; he knew the road well enough.

  ‘If Fred doesn’t cross the river bridge, can he find the towpath to Pangbourne on this side?’

  ‘Not without local knowledge, sir … I mean it would be difficult to find if you’d never been here before … This is the turning, sir.’ Humble held on to the seat as Treasure practically stopped the car before swinging it right and on to the bridge. Bach had long since given up striking a dignified pose on the rear seat and was lying on the floor under his master’s legs, wishing the journey would end.

  Treasure threaded the car through the tortuous main street of Goring-on-Thames. As they rounded a right-hand bend the powerful headlights illuminated the river bridge area – and all of them could see another beam cutting across the road ahead at right angles.

  ‘That could be him coming up Thames Road, sir.’

  ‘That is him,’ cried Treasure as the motor-cycle appeared from a side road on the right a hundred yards ahead of them.

  Fred saw his pursuers at the moment they saw him. After a moment’s hesitation, instead of turning right on to the bridge he drove the machine across the road and bumped it, expertly, down some wooden-edged steps on the other side, landing safely in a lane that ran parallel beside the bridge approach, and down to the water’s edge.

  ‘He’s heading for the towpath,’ said Trapp.

  ‘He may have trouble finding it, sir … it’s very confusing down there.’

  The bridge and lock complex at Goring is a complicated affair. The lock is upstream of the bridge close to the Goring bank. The bridge to Streatley is in two parts because the unusually wide river span is broken by an island in the centre. Although a convenient topographical feature from the viewpoint of road communication, this island serves severely to concentrate the river flow, producing strong torrents of water accommodated by a wide half-circle of weirs and sluices, Most of these are on the upstream side of the bridge, but others – nearest the Streatley bank – are downstream.

  Fred faced his machine towards the river. He was unprepared for the thunder of water that suddenly sounded to his left as he passed an old mill house, and he automatically steered away from it under the concrete supports of the bridge. Because of this, his headlight picked out the lock gate causeway which he assumed would lead to a continuous way along the river bank.

  In the time that it took Fred to discover his mistake, Treasure had squeezed the Rolls through a narrow open gate and as close to the river as he could get without charging a line of steel posts. Trapp was out of the car with Humble close behind him before Treasure had brought it to a halt.

  ‘He’ll come back to the towpath on the left,’ the Vicar cried over his shoulder. ‘Come on, we’re going to stop him.’

  Humble had heard of Horatius’ gallant stand, but he doubted the ability of two unarmed men to prevent someone on a 650 c.c. Triumph motor-cycle from going where he pleased. He had immediate forebodings about a nasty accident in which he was likely to be the chief or at best the joint victim. It was then that he noticed the neat pile of short oak stakes just inside the gateway of a house on the left. ‘Here you are, Vicar,’ he cried, as much in relief as in triumph. ‘One each.’

  There had been no time to lose. As Trapp and the Constable took up their armed stance at the open entrance to the river path, Fred abandoned his search for an exit from the triangle of land that ended at the lock, but he had found his bearings and worked out the direction in which he should have been heading. He retraced his way under the bridge, accelerating over the uneven turf. Then to his horror the headlight of the motor-cycle lit up the two figures guarding the narrow way, both of them wielding what looked like heavy clubs.

  Two years before, Fred had found himself in a similar situation. Tracking across his native island on his own motorcycle, he had been knocked off the machine and robbed by one man armed with a club who had suddenly appeared from behind a tree. Moreover, Fred was by nature peace-loving and even law-abiding. Even if he could break through the cordon now facing him – and experience suggested he could not – he was in enough trouble already without severely injuring what he could hardly mistake as at least one uniformed policeman.

  Once again Fred altered course and spurted up the lane he had earlier descended. He easily avoided Treasure – who was in any case unarmed – with a graceful swerve, and left that honest citizen the sole recipient of a torrent of abuse heaped down upon him by an outraged householder at an upstairs window, and concerning the criminal irresponsibility of those conducting a motor-cycle rally outside his property at two in the morning.

  ‘Be so good as to telephone the police,’ shouted Treasure with a volume and authority that silenced the man – but not Bach, who was standing beside the banker venting his distaste at being harangued from unassailable upper storeys as loudly as he was able. ‘Tell them the escaped Filipino – he’s a murder suspect – is crossing the river to Streatley.’

  ‘Of course, immediately,’ replied the earlier complainant, who now saw Treasure joined by PC Humble and the uniformed Trapp.

  The three quickly returned to the car, with Humble still clutching his oak post. Treasure reversed the Rolls at full throttle up the narrow lane to the main road, then headed the car across the bridge.

  Fred was not so far ahead of his pursuers as time might have allowed. After passing Treasure he had turned right and ridden some distance along a side road which he soon determined was a cul-de-sac leading to a church. Once more he turned about and re-emerged at the bridge approach only seconds before Treasure and his companions raced back
to the car.

  This time Fred did not hesitate about the direction he would take. He had traversed the first bridge span and was approaching the rise of the second before the Rolls had reached the main road. It was then that the hapless fugitive concluded that fate was not on his side. Fifty yards ahead, and just beyond the bridge’s end lay a scene of disaster – and worse, obstruction – that momentarily made the prospect of further flight impossible.

  Spread across the whole road were the carcass and contents of what had been a heavily overloaded truck carrying a huge cargo of timber planks destined for Oxford. Fifteen minutes before, the driver had carelessly descended the steep slope from the Reading road at a reckless speed and braked suddenly at the sight of the bridge ahead. The laws of dynamism and gravity had done the rest. That part of the road and sidewalk which had remained passable immediately after the accident were now effectively blocked by an ambulance, a police car, and sundry official personnel.

  Fred slowed the motor-cycle, the better to collect his thoughts. From behind him came the roar of the Rolls-Royce breasting the first part of the bridge. Retreat was impossible. Further progress on the road was equally so. It was then that he saw the gateless entrance to the left just beyond the bridge. It promised the possibility of access to another river walk; in any event it represented his only chance of liberty.

  Roaring down the slope he swerved into the entrance on to a wide gravel drive. Heading on a diagonal route for the river’s edge, he quickly found himself facing imminent collision with an extremely solid hedge. He swerved left and his headlight lit up what appeared to be a solid wooden causeway. He set the machine rumbling over this with, once again, the sound of thrashing water drowning the noise of the motor-cycle engine in his ears. Too late Fred realized the causeway led not to a river path but to an unbalustraded wooden cake-walk branching left at its extremity. Too late he saw the cake-walk ended behind a complicated set of sluice rods – for he was on it riding four feet above the stones-stepped shoulders of a weir.

  There was no way of turning the motor-cycle, and no pathway of retreat even if this had been possible. Already the Rolls was firmly parked hard up against the narrow entrance to the wooden causeway. Abandoning the machine, Fred gazed upon the turbulent waters beneath him. He was a strong swimmer but it was difficult to measure the depth of the water for his dive – and impossible for him to know that the whole area below the surface was solid – fashioned stone and concrete. The angle of his plunge was shallow – but so was the water. He knocked himself senseless on the bottom.

  Constable Humble was also a strong swimmer – with a number of certificates to prove it. He was close behind the Filipino as the latter took to the water – too close. Humble may have had misgivings about unseating the rider of a powerful motor-cycle approaching him at speed; he had none about his ability to overpower a diminutive, unarmed fugitive in the water. His dive was less shallow than the Filipino’s and too soon to profit from the other’s demonstration.

  It was Trapp who fished out both the semi-conscious unfortunates by sensibly wading into the shallows where the current quickly swept them. ‘Lucky there’s an ambulance handy,’ he remarked to Treasure as they pulled the prisoner and dazed police escort on to dry concrete.

  Bach came forward balancing an oak post precariously between his teeth. He dropped it as his master’s feet, looked at the water, and wagged his tail in expectation.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The scene at Mitchell Hall resembled nothing so much as a film set – a familiar, fictional television version of what was really happening. Only the cameras were missing. Four police cars were drawn up at untidy angles in the drive. The swimming pool area was illuminated by three large arc lamps powered by a cable that snaked its way into the basement of the Hall. Groups of policemen, some uniformed, others in plain clothes, were busily examining and measuring the ground in and around the pool. A tired-looking photographer was taking flash-lamp pictures under the direction of the thoroughly wide awake Sergeant Wadkin. Various sections of the area were being converted into roped enclosures.

  The Hall itself was a blaze of lights, the front door open wide. A large crowd of villagers was grouped around the gates. Most of the viewers appeared to have arrived by car and the wide variety of conveyances humped on to the road verges in both directions bore witness to the classless and compulsive attraction of whatever it was their owners expected to see and learn. Bombings or assaults were rare events in Mitchell Stoke; in combination they were irresistible – even at two-fifteen in the morning.

  Treasure halted the Rolls at the Hall gates while Trapp explained to a harassed policeman that they had business inside with Chief Inspector Bantree. While this exchange was taking place an ambulance pulled out on to the road and a Land-Rover marked ‘Army Bomb Disposal Unit’ drove in. The appearance of the second vehicle considerably dampened the interest of some of the onlookers who made for the safety of their cars. Once inside, they were left to contemplate the effect of falling rock on their polished conveyances, and promptly drove home. The Jaguar owners left first. Actuality was asserting itself upon the minds of those who, while used to observing death and disaster by electronic means, were totally unprepared to risk becoming part of a spectacle that others might enjoy as in-home entertainment the following day.

  At the suggestion of the policeman, Treasure drove on to the Dower House where parking was easier. He and Trapp then hurried across the south front of the Hall with Bach sniffing the ground ahead. Bantree interrupted a conference he was holding with a small group of officers at the side of the huge excavation. ‘Mr Treasure, Vicar, I hear you’ve done sterling work.’ He greeted the two men smilingly.

  ‘Is Dankton dead?’ asked Treasure promptly.

  ‘No, not yet anyway. The local doctor says he took a blow at the base of the skull. It’s difficult to tell the extent of the damage without an X-ray, but opinion seems to be he’ll live … which is just as well for your fugitive Filipino.’

  ‘I don’t believe it has anything to do with the Filipino,’ said Treasure.

  The Inspector raised his eyebrows. ‘Now that’s the most interesting observation I’ve heard so far … and I’ve heard a few in the last fifteen minutes. I was just going into the Hall. We have Mr Scarbuck and his guests – oh, and Sir Arthur Moonlight in the salon.’ Bantree let the last name slip in a casual way but he searched Treasure’s face for a reaction; there was none. ‘Perhaps you and Mr Trapp would join them with me?’

  ‘Inspector, could you leave this lot for a few minutes, I … I think there’s something in the churchyard you ought to see.’

  Bantree shrugged his shoulders and smiled. ‘Sure. I’ve got half the Thames Valley constabulary here beating bushes to no purpose. I dare say they can cope by themselves for a while. Please lead on, sir.’

  ‘Inspector, do you happen to know where Miss Goodbody is?’ enquired Trapp.

  ‘Yes, sir, she’s in the Hall with the others – or making tea there, I think.’

  ‘Then I’ll pop over and help if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Right, sir, we’ll see you later.’ The Inspector and Treasure made their way towards the churchyard gate.

  The top of an aluminium ladder was poking through the hole blown in the floor of the cenotaph. Lights flashed in the space below. As the two men approached the spot a head emerged through the hole, attached to broad khaki-clad shoulders. The head looked up to reveal a round, good-natured face. ‘Nothing to bother you here, Inspector. Nice simple little bang, arranged by experts, though.’

  ‘Major … er … Fendrick,’ said Bantree, ‘this is Mr Treasure, who was first on the scene.’

  The Major extracted the rest of his stout person from the hole. ‘See anyone who looked like a safe-cracker?’ he enquired from Treasure with a smile. ‘Whoever did this knew exactly what he wanted to achieve – it’s almost as if he’d done it with a cold chisel, except it would have taken longer – about a year longer. Just look at the thi
ckness of that floor.’

  ‘Oh, we know who did it,’ said the Inspector, a statement that obviously came as a surprise both to the Major and to Treasure. ‘We just needed you chaps to confirm he wasn’t planning to do any more … Actually, you were on your way before we obtained the … er … confession.’ He glanced at Treasure who was experiencing what could accurately be described as a sinking feeling.

  ‘Well, was it an expert?’ asked Fendrick.

  ‘If you’d call a retired Major-General in the Royal Engineers an expert, then I suppose it was,’ said Bantree. Treasure’s spirits sank almost without trace.

  ‘Blimey,’ commented the Major, ‘has the old boy gone off his chump?’

  ‘Not exactly. Not at all, as a matter of fact. I’m not even sure yet we can charge him with anything – except disturbing the peace.’

  ‘Well, that’s up to you, Inspector. There are no more explosives lying around, so if it’s all the same to you we’re off to beddy-byes.’

  Treasure recovered himself sufficiently to press forward with what he was certain were revelations now more important than they had been before the Inspector’s disarming announcement. ‘Major,’ he asked, ‘can you tell me what’s down there?’

  ‘Well, apart from my sergeant, there’s a chamber the size of this floor with a ceiling height of about seven feet. There’s what looks like a small marble altar table on what I suppose would be the –’ he glanced at the church to get his bearings – ‘yes, the east side, and there’s a blocked opening on the same wall. Opposite there’s a tunnel leading towards the church. My sergeant’s having a wander through it now. That’s the way the fuse was laid. When he surfaces we’ll be able to tell you how long before the bang the fuse was lit – but I suppose you know that too?’ The Inspector shook his head. ‘Well, anyway, it’ll all be in my report.’ He turned back to the hole from which he had earlier emerged. ‘Sergeant!’ he bellowed into the chamber below. ‘You gone to sleep down there?’