“How many old age pensioners have we?”
Parker-Smeaton gasped at an apparent non sequitur but answered off the cuff. “In the region of three million, Prime Minister.”
“In the region?”
“Give or take a hundred or so thousand, Prime Minister. I can find out —”
“No, Edward, don’t bother. Three million.” Mrs Heffer looked thoughtful but offered no further comment. The cabinet went into the various ways and means of combating something that was so far so amorphous as to make the discussion one of the vaguest and least productive that Mrs Heffer had ever presided over and she left the cabinet room eventually in a foul temper, leaving Rowland Mayes with the suggestion that he could do worse than consult with Mr Sedge. Or was it, after all, Hedge? Sedge, or Hedge, might be found useful also by the Home Secretary, she said angrily.
*
It was early morning, not long after a fresh dawn. There had been a lot of huffing and puffing on the part of Brother Peter: he was in mufti but had his habit with him in a canvas holdall plus a blanket, a pair of wellies and a little bag of odds and ends including a pack of sandwiches.
“Brother Kitchener’s specials,” he said. He sounded, Shard thought, apprehensive about something or other. “Ham. Got some bangers, too, cold. Some for you an’ all.”
“What are the rubber boots for?” Shard asked.
Brother Peter gave his accustomed answer: “You’ll see.” Joined a little later by The Long Knife and Brother Werribee, in mufti like Brother Peter, and as an apparent afterthought Brother Paul and an un-named but muscular brother as well, they set off. They made towards where Shard had seen the hole dug in the ground. It was now invisible, as though filled in. Brother Werribee went ahead. Where the hole had been, Brother Werribee scraped away with his foot at the earth and revealed a concrete slab. The party was halted. Brothers Werribee and Paul, assisted by the German while Brother Peter kept Shard covered with his handgun, bent to the slab and heaved it aside, grunting and groaning and sweating with the effort. When it had been shifted, Shard saw the gaping hole, chalk lined, the ladder fixed to one side and leading down into the bottomless darkness he’d seen on first arrival.
Brother Werribee stepped on to the ladder. “You next,” he said to the German. Shard was ordered to follow behind, with Brother Peter in rear. Brother Paul and the muscular brother were to remain behind and put the slab back in place, a hefty job.
They climbed down in silence. Below Shard Brother Werribee switched on a torch. Shard, looking down past the German and Brother Werribee, could still see no bottom. The descent went on and on.
Ten
The long climb down ended. Brother Werribee’s torch showed a more or less circular chamber, a natural space in the chalk that surrounded it. A passage, or fissure, led off from the left. The temperature was warm and very even. Aside from the chalk stratum in place of rock, Shard believed that the fissure was not unlike the cave systems of North Yorkshire, caverns and passages formed millions of years ago. A moment later, in a brief exposition to the German, Brother Werribee’s Australian tones confirmed Shard’s thoughts.
“The passage that we’ll go along, it’s a natural fissure. There’s not a lot of it, but farther along it joins a fault in the earth’s crust. Now, that’s a real long job. If you listen, you’ll hear the sound of running water. Right?”
They all listened. Shard heard the distant rush of water; so did the German, who said as much.
“What is this water?” he asked.
“Underground waterfall, mate. That’s where we’re heading.”
“And after that?”
“We hit an underground stream.” Brother Werribee said no more but moved towards the entry to the fissure, beaming his torch ahead on to the chalk sides. The German followed, then Shard with Brother Peter behind with his handgun.
*
The assumption had now been positively made that The Long Knife had been the man seen off Worthing and that he was now inside the United Kingdom. Mrs Heffer, immediately after her abortive conference, issued orders for a witch hunt. Certain prominent personages were to be placed under surveillance and their movements closely noted. There was to be wholesale phone-tapping by MI5. Ms Gunning was kept very busy, as was the fat man who had been balked of Hedge: Mrs Heffer had been furious again and had ordered the immediate withdrawal of the watch on Hedge. And Hedge had been summoned to the presence of the Foreign Secretary himself.
Rowland Mayes had seemed embarrassed for some reason. He told Hedge to sit down and then said that the Prime Minister herself had ordered the interview.
“The Prime Minister believes you can be of much assistance, Mr Hedge. She is of course aware of your relationship to Mr Crushe-Smith.”
Hedge sweated but remained silent, waiting for more. This looked like a case of history repeating itself, but he was still fogged. Already he had been set on the trail of Cousin Wally and he really hadn’t got very far. He couldn’t see what else the PM might want of him.
He was soon to find out.
Rowland Mayes went on, fiddling with a silver-mounted blotter on his desk, “There has been a change of mind. On the part of the Prime Minister.”
“Yes, Foreign Secretary?”
“Yes. Concerning you.”
Hedge felt a constriction in his heart. A charge of some sort, to do with that original concealment of Cousin Wally? He waited in much trepidation, allayed to some extent by what the Foreign Secretary had said about Mrs Heffer believing he could be of assistance. That didn’t sound too bad really but there had to be a catch and the catch might lie in the change of mind said to have taken place in Mrs Heffer’s head.
It did.
Rowland Mayes continued. “Initially, the Prime Minister was set firmly against the suggestion that you should accompany MI5 to Stockbridge.”
“Quite so, Foreign Secretary —”
“But she is no longer.”
“Oh.”
Rowland Mayes appeared to go off at a tangent. “Your man Shard, Mr Sedge. Hedge, I’m sorry. Were you aware that he had disappeared?”
“I’m aware that he seems to be missing from his office, Foreign Secretary, but that is frequently the case with Shard. Am I to understand —”
“You’re aware, of course, that your cousin’s monastery, and his private house, have been put under surveillance. Well, there has been a report from the officers watching.” Rowland Mayes paused. “Shard’s Volvo has been found abandoned close to the monastery. And watching through binoculars, MI5 report having seen Shard in the company of a number of monks and of a very tall man believed to be —”
“The German, Foreign Secretary? This Long Knife, as he’s —”
“So we believe, Mr Hedge, but that’s not known positively at this moment. The observed party was in the act of crossing some parkland behind the monastery. From there they entered some woodland, very thick. MI5’s binoculars failed to penetrate and the party was not seen again. Not as a whole. Two habited monks returned into view without the others.”
“Without Shard?”
“Yes, Mr Hedge, without your man. Now, the MI5 officers withdrew and made their report. They were instructed not to follow up — not, that is, to enter the monastery grounds. It is the government’s intention to handle this in an, er, different way. If you follow me.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite, Foreign Secretary.”
“No. Well, then, I’ll put it bluntly,” Rowland Mayes got to his feet and went across his room to a cupboard. He withdrew a decanter of whisky and two crystal glasses. “You’ll join me, Mr Hedge.”
Hedge began to feel quite faint. Foreign Secretaries didn’t ever offer whisky to subordinates in their departments without very good reason, the reason of dire need. Hedge said, “Thank you, Foreign Secretary.” Rowland Mayes poured and Hedge took the glass in a very shaky hand.
“Your very good health, my dear Hedge.”
Hedge made some inaudible return and they drank
. Rowland Mayes said, “You are yourself to be the different way, my dear Hedge.”
There was rather too much, too suddenly, of ‘my dear Hedge’. Hedge felt fainter. He stammered out, “Different way, Foreign Secretary?”
“As I put it just now. You are after all to go to Stockbridge. At Mrs Heffer’s request.”
“Request?”
“A form of words, my dear fellow.”
Dear fellow now … and it was to be regarded as an order, in the same way as a wish expressed by Her Majesty the Queen was an order. Hedge tried a protest, one that he considered could not be ignored. “Foreign Secretary, I — I’ve already revealed all I know about my cousin. My second cousin. I would achieve no useful purpose in confronting him now. In the circumstances he would never confide anything in me —”
“Perhaps not — perhaps not. Mrs Heffer seems to think … well, never mind that. The decision has been made.” Rowland Mayes leaned forward and spoke in a voice not far above a whisper as though Cousin Wally himself might be lurking behind the wainscot. “You are to defect, my dear Hedge. You are to join the enemy. That is, you are to appear so to do.”
*
Hedge left the Foreign Secretary’s room in a muck-sweat of fear. Mrs Heffer was expecting far too much of him, though the Foreign Secretary had made it all sound as easy as falling off a log. He was to tell Cousin Wally that because of the relationship he was now persona non grata and he had even been threatened with prosecution. Even if there was no prosecution, his position in the Foreign Office was under review and he could have no future in the service of Her Majesty. With his life’s work broken, and with his knowledge of the German threat, he had decided to get out from under and throw himself upon the mercy of his Cousin Wally. Received into the monastery (as it was hoped he would be) he was to take note of everything of interest and discover what lay behind the threat posed by The Long Knife and by Cousin Wally and how the whole affair was to be stage-managed. And then? He was, Rowland Mayes said, to report. How was he to do that?
“Simple, surely, my dear fellow? You escape.”
Hedge had been too dispirited to ask the Foreign Secretary how such an escape was to be contrived. He had a strong feeling that the Foreign Secretary wouldn’t have an answer in any case. Rowland Mayes brought the interview to an end by saying, “Well, my dear fellow, there’s no time like the present and as you know time may be very short now. I suggest you lose not a minute.”
“Very well, Foreign Secretary.”
Rowland Mayes was heard to murmur something vague about the gratitude of the whole country if he could bring his mission off successfully. Mrs Heffer’s faith in him was mentioned once again and Hedge believed he even caught a passing mention of the Queen.
*
The tremendous sound of the underground waterfall was now quite close. So was Brother Peter, who kept uttering ooohs and oh dears and was pressing himself tight against Shard as though for protection and never mind the fact that he was supposed to be on prisoner’s guard duty. His mental anguish was heard by Brother Werribee, who held up the column and flashed his torch to the rear.
“You been down here before, right?”
“Yes, I —”
“Then bloody stop ooohing, bloody little pommie poufter. Want me to make a report to Reverend Father, do you?”
“No, Brother Werribee —”
“Shut yer poncy little gob, then.”
Brother Peter gave a whimper but otherwise took a grip on his emotions. The torch beam shifted ahead and the forward march continued. Within the next couple of minutes they had arrived at the head of the waterfall, which, when seen at close quarters, was not as fearful as its sound had made it seem: the close confines of the fissure would have magnified it. Brother Peter, however, didn’t like it at all when Brother Werribee shone his torch on to a ledge running along the fissure ahead, beside the waterfall itself. This ledge was narrow and it made a fairly sharp descent towards the foot of the waterfall to run alongside the river tumbling along beneath. Brother Peter spoke into Shard’s ear. “Never been further than this I haven’t.”
“So you don’t know what lies beyond?”
“Not really, no.”
“Not really? Then you do know —”
The conversation was brought to a stop by Brother Werribee who began issuing orders. “Right, now. We take that ledge, see it, and we take it carefully. Don’t want to fall in, right? I’ll lead … formation as before. Brother Peter?”
“Yes, Brother Werribee?”
“You’ll keep a good watch on the bloke, right?”
“Yes —”
“What I bloody mean, Brother Peter, is this: you don’t cop out because you’re dead scared for your own bloody skin. You don’t turn around and bugger off. Because if you do, well, you’ll regret it. Remember, I got eyes in the back of me head, right?” He spoke to the German. “Just take it steady, mate, and you’ll be all right.”
They moved for the ledge. Spray from the waterfall was already wetting them. As they set foot on the ledge they became drenched.
Brother Peter breathed hard down Shard’s neck. After a few paces Shard felt the monk’s arms going round his waist. He wondered what Brother Peter had done with his handgun. There was a strong temptation to seize the disarmed moment and plunge into the rushing river below in the hopes that it would carry him clear of Brother Werribee. The temptation didn’t survive: either the German or the Australian would be sure to get him with their weaponry and even if they failed in that he would be totally lost and with no sense of what lay ahead.
The moment had not yet come.
*
The Prime Ministerial witch hunt had been very quickly put in motion. Two senior members of the government were a special target: each had been heard to say, in past unguarded moments, that the country was in a mess and it was high time for a British Hitler to rise up and instil discipline where discipline had long since vanished: in the schools, in the factories, amongst the lower classes in general. Such sentiments were relevant now and the utterers of them were very carefully watched by MI5. Shortly, a summons might come from Ms Gunning, sitting at the centre of the spider’s-web of Intelligence and honing her razor-blade. A number of back-bench MPs were also under surveillance did they but know it and so were a number of civil servants, largely in the Ministry of Defence, plus certain service officers. Three provincial police chiefs were suspended very suddenly and packed off on indefinite leave, their places taken by their deputies. No reason was given and indignant protests were ignored on orders from Downing Street. Mrs Heffer was adamant and implacable. No-one was going to take over the country whilst she was holding the reins of power. She said as much to the Queen, when she demanded an audience of Her Majesty as a matter of very urgent priority.
“Such wicked people, ma’am, desperadoes who’ll stop at simply nothing to get their way and disrupt the Emp — Commonwealth. We simply must not allow that to happen, must we? My, our, your subjects are not to be suborned from a way of life dear to the British heart for simply centuries past.” Mrs Heffer paused. “You agree of course.”
The Queen put a word wrong. “Of course, Mrs Heffer. But you know the European Community —”
“No, ma’am.” One couldn’t tell the Queen not to mention the EC in her presence, nothing so blunt, but she could still be put in her place. “The European Community is foreign. We’re British. You would not wish the Commonwealth to be degraded.” Mrs Heffer went on and on for several more minutes, advising Her Majesty that she really ought to run a toothcomb through the palace staff, and the Queen was quite unable to get another word in.
*
“So you’ve come, Cousin Eustace.” Reverend Father sat behind his desk, smiling and with eyebrows raised sardonically. “What a surprise … after you failed to turn up when I wanted you.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Hedge said surlily. He was feeling very ill-used. Defectors had to defect with maximum security, so the journey from London
to Stockbridge had been made by no opulent chauffeur-driven staff car and by no first-class railway ticket to Winchester or Salisbury with another car laid on at the station. The journey had had to be made clandestinely even though Hedge was under orders from the highest, or second highest according to traditional royalists, in the land. Hedge had left his London home more or less by slink. He had slunk from the basement area, the door normally used by Mrs Millington when her wretched sister-in-law wasn’t sick, dressed in an old tweed coat and grey worsted trousers. No hat or umbrella. He had gone to Waterloo by the underground, a detestably crowded means of travel during which, so great was the crush, he had been pressed tight against a young girl who gave a little scream and accused him of taking advantage of her and who would, she said, have slapped his face if she could only have got an arm free. Hedge, covered in confusion and totally innocent, sweated with fear (what would Mrs Heffer say?) but fortunately this being Britain no-one took any notice of the girl. Disembarking shakily and ascending the escalator he had bought his rail ticket, the value of which would eventually be refunded by the Foreign Office, and had taken an anonymous seat in the second class aboard the Winchester train. At Winchester he had slunk again, this time out of the station, in a state of disorientation and doubt, wondering what his next move should be.
One did not, presumably, defect by station taxi. One could be traced; it was bound to be put about that a senior Foreign Office man, gentleman, had vanished. That would have to be done, if only to convince Cousin Wally.
It was much too far to walk. Hedge was far from being in first-rate physical condition.
He went into the town. He visited a café, a rather downmarket one which was safer for a defector, and ordered coffee and a biscuit. These were brought by a slatternly girl who looked like a fugitive from Stonehenge and addressed him as Dad which he didn’t like but was probably quite good cover. After the coffee, he had walked along a crowded street and had happened to pass a car, a very old and dilapidated Mini, out of which a young girl got and, without pausing to lock the door, ran along the street, evidently intending not to be long since the Mini had been left on double yellow lines.
The Abbot of Stockbridge Page 12