by John Creasey
“How well do you know Caldicott?”
“Only casually as an individual,” answered Withers. “We used to play cricket for a London club side and had a couple of seasons together. That must be twenty years ago – I haven’t played for ten years. He was in his teens then and I was already nearly past the playing days. He came to see me once to ask if he could look out for pictures for me but I like to collect my own. I get twice as much fun out of discovering a picture in a junk shop as I do buying one from a gallery like Leech’s. I’m not a very good customer for the regular dealers, I’m afraid. I do wish you would have that other drink.”
“I really mustn’t, I’ve a long drive to do,” Roger said, and at last he got up. “How well do you know Tom Batten, sir?”
“About as well as everyone in Salisbury does. He’s a joiner. A member of this club and that, one of the Guardians of the Cathedral – one of the best guides to the cathedral and the close, for that matter. He’s always prepared to help with any charity or good cause, but as a man I don’t really know him at all.” Withers also stood up, smiled a little deprecatingly, and went on: “How many people do you really know as men?”
Roger laughed.
“Touché,” he said. “And thanks again for your help.”
“I’m afraid I’ve been no help at all,” deplored Withers, opening the door onto the galleried hall. It seemed much brighter than Roger had noticed before and several of the large pictures were individually lit. “I wish you had time to look at my little collection. Hardly a square inch of the wall uncovered, you see.” He moved back so that Roger could see up to the gallery, and it was true; every part of the wall about the staircase and above the gallery was covered with paintings. After a moment he led the way to the front door. “Good night, Mr. West.”
They shook hands on Roger’s “Good night.”
Roger got in the car as Withers went back indoors, leaving the porch light on; it glowed on a white patch and two or three small lumps of a white substance. He got out of the car and bent close to a front wheel, as if checking the tyre, but he picked up two of the little lumps and slipped them into his pocket.
Soon he drove slowly down the drive, the tyres crunching on gravel. A light from another lamp at the foot of the drive shone on some white stones. Lights showed at several windows in the Old Stables and in the village. It was peaceful and even idyllic, until a man sprang out of the hedge on one side, only a few feet from the road. Roger jammed on his brakes, and had time to wind down his window as a man said: “Sorry.”
From just behind him there came a click and a flash.
“I didn’t mean to scare the wits out of you,” the nearer man said. “I’m Childs of the Herald. You haven’t a nice new angle for me, have you?”
Roger hesitated. His heart was still palpitating and fright had brought a flush of annoyance, but exasperation would get him nowhere and he wondered if he could use this man to help. So he asked: “Have you heard about the jacket found at Basingstoke?”
“Yes, but my orders are to stay near the heart of this crime, which is wherever you are.” In the lamplight and the faint afterglow, Childs’ face showed round and pleasant; his photographer was a long-haired boy. “Do you think that was a false scent?”
“No,” Roger said. “I don’t think one way or the other.”
“Think she’s dead?” asked Childs abruptly.
“I’ve no evidence whether she’s dead or alive,” Roger answered. “Are you really here to talk to me or did you come to worry the life out of Linda Prell’s relatives?”
“They’re out for the evening,” Childs said. “I’m told to stick to you like glue, but I checked the Prell relatives when you were in with John Withers and got no answer. What do you think about the rumours of a mystery lover, Mr. West?”
“If it’s true, Linda Prell’s as human as the next attractive woman.”
“And if it’s not true, she isn’t!”
“If it’s not true, it indicates what I’ve already been told.”
“What?”
“She’s a dedicated policewoman.”
“Well, well!” exclaimed Childs. “So I have a new angle after all. Do you know what she was after?”
“You mean, what she may have discovered?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Any idea what the whole schemozzle is about?” asked Childs lightly. “Is it some big plot such as The Great Train Robbery? The Great Art Theft, for instance. Stephenson and Caldicott and Withers here are all involved and the Herald’s New York spies tell us that the New York police have been consulted by you chaps. I couldn’t use the angle of a great international Art Theft Conspiracy, could I?”
“I’m not your editor,” Roger retorted.
“Have you checked with New York?”
“Yes.”
“About Stephenson?”
“You know perfectly well that I can’t answer such a question.”
“Ah!”
“But I do think that the missing police officer possibly stumbled on a plot of considerable magnitude,” Roger told him, and added in a tone of finality: “Let’s call it a day. I have to drive out to Basingstoke. I gather I’ll see you there.”
“No dinner, now no supper,” groaned Childs. But he smiled. “What’s this about some new and highly significant appointment for you at the Yard, Mr. West?”
He made the mistake of speaking slowly and smiling, as if about to spring a surprise, and the word “appointment” warned Roger what was coming. So he was able to look blank, and then to ask: “What’s that?” Then he rubbed his chin. “It’s news to me.”
“Well, I hope it’s good news,” Childs said cheerfully. “Are you really going to Basingstoke now?”
“Yes.”
“Couldn’t possibly wait for half an hour while we get a snack, could you?”
“I’m going to get one at my pub,” Roger said. “I’m told they have good snacks at the bar there.” He nodded, and started the engine again and made off, as the two newspapermen disappeared.
The next time he saw them was at the site of the digging.
He went to the hotel and telephoned Isherwood, then ordered some sandwiches and coffee in his room. When Isherwood arrived, the two pieces of white substance were on a piece of brown paper, hard and damp in the middle and powdery outside.
“And you found those outside Withers’ front door?” Isherwood said gloomily.
“Yes. It’s chalk – and we shouldn’t have much trouble checking where it came from,” said Roger.
Isherwood simply nodded.
Two small mechanical diggers were being worked to loosen up the chalk where it had gone solid. At least a dozen building workers and as many policemen plied spades. These went sough into the damp claylike chalk, sough as they came out. Over in one spot, near the floodlights which had been rigged up much as at Gorley Wood, a team of six men were using sieves for the drier soil, and breaking up other lumps with chisels and hammers. So far there was only a pile of beer and soft-drink cans, bottles and bottle tops, cigarette packets, matches, a few odds and ends, some obviously used sheaths. Kempton, with a tall thin man, were close by the mechanical digger. Roger joined them.
“Why, hallo, sir!” Kempton sprang almost to attention. “You haven’t met Chief Inspector Bull, have you?”
“No. Hallo, Chief Inspector.”
“Superintendent.’’
They shook hands, then Roger was taken over the site. It was beneath the actual motorway and had been one of the main construction areas. Trees on one side had not been disturbed but on the site itself had been mercilessly cut down. Some parts were dry; some seemed to suck at Roger’s shoes. He was impressed by the speed and thoroughness with which the digging had been arranged, but troubled because it might go on for d
ays and remain inconclusive.
He took out the chalk he had found, and there seemed little doubt it had come from here. It would have to be analysed, of course – it wasn’t yet evidence; but it seemed very significant, and for the first time he felt fiercely hopeful about the case.
Suddenly, one of the men on the mechanical diggers called: “Over here! Over here!” There was such excitement in his voice that everyone looked round while Roger and his party started toward the spot. They couldn’t hurry because of the soggy chalk patches. One spot was cordoned off and two men were examining tire prints; there were two new-looking tires close by. Roger was a pace behind Kempton and a pace ahead of Bull getting to the mechanical digger.
There was just one fear in Roger’s mind: that the body had been found.
It wasn’t a body, it was a single shoe, new-looking despite the chalk clinging to it. And five minutes later enough chalk had been cleaned off to show that it was of the same pattern-flowered linen as the suit.
“That means we’ll have to go through the night, presumably,” Bull said.
“I really think we should,” Roger agreed.
“It’ll cost a fortune in overtime,” Bull grumbled. “But I’ll give the orders. I had hoped to stop at midnight.”
Above the stables at Bodenham there was a clock which struck the hours and sent the notes quivering about the grounds and nearby village. Sometimes, thrown by a trick of the wind or a shallow valley in the ground, it carried for miles, and it carried to the foot of Hazebury Ring as Tom Batten stood waiting for someone to materialise. He had been here for fifteen minutes, anxious not to be late. The stars were very bright and there was a slim crescent of moon, showing the trees which surrounded what had been a Roman mound. The lights of the city spread wide, the street lamps mostly yellow, and here and there yellow spots of light showed at windows. Villages showed in little clusters, and above all this glowed the red light on top of the cathedral spire.
It was eerie in the near-darkness.
Hardly a leaf or a branch stirred, the night was so still. The rustling of small animals was just audible; now and again an owl flew, silent but for wings beating the air. Batten could hear his own breathing and the beating of his heart.
Out of the shadows and the silence a man called: “Batten.”
Batten’s heart leaped wildly.
“Who—who—who is the”Batten,” the caller said, “come down about twenty yards. Straight down.”
Twenty yards, repeated Batten to himself. Say about thirty paces. The going was fairly even and he stumbled only once against a molehill or a rabbit mound. He could see and hear nothing.
“That’s far enough.” The man was now close to his side.
Batten stopped.
“Don’t move and don’t try to find out where I am,” the man said. “And don’t forget: she’s alive. She’ll stay alive if you do exactly what you’re told. If you don’t, she will die and so will you.”
Batten managed to mutter: “What do you want?”
“You’re one of the special Guardians of the Cathedral, aren’t you?”
“The cathedral!”
“That’s what I said. Are you a Cathedral Guardian, or aren’t you?”
“Yes,” muttered Batten. “Yes, I am.”
“Can you get in the cathedral any time you want to?”
“Yes, but—”
“Never mind the buts. Do you have a passkey?”
“Yes, but—”
Just behind Batten there was a rustle of movement, and he gasped and half-turned. He caught a glimpse of a man, saw him clearly enough to see that the face was masked, saw a hand upraised and felt a searing slash across his shoulders, nigh unbearable pain which made him cry out. And he staggered but kept his footing. Blood was racing through his ears, and he began to gasp for breath. Then, he felt cord at his wrists, felt it loop, felt them pulled and tied together behind him.
Over these noises, which he made himself, the speaker said: “I told you no buts. You do as you’re told, or that whore Prell will feel a lot more than that whip before she dies.”
Batten gritted his teeth, to keep back the words which wanted to spill out, words of hatred, rage, vengeance. His whole body was aquiver with these emotions and with fear. He waited, half-expecting another blow. Instead, the man – who was Ledbetter – went on.
“Do you have a passkey to the cathedral?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“On—on my chain.”
“Do you have a key to the library?”
“Yes,” Batten muttered. “But—” He broke off, knowing it would be useless to argue. “Yes. But the library’s protected by—by an electronic contact system. If you opened the door or even tried to, you’d have the chief security officer out in ten seconds and the police in two minutes.”
After a long silence, Ledbetter said: IYou can break the contact, can’t you?”
“Like hell I would!” gasped Batten.
“If you don’t, Linda Prell will die,” said Ledbetter. “And all the world will know she was a whore and you one of her lovers.” He waited for a few seconds, and then went on: “Can you break the contact?”
“Yes,” muttered Batten. “Yes, I can.”
“That’s better,” Ledbetter said. “You’ve got some sense after all. Keep on being sensible and you’ll have fun with Linda again. So you can break the electronic contact with the alarm system and you have a key to the library. Where is it?”
“On my chain,” Batten muttered. “I told you.”
“What do you carry a key for?”
“There—there’s always a danger of fire.”
“Fire,” the man echoed. “There’s other danger to that whore—”
“Don’t keep calling her a whore!” cried Batten.
“What would you rather me call her? Your tart? If you don’t do exactly what I tell you, she’ll die. I’ll take a lot of pleasure in raping her first.”
Batten drew in a searing breath.
“How often do you go to the cathedral at night when you’re on duty?” demanded the speaker in the shadows.
“Two—two or three times.”
“Any set time?”
“No.”
“You and how many others?”
“Only—only the chief security officer and a few policemen.”
“Do you work on a rota system or a shift system?”
“Ro—rota,” answered Batten. Speaking hurt his voice and thinking was sheer horror. “We—we take a night each. It only takes half an hour or so to walk through and check everything. It’s—it’s mostly a fire precaution. We—we fit it in with our jobs. We—”
“Are you all cops?”
“No,” said Batten. “No! Two of us are in the Force, there’s a garage security man, two night watchmen, two nurses—anyone who has night shifts and can get half an hour off can join in. All they do is go and make sure everything’s all right. It doesn’t take long, I tell you. If there looks like any trouble, they call police headquarters.”
“That’s good,” said the man in the shadows thinly. “That’s very good. Who’s on duty tonight?”
“I don’t know!” gasped Batten. “I really don’t know. Someone will go and have a look at the place. They’ll look inside the cathedral and go up to the library, where the copy of Magna Carta is. They—”
He broke off, and actually cringed back, although there was no immediate threat from behind him, no horror but his own realisation. When he spoke again his voice was little more than a croak.
“No! No! Not that—”
“Don’t you make any mistake, just that,” the man said, “and you’re going to get it for us.”
Batten stood still; and silent. His heart had stop
ped thumping and he hardly seemed to be breathing. An owl hooted; there was a cackle of birds, disturbed by fox or cat; then silence again. He did not speak, but words seemed to echo inside his head.
I would rather die than that, he thought.
And then he thought: But would Linda rather die?
He asked in a croaking voice: “How do I know she’s alive?”
16
Alive...
The question took the unseen man by surprise. He drew in his breath, audibly. Rustling behind Batten warned him that the other man had moved and might strike again. He braced himself, but no blow came. Only a rasped: “You heard her!”
“How could I be sure it was Linda?”
“You’d know her voice, wouldn’t you?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
The man didn’t answer.
Batten wondered what hope there was left; whether he could defy them even without his fears for Linda. Contrarily he wondered whether, even for Linda, he could do what this man wanted. He warned himself that these men could knock him over the head now and take his keys. He couldn’t prevent this. It would be easier for them if he did the work, but he couldn’t prevent them from doing what they wanted once they had the keys.
The keys felt heavy against his thigh; he kept them on a ring inside his trouser waistband.
He thought, agonised: What would Linda—
And then he knew that whatever Linda would do, whether it meant the difference between life and death for her or for him, he could not help them; he had to stop them.
Minutes were ticking by. He wasn’t sure why there had not been a word after he had said: “I wasn’t sure.” It was almost as if something had frightened them away. Nonsense! He would have heard them moving.
The man in the shadows said: “If I let you see her, will you do it?”
That was how much he wanted to be guided into the cathedral. Oh God! What would make men plan such a thing as this? The Sarum Magna Carta. The best of those surviving. A piece of England. A piece of history. The foundation of the rights of Englishmen.