The Theft of Magna Carta

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The Theft of Magna Carta Page 17

by John Creasey


  Batten said: “We can go that way.”

  “Don’t try any tricks,” Ledbetter ordered.

  Soon, they caught up with Bryce as he came from the choir stalls, whistling softly under his breath. The sound was like a serpent’s hiss. His face showed as the others approached.

  “Which way?” he asked.

  Batten said: “This way.” He looked upward at the great columns which supported the spire, always to him a source of wonder. Now he was shaking and he felt very cold. If he ran, if he made the slightest attempt to stop them, he was sure Bryce would do what he had threatened. Yet here was his last chance to prevent this awful crime.

  Here he could break the contact by the simple pressing of a switch. It would take only a moment, and the first alarm would be silenced. And there were other switches. If he passed one, if he turned the key in this door without switching off, the whole cathedral would be filled with ringing clangour, and as he had told Ledbetter, first the chief security officer would come, and almost as soon the close constable; in minutes, the police.

  He had the power in his own hands.

  Ledbetter could not stop him if he made the move.

  But there was the “bomb” in his own pocket. There were those now planted in the cathedral. So there was nothing at all he could do; he had waited too long, his fears had brought him to this state of utter helplessness.

  “Where?” demanded Ledbetter.

  “The—the door in front,” Batten murmured, and he pressed the switch to make their path a safe one.

  Oh, dear God, God forgive me. This is holy ground. There are the chapels where worshipers come, altars dedicated to the long dead saints; to St. Michael and St. Laurence and St. Margaret. Here the Lady Chapel which had survived Cromwell. Here the shafts of Purbeck marble, here the effigy of William Longsword, bastard son of Henry II and his fair Rosamund; one like so many from this Western land who had coerced King John to assent to Magna Carta. These things had great significance to him and he held them in awe. Forgive me, forgive me. He took his keys and by force of habit selected the one which would open the door leading to the cloisters, and also the steps which led up to the library. The door opened, very slowly; he had never known it so heavy. Or was that the weakness in his arms? There was no light beyond but the beam of the torch seemed brighter.

  “Where?” Ledbetter demanded again.

  “Up—up the stairs.”

  “Stairs?”

  The beam wavered about and then fell on the narrow winding stone staircase which seemed to lead to nowhere. It showed the cracks and the grooves made by countless feet on each tread; and the one stone wall. They stood at the foot for what seemed a long time, Bryce still whistling, sss- sss-sss.

  “You go first, Bryce,” Ledbetter said. “I’ll come last.”

  “I—I must go first,” Batten said. “I—I know where to switch off the contact.”

  “Watch this flicker,” Bryce said.

  “I’ll watch him.”

  Batten went up a step at a time, Ledbetter almost on his heels. Then they reached the small landing and stood together in front of the ancient door. The light shone onto the panels and onto the keyhole. He touched another switch.

  “That the library?” Ledbetter asked.

  “Ye—yes.”

  “Make up your mind.”

  “Yes!”

  “Open it,” Bryce said, and dug him savagely in the ribs.

  This was the last obstacle before the safe. In there, just beyond the door, were ancient books, manuscripts which were unique; records of the pious and the saintly and the noble; work of musicians and of artists and of scribes. And there, encased, secured, was the copy of Magna Carta. He could see the words as if they were written on the door:

  THE SARUM MAGNA CARTA 1215

  Bryce kicked him.

  “Open it!”

  If he did, all would be lost.

  But if he didn’t, all would be lost, too. They could take the manuscript from here; they would soon find the right key. There was nothing he could do. He groped for and selected the key, identifying it by touch. His shin ached; his ribs ached. He could kill these men! The beam shone on the keyhole and on his trembling fingers, and the key turned and Bryce shouldered him aside and pushed the door open.

  There were the precious stores; the fabulous treasures; and at the end of the narrow crowded room, the greatest treasure of them all. And – and he had a key to that. He had been entrusted with a key lest he should come here and find a fire and need to save the charter. Now it showed beneath the heavy glass; and as all three of them drew closer, Bryce ahead and Batten next and Ledbetter breathing down his neck, even these two vandals seemed at last to be affected.

  For at least a minute none of them moved or spoke but looked down. There was a section, bright and clear in the light of the torch.

  The torch trembled.

  “Don’t,” Batten pleaded. “Don’t—don’t take it. Don’t—”

  “You bloody fool,” Bryce said. “That’s worth a million nicker. Open it.”

  “Oh, God—”

  “You snivelling basket, open it!”

  Oh, dear God, dear God. It was happening and he was doing it: he was letting them take this priceless vellum. He, Thomas Batten, was betraying everything he had ever believed in.

  Ledbetter opened the metal box. Inside there was velvet; dark red velvet; red, like blood. Ledbetter took a square of this out. Batten – Batten – unlocked and freed and lifted the relic he had never before touched, and placed it in the box. His own breathing was hardly audible; theirs was hushed.

  “Let’s go,” Ledbetter said.

  “Do we need to lock up?” asked Bryce.

  “It will be out of the country before anybody knows it’s gone.”

  Bryce gave a snorting, hissing laugh. Batten missed a step, but no one touched him now. Bryce led the way, shining his torch carefully. Batten moved between them. Ledbetter had the fireproof box clutched under his arm, and held the side of the narrow staircase with his free hand. They reached the bending columns and stood for a moment beneath the tower vault and walked, still breathless, along the nave and to the doors through which they had come, Bryce a yard ahead. He opened the door slowly and it squeaked. He stepped out gingerly, as if he expected the ground to collapse beneath him – and then he stood absolutely rigid, a hiss of breath like the slash of a knife.

  Ledbetter called urgently: “What is it? What is it?”

  “The bloody cops are everywhere,” Bryce said. “They’re even on the roofs.”

  Tom Batten’s first thought was “thank God.” But the feeling did not last. He had not the slightest doubt of the viciousness in Bryce and Ledbetter; it was as if they were primed to kill. They crept silently back into the cathedral and the door closed. Batten felt one man pull at his shoulder, the other at his coat. Both were breathing harshly.

  He gasped: “I—I didn’t bring them!”

  “You’re going to send them away,” Ledbetter growled. Something in his voice told of his own fear. “You’re going out to tell them that if they try to stop us, we’ll press that switch, and there won’t be anything left of their precious cathedral.” There he was, holding the case, and Bryce was behind Batten, cold fingers gripping his neck. “Go and tell West what we’ve done,” Ledbetter went on. “Don’t forget a thing. The clock, the choir, the library – they will all go up in smoke if anyone tries to stop us getting away.”

  “And so will that whore up in the hills,” Bryce said. “Get going. Now.”

  He opened the door and pushed Batten out, so that he was alone on the dark porch but able to see the cars beyond the walls, and the men standing, even two men on a roof, opposite.

  He was gasping for breath.

  He began to walk and then to shuffle an
d at last to run. He was halfway toward the nearest exit from where he stood before he remembered the bomb in his pocket. He took it out. He placed it carefully on the ground, then he began to run much faster and to cry out as he went.

  “It’s Batten! Tom Batten! Don’t stop them, don’t stop them!” He saw two men coming toward him and slowed down so that he could speak more clearly. “They’ve—they’ve got the Magna Carta! They’ll blow it to pieces if you stop them. And—and—and oh God, they’ll start fires all over the cathedral. Everywhere! You’ve got to let them go.”

  His breath caught when he stopped and he could not speak again; just gasped and struggled for breath.

  He did not recognise West or Isherwood.

  He did not realise how many were here: a tall dean whose work was mostly in the library, the one who had been addressing the coach party that afternoon. Two, three, four other clerics. Sir Richard Way, chief constable of the police region which included the Wiltshire Constabulary. Two women, one whose especial care was the library and who cherished the copy of Magna Carta at least as much as any child of her bosom.

  And behind Batten the cathedral stood as solid and as stable now as in all its seven hundred years; within its walls was explosive enough to cause so much damage that it would never be the same; might become a dark and smoking shell.

  18

  ”Let Them Go”

  Batten’s voice faded into a gasping intake of breath, then he began to breathe shallowly, as if he could not get the air into his lungs. The first words which broke the silence were from Kempton, who whispered: “Can’t someone give him a drink?” Two policemen moved forward. A man behind the tall dean said quietly: “I’ll take him to my house.”

  Roger was aware of this, aware that Batten could not walk without support and that the speaker and a policeman went with him and he was aware of the tension in the men all about him.

  The tall dean asked in a bewildered way: “Can he really mean it?”

  “I think we ought to assume that he does,” Roger said.

  “What a dreadful dilemma, Dean Howe,” another cleric almost sobbed.

  “Do you think there’s a dilemma, sir?” Roger asked Sir Richard Way.

  Way was looking across at the mass of the cathedral; since Batten had first appeared, he hadn’t spoken. Would he always be a shadowy figure, influencing rather than guiding his men? Now he looked at Roger, and his ascetic face was caught in a light from one of the nearby lamps; he was more like a prelate than any of the clerics here.

  “No,” he answered. “We must let them go, of course.”

  A policeman, out of sight, muttered: “But we can’t!”

  A cleric, out of sight, said clearly: “Thank God, thank God!”

  “Don’t you agree, Superintendent?” asked Way in that thin and disapproving voice.

  “Yes,” Roger said briskly. “If I were senior officer here I would certainly let them get out of the cathedral.”

  “But they might get away with Magna Carta,” a man said in a frightened voice.

  “If we keep them in there they’ll not only destroy the manuscript but almost certainly do untold damage to the building,” Roger argued in an almost mechanical voice. “We simply haven’t any choice. We must get them out of there peacefully.”

  “You mean, promise them safe passage and then pounce?”

  “Five minutes must have passed already,” Isherwood said gruffly. “We can’t keep arguing much longer.”

  “I don’t see how we can pounce if they have the manuscript,” Roger replied to the chief constable. “They have to be allowed to get clear from the cathedral, at least. Afterward if we can pounce without risking damage to the manuscript—”

  “Will you go and talk to them?”

  “Yes.”

  The chief constable nodded.

  “May I have Mr. Isherwood with me?” Roger asked.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “And if we have a floodlight turned on us they’ll see there are only the two of us,” Roger pointed out.

  “I’ll fix that, sir,” a man by one of the cars said. “No problem.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Roger stepped between the white posts and for a moment seemed to be in complete darkness, for the branches of tall trees and the dark shape of a house intensified the shadows at this entrance. Before they had gone fifty yards, however, a light shone out from a car roof. At first only Isherwood was caught in the beam, which cast a strangely elongated shadow which soon included Roger’s as they walked into the darkness. Roger had his amplifier in his left hand.

  Lights showed at a dozen windows around the close.

  Here and there the figures of men showed on the rooftops.

  The footsteps of the two policemen sounded clearly on the macadam surface of the path. The brightness of the light behind them began to fade and the cathedral itself showed up more clearly, its grey stone reflecting some of the light. An airplane droned overhead, and seemed very loud. The two men marched in step, sleeves brushing now and again. They were already halfway to the doorway, and neither had spoken.

  At last, Isherwood said: “They couldn’t have slipped out, could they?”

  “They’ll talk to us before they take any chance,” Roger replied confidently. “We’ll stop just outside the porch.”

  “Right.”

  Their footsteps made a rhythm. Left-right, left-right, left-right.

  “When the bloody hell—” began Isherwood.

  “That’s far enough,” a man called.

  He was just beyond the porch. They could just see the outline of his face against the darkness of the wooden door and wooden panels at the far end. Both stopped as if commanded on the parade ground. Roger fought down an impulse to make a lunge toward the doorway.

  “All right,” he called. “We’re here to talk.”

  “You’re due to do what you’re told if you want to save any of your precious junk,” Ledbetter said. “Is that West?”

  “Yes, I’m West. Chief Inspector Isherwood is with me.”

  “I don’t care who’s with you. West, I want clear passage, understand? If I don’t get it—” The man was coming forward and a door creaked behind him and, ghostlike, another man appeared. “I’ll press this little thing and the place will go up.”

  He held up a transistor control.

  Roger had no doubt at all what it was; and no doubt at all that the man meant exactly what he said.

  “I’ve got enough incendiary explosive to blow this rabbit hutch into little pieces,” he said. “I just have to press a switch and there won’t be any Magna Carta no mo’.” Mockery was plain in his voice. “And when I press that switch it will set off an explosion beneath the high altar, so there won’t be no altar no mo’ either.”

  Isherwood growled: “You sacrilegious swine.”

  “Was that the poor chief inspector?” mocked Ledbetter. “Let me tell you something, Chief Inspector. This piece of old vellum means just one thing to me: money. A lot of money. But it won’t get me a penny if I can’t deliver it to my boss. As a piece of history, to me it’s a load of old junk. Don’t talk to me about sacrilege. I don’t go for religious hocus pocus. Plain bloody superstition, that’s all that is. Don’t get me wrong. This goes with me or it goes up in smoke. And this is an electronic switch. I can press it now or a mile away – the result will be the same inside or outside the cathedral. Now make up your mind. What’s it to be?”

  Roger asked: “Where is Linda Prell?”

  “You’ll find out when I’m clear away.”

  “No,” Roger said. “I won’t trade her.”

  “You’ve flicking well got to!” Ledbetter rasped.

  “No,” Roger said patiently, “I haven’t got to. I don’t have to let you go, I don’t h
ave to save the cathedral or Magna Carta. What I ought to do is jump you now; I might, yet. Where’s Linda Prell?”

  There was a short pause and a rustle of movement before the other man appeared at Ledbetter’s side and said in a loud whisper: “Tell him. That bitch doesn’t count any more.”

  Ledbetter said: “She’s in a cave at a place called Haze bury Ring.”

  “Near Bodenham!” exclaimed Isherwood.

  “So what?” Ledbetter sneered. “West, I tell you—”

  Roger put the walkie-talkie to his lips and spoke very clearly. His voice did not travel far from this spot, but it would reach every receiver and amplifier in the police cars and in the pockets of uniformed policemen. Another aircraft flew overhead and in the distance there was the louder noise of a small helicopter.

  “This is Superintendent West calling Chief Constable Sir Richard Way and all officers surrounding the cathedral and other points assigned earlier this evening. The thieves with the copy of Magna Carta have an electronic device by which they can destroy the manuscript and do serious damage to the cathedral. They are about to leave the cathedral by the north door, and will proceed toward St. Anne’s Gate, the postern of which is open. They must be allowed free passage to their car, and they must not be followed.”

  “There’s my boy!” breathed Ledbetter.

  “The car’s a Ford Capri, metallic blue in colour, just outside that gate,” breathed the younger man with him.

  “Their car is a metallic blue Ford Capri,” Roger repeated. He drew in a deep breath. “The two men are about to move out of the porch of the entrance. Any false step by any member of the force may lead to the destruction of—”

  A woman, not far off, screamed: “Don’t let them take it!”

  A man cried: “Stop her!”

  A searchlight swivelled from the top of a car towards a woman who was running from the wall where police cars were lined up. Two men ran in pursuit, others began to follow.

 

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