by Tim Heald
‘What about motive?’ asked Bognor, hoping it wasn’t too much of a googly. If Burton thought he was such an idiot he might not have done his homework. He sneaked a searching look at the man. Burton had definitely relaxed now. The dinner and the port were taking effect as well. He was off guard. Bognor felt grossly insulted that anyone should think so little of him.
‘Motive?’ said Burton superciliously. ‘I’ve thought about that. It’s too silly. In fact the whole thing is too silly and… jejune. Or would be if it wasn’t so tragic.’ He only just remembered his host’s bereavement. ‘No,’ continued Burton. ‘I’m afraid it’s the same old story. He was a passionate anti-Fascist when he was up here before the war. It was so fashionable then to be passionate about Spain and the Nazis and so on that you don’t expect anyone’s obsession to endure. Well, I’m afraid that Anselm’s passions persisted. He never grew up. It’s as simple as that. Whereas most of us assumed that he had effectively channelled his anti-Fascism into Christianity, it seems that that first love of Marxism or whatever it was never really died. Extraordinary, because he’s no fool.’
Burton was now well into his stride. He seemed to believe that he had won a victory and was prepared to chance his arm still further. The combination of port and over-confidence, ably assisted by his natural arrogance, was leading him into excess. Bognor was certain he was going to over-reach himself. Camberley sat very hunched and heavy-lidded.
‘I must say,’ he mused gloomily, ‘I can’t understand how I can have been wrong for so many years.’
Burton warmed to his theme. ‘Heavens,’ he said, ‘you weren’t the only one! I mean, Anselm was so good; so saintly; so without ambition and side. Perhaps, in a way, those are his problems. But it’s no wonder none of us saw through the deception. If, for instance, it had been a more suspect member of the Friary.’ He paused and appeared to pick a name at random. Bognor was incredulous. This was either stupendous double bluff or he was giving the whole game away through sheer blind arrogance. ‘Take Xavier for instance. He’s a dreadful old rogue in many ways. He was a passionate Communist in the thirties. He smokes and he drinks and heaven knows what else. But, when all’s said and done… he’s probably—well, demonstrably now—a better man. “Better” in an absolute sense than poor Anselm.’
Bognor tried to appear totally impassive. If Burton thought for an instant that Bognor retained a vestige of intelligent suspicion he would clam up again. However, it seemed there was no stopping him. For a hideous moment Bognor even wondered if he was telling the truth.
‘It’s purely incidental, I admit,’ said Burton. ‘But I’ve always felt that Anselm was inclined to discriminate against Xavier on very superficial grounds. Now, as we see, it’s clear that appearances can be very misleading. I, for one, have always been inclined to take a charitable view of Xavier. After all, the dreadful business of his wife must have left a permanent scar.’
It was coming. Bognor was certain of it. At any moment, with the merest prompting, he was going to give something away; something that would unwittingly put Anselm and six other major suspects in the clear and at the same time implicate the guilty man. Bognor couldn’t afford to prompt himself. It was too risky, so he was immensely thankful when Camberley came to his aid.
‘Wife?’ he said. ‘I’d no idea. I didn’t think…’
Burton should have stopped then. Normally perhaps he would have done, but by now nothing at all could prevent him.
‘Not many people have. She was Polish, married already, of course. Might, I think, have loved him genuinely. It was wartime. No one ever really knew who was employing her or why. Some people say she died in Belsen and some that she’s still alive in South America. I don’t know. It’s all in the past, but it explains his eccentricity. And then her leaving the son. I never know if it was a blessing or a curse, it always…’
‘Son?’ Once more, fortuitously, it was Camberley who asked the question. Bognor, still groping, thanked him silently and almost forgave him for previous follies and indiscretions. Perhaps the old boy had not been as easily hoodwinked as he seemed. However, this time Burton checked himself, even though the question came from someone he treated as an ally.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘I thought that as he… No. Forget I ever said it. It’s a betrayal of a personal secret. I’d forgotten the steps that… never mind. As I was saying, you could hardly be blamed for not recognising Anselm’s deceit.’ He prattled on, trying to undo the harm, but it was too late.
The moment he’d said ‘wife’ something had stirred in Bognor’s subconscious; the second he’d said ‘son’ it emerged. It had been a major effort of will for him not to shout out when he saw it. Now he knew why Paul’s face seemed so familiar; why he had an uneasy feeling that he’d met Xavier somewhere before. An age difference of a quarter of a century plus a lot of living and a lot of whisky had not totally camouflaged the family likeness. They were father and son. It explained everything. Xavier was the spy and Paul the assassin. The motive was filial piety. He’d solved it.
Burton was drivelling on. Bognor tried to work out if he realised how much he’d given away. The man was nervous again, but, by the look of him, more nervous of Camberley than Bognor. He wasn’t giving him a second thought. He looked at his watch. He could be at the Friary in under an hour.
He got to his feet. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must thank you both. You’ve been most helpful. Luckily it doesn’t change our plans, but I’d like to be at the airport myself, so I think I’ll aim for the next train, if you don’t mind.’ They shook hands and Lord Camberley rang for a taxi. Trivial pleasantries were exchanged, Bognor offered thanks for the meal, accepted another cigar and was unable to tell if Burton was still anxious. It no longer mattered anyway.
Lord Camberley and Mr. Burton would have been surprised to know that three minutes later Mr. Bognor’s taxi was speeding, not towards the railway station, but down the Woodstock Road.
Father Xavier and Brother Paul arrived in the bar of the Boot breathless. Mr. Hey raised his eyebrows.
‘Later than usual tonight, Father,’ he said. The bar was as empty as it normally was. Only the toping cowhands stood at the far end with their pints.
‘Yes… George, I want you to do something for me.’
‘Of course. Always do something for an old pal. You having the usual, are you? And the boy?’ Father Xavier nodded impatiently.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But we’re in a hurry. Look, George, I’ve never let you down, have I?’ Mr. Hey thought for a moment.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Can’t say you have.’
‘Not over money?’
‘Never over money. Certainly not.’
‘Good.’ Father Xavier pushed his already empty glass over the bar and asked for the refill. ‘Look, George.’ He was almost whispering. ‘Will you do a cheque for me? Now?’
‘’Course. How much?’
Father Xavier paused and then said very softly, ‘Hundred and fifty?’
‘Hundred and fifty?’ Mr. Hey whistled.
‘Shhh.’ Xavier leant further across. ‘I’ll give you a cheque, and the money’s there, I promise. It’ll be through in a couple of days. Promise.’
‘But I don’t have it, Father.’
‘Oh, come on. Can’t you see it’s important? It matters.’
‘You must be joking. We don’t take a hundred and fifty in a month, let alone a week. You know that.’
‘Come on, George. Under the mattress. You’ve told me.’
Mr. Hey’s eyes widened. ‘I couldn’t. It’s the wife’s. She’d slaughter me.’
‘George.’ Father Xavier’s voice was rising dramatically. ‘I have never,’ he said, ‘asked anyone a more important question in the whole of my life. Never.’
Mr. Hey registered growing amazement. An hour had been reached by which he had generally consumed several pints of mild-and-bitter and tonight was no exception. He struggled, recalled the two deaths at the Friary and the policeman from London
, and asked Father Xavier, ‘Not in any sort of trouble are you, Father?’
‘Of course I’m in bloody trouble,’ said Xavier. ‘Why the hell else do you think I’d ask?’
Mr. Hey nodded and screwed up his eyes. ‘Back in a tick,’ he said. Xavier lit another cigarette and waited. Shortly Mr. Hey returned with a black tin money box from which he withdrew a quantity of pound notes kept together by an elastic band. Deftly he counted out a hundred and fifty of them and passed them across the bar. Father Xavier presented him with a cheque and agreed to a final Scotch.
‘There’s one other thing,’ he said, still talking conspiratorially. ‘Young Paul and I have been called away rather suddenly and we’re without transport. You don’t have any thoughts?’ Mr. Hey considered. He was deriving a lot of vicarious pleasure from this. He wondered if there would be a reward.
‘What’s wrong with the Friary van?’ he asked.
‘Just,’ said Xavier, ‘that Brother Vivian wears the key round his neck at all times, and he might not let us borrow it.’
‘Not easy,’ said Mr. Hey, sipping carefully and smacking his lips. Then he suddenly said, ‘No. Tell you what, though.’ The two men were leaning so far across the bar that they were practically rubbing noses. ‘Can you ride a motor-bike?’
Father Xavier turned pale and choked slightly on his drink. After a moment he said, ‘I haven’t touched one for over twenty years. Used to own an old Norton.’
‘Well, there’s a bit of luck.’ Mr. Hey smiled gleefully. As far as he was concerned this was turning into a splendid game. ‘Now, you see Gilbert?’ He glanced furtively down the bar towards the two farm labourers. ‘He’s the tall one.’ Father Xavier nodded, and the landlord continued, ‘Well, it so happens he rides a bike and I have a mind it’s an old Norton. Always brings it down here in the evenings. Parks it round the back behind the gents’. You couldn’t miss it.’
‘What about Gilbert?’ asked Xavier. ‘He’ll miss it.’
‘Couple more pints and he won’t remember where he put it,’ said Mr. Hey. ‘He’s been in here since half six. Always gets pissed after he gets his wage packet. They say he knocks his wife about a bit. Doesn’t look the type to me, though.’
Xavier smiled at Mr. Hey. ‘You’ve been a great help, George,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where I’d have been without you. I don’t know when or even if I’ll see you again. But I’ll be in touch.’ And, so saying, Xavier ushered his young accomplice out of the Boot and round to the back of the pub.
The good-bye saddened Mr. Hey briefly, but he was not a man for nostalgia or regrets, and he had not known excitement like this since the night Mrs. Rideout came in and threw a bottle of Guinness at her husband. He would enjoy seeing the look on poor Gilbert’s face when he heard his old Norton making its getaway. Mr. Hey felt like celebrating, so he poured himself a large Scotch and settled down to wait. He was just beginning to get worried, forgetting that the two friars might well decide to use the gents’ before setting off… when there was the staccato cough of a petrol engine being started. It faded in a wheeze and the three drinkers all glanced up. Gilbert strained his ears and looked concerned.
‘Hey!’ he said, not moving. There was a moment’s silence, then another kick, another cough, an instant when it seemed the engine would die again, then a few seconds of half-hearted splutter as it ticked over indecisively and finally a gathering crescendo as the throttle was applied. The noise grew to an impressive roar, faded slightly before it moved. There was a skidding, a brief halt near the front door, and then another rev before it powered away down the road. The three men rushed to the door and were outside just in time to see the rear light of Gilbert’s Norton as it took the first bend in the lane, already doing at least sixty.
Bognor sat in the back of the taxi and sucked his Havana in a mood of utter elation. Bognor’s first case, he kept telling himself, was ending in triumph. He pictured the scene at Beaubridge when he arrived. Himself, the intrepid, incisive and utterly original sleuth, arriving in the dead of night, knocking on the Abbot’s door. The Abbot, in long white nightshirt, emerging sleepily, his eyes widening in revelation and alarm as Bognor revealed the ugly truth, the tramp across the chill courtyard to the killers’ cells and the final dramatic confrontations. ‘Father Xavier… the truth is out. You and your son will have to accompany me…’ He exhaled another lungful of heavy smoke and imagined the telephone calls. One to Parkinson and one to Sir Erris. The utter incredulity of both as he gave them the news, laconically and coolly. ‘The Beaubridge file is now closed,’ he would say. ‘I suggest we breakfast tomorrow at Woodstock police station where I and the accused will pass the night.’
He was so carried away by these euphoric imaginings that he scarcely noticed the motor-bike, as it came round the bend on the wrong side of the road causing the taxi to swerve violently. ‘Hooligans,’ shouted his driver, waving a fist at the bike’s rear light as it swayed away, bearing its two riders towards Oxford and beyond.
The first few miles had been pretty hairy. The old bike was rusted up and the tread was going on the rear tyres. Xavier couldn’t see much either. He had no goggles, of course, so he had to use a pair of dark glasses. As it was dark, anyway, it didn’t improve matters. Besides, his riding was as rusty as the bike itself.
They had a series of near misses, including Bognor, but by the time they’d filled up with petrol at the self-service station on the Bellingham roundabout he was beginning to get some confidence. It was like swimming or Serbo-Croat. Once learnt, never really forgotten.
So far, he calculated, so lucky. They had a good start and a hundred and fifty quid, legitimately acquired, in one-pound notes. If the old machine kept going they should do the rest within two hours, easily. There was plenty of dual carriageway now and he’d stick on the M40 to Wycombe and then cut across to the M4 at Maidenhead. He hoped the hell there’d be flights. There’d be no way of checking. But if they could be out by eight or at the latest nine they should be perfectly safe. The two men talked little. Contingency plans had been half-formulated for ages, though they had never expected to be forced to leave in quite such a hurry. Nevertheless, ever since Xavier’s espionage had begun, Gaymer Burton on his annual visit had brought fresh passports and visas as well as his smuggled secrets.
As he filled the tank, Xavier said crisply, ‘You go first, I’ll check out with Burton. RV at the Bristol in Prague. The cellar bar, six-thirty to seven. If I’m not there in three weeks forget it.’
The road from Bellingham was perfect for motorcycling in the small hours. He experienced an increasing access of confidence and noticed with pleasure that the boy behind him was beginning to relax and move with him and the bike, no longer braced against the sway as he had been for the first few miles. There were bends in the road, but not too sharp. He let the bike dip to almost forty-five degrees as they rounded them, hardly slowing at all. On the double ‘S’-bends he allowed a double away, first to the left, then to the right. It was like riding an animal. His movements became more and more fluid and the speeds crept up and up. They did Woodstock to the other side of Oxford in nine minutes. Father Xavier smiled widely. He wished he could see better.
There was a full moon that night, and Bognor could see round the Friary as clearly as on the night that he’d discovered the poker school. That time he had tried to be silent and unobtrusive, but now he could be as noisy as he liked. It was, after all, Simon Bognor’s hour of triumph.
For a moment he stood at the entrance to the courtyard, savouring the situation, then he clumped aggressively across it, past the well, into the farmhouse, and to the door of Father Anselm’s room. Once there, he knocked knocked loudly three times and listened.
There was a light on inside, which was curious even to Bognor, who at that moment was past curiosity, but there was no reply. He knocked again and this time was rewarded by a strange muffled sound. It seemed to Bognor that it was a voice, or even voices.
‘Father Anselm,’ he said loudly, ‘
please open. This is Bognor of the Board of Trade.’
Again he was answered, but quite unintelligibly. ‘Oh, really,’ he said out loud. ‘This is absolutely ridiculous.’ Since he was getting nowhere at all he decided to go out and look through the window to see what was happening. He had an uneasy feeling that all was not as he had expected. Outside he pressed his nose to the lighted window and let out an indeterminate sound of utter amazement as he saw Father Anselm and Father Simon bound and gagged and sitting on the floor. At once his elation deserted him. He had been foiled.
Stepping back from the window, he tried to think clearly. He had better rescue them. But how? He needed a key. Or could he force the lock? He had no metal rule with him, so it had better be a key. From where? Who had keys? The guest master. He’d better find Brother Barnabas.
A few minutes later the two Fathers, Brother Barnabas and Simon Bognor were standing in the Abbot’s room with glasses of sherry in their hands. All four, for different reasons, appeared quite distraught and all four were talking at once. ‘They can’t have got far,’ said Bognor. ‘They’ve no money, no transport, no friends, no nothing. They’ll be hiding in the woods.’ Suddenly he had a nasty hint of intuition. ‘No friends,’ he repeated. ‘No friends… not true, not true at all… Mr. Hey of the Boot.’ Shouting which he fled the room, leaving the friars in a state of aggrieved confusion.
Down at the Boot he found another bizarre scene. It was after closing time, but in the bar Mr. Hey, two cowhands and a strange woman he took to be their landlord’s wife were gathered in varying stages of intoxication and hysteria.