Bell Harry

by Nicholas Best

  Ivy was in bad shape when I saw her. Her fiancé was in the British army, and he’d been killed in Burma. He’d been dead for years, but she’d only just found out with the Japanese surrender.

  All those years of waiting, hoping she’d get a letter, hoping he might be a prisoner, and he’d been dead all along. Ivy’d taken it real bad. She didn’t have any grief left over for Billy.

  I said goodbye after a while and took a walk, heading out toward our old camp outside town. It was a sunny day as I went, just a few clouds drifting along in a lovely blue sky. The town was lying there all quiet and peaceful, hard to believe the war was really over at last.

  They’d pulled the barrage balloon down, over the cathedral, but there was still plenty of bomb damage around. It took them years to clear it all away and rebuild everything like it was before.

  I walked past our old camp and up into the training area, aiming for where we’d buried the ammo box. I didn’t need any bearings to tell me where it was. I found the place straight away.

  You couldn’t miss it when I got there. A great big hole in the ground. Nothing at the bottom where the jewels used to be.

  I couldn’t believe it at first. Dutch must have been there. He’d dug up the box. It must have been him. No one else knew where to look.

  Dutch had taken the treasure. Taken it and cut me out. He wasn’t going to share it with me. He’d taken it all for himself, every last penny of it.

  I couldn’t understand it, at first. Dutch wouldn’t do this, I kept telling myself. Not Dutch. We were buddies. I saved his life.

  But then I got to thinking. About Billy, and how he died. A bullet in the middle of the back. How come Billy got shot in the back when he was facing toward the enemy, where the fire was coming from? How come no one saw him die?

  And me, outside of Soissons. I didn’t run into Dutch’s line of fire. It was me he was trying to kill. I just didn’t keep still long enough for him to succeed.

  I felt like I’d been jackknifed in the stomach. Dutch had done this. Dutch! After all we’d been through together.

  I didn’t want to believe it, even with the evidence of my own eyes. Even looking at the hole in the ground and knowing Dutch had been there and taken everything and never said nothing about it, I still didn’t want to believe it. I just didn’t want to.

  But he’d done it. There was no getting away from it. Dutch had killed Billy, and tried to kill me, just so he could keep everything for himself. That’s what he’d done.

  I was mad as hell about it, is all I can say. So mad I couldn’t speak. So mad I’d have killed Dutch right there if I’d only known where to find him.

  I was still mad when I got back to the States. All the way across the ocean I lay sprawled in my bunk, figuring out what to do about it when I got home.

  We came in to New York, all the GIs cheering the Statue of Liberty and letting off condoms blown up like balloons, but I didn't take part in any of that. All I could think of was Dutch, and what I was going to do to him when I caught up with him.

  I didn’t even know where he was, or how I would find him. I just knew that I would, somehow, and when I did, the lousy sonofabitch was going to regret the day his mother ever gave birth to him.

  I’m coming to the end of my story now, just a little bit more to tell. It’s the bit I don’t want to talk about, but I got to do it. I have to get it off of my conscience before I die. I need a clean slate if I’m going to meet my Maker in a few weeks’ time.

  I did catch up with Dutch, much sooner than I expected. He was still in the 1051st when I got back to the States. He was waiting for his discharge, same as me.

  I was sent to the depot in Maryland, soon as the ship docked. Dutch was one of the first people I saw when I arrived. There he was, large as life. The guy who had killed Billy Williams and then taken the gold and jewels all for himself.

  He saw me the same time I saw him. His face fell at once, but he quickly recovered. He came straight over, all smiles as he held out his hand.

  ‘Ezra! How are you, buddy? It’s good to see you.’

  ‘Don’t give me that, Dutch. I went back to Canterbury.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The treasure was gone. You dug it up. You took it all for yourself.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Dutch was all innocence. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes, you do. You killed Billy and you tried to kill me. You wanted everything for yourself.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. You’ve got me wrong, Ezra.’

  Dutch kept denying it for a while, but we both knew he was lying. He’d done it, all right. He’d thought he would never see me again. And now here I was, standing right in front of him.

  ‘I didn’t kill Billy,’ he claimed, after a bit. ‘Honest to God, Ezra, I never did. But I did dig up the treasure. You’re right about that.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘I buried it again, somewhere close by. It’s still there, old buddy, not far from where it was before. We can go back and get it when everything has settled down.’

  ‘You think I’m going to believe that?’

  ‘It’s there, all right. I didn’t want to bring it back to the States right away in case I got caught. A lot of guys have been caught, looting stuff in Europe. I just left it where it was until the heat’s off.’

  ‘You’re going to go back for it?’

  ‘You can come with me, Ezra. We’ll go together.’

  Yeah, right. I’d have killed Dutch there and then if I could have gotten away with it. I wouldn’t have killed him for the money, though. It was never about the money. I never thought the treasure belonged to us anyway.

  It was about what Dutch did to Billy. All those years of life Billy missed, because Dutch shot him for a bunch of jewels. What kind of a guy was Dutch, that he could do something like that? I’ve never figured it out, for as long as I’ve lived.

  All I know for sure is they never done us any good, those jewels. Not Billy, with a bullet in his back. Not Dutch, after I’d finished with him. And not me, either. All I ever got out of it was a bad conscience by the time it was over. I just wish we’d never found them, is what I wish.

  I don’t want to talk about what happened next. Not about the details, anyway. I’ll just say what I have to and leave it at that.

  I caught Dutch alone a few days later, in the dark, when no one else was around. I was planning to beat the hell out of him, but I got carried away. I ended up stamping on his head so hard that I killed him by mistake. Then I dumped his body by the roadside for someone else to find.

  I got away with it too. There were cops all over the place next day, but they never came looking for me. Why would they, when there was nothing to link me to the crime? They never found out who killed Dutch or why. I guess he’s still on a list of unsolved murders in Maryland.

  Time was, I would never have dreamed of killing anyone like that. I’m not that kind of guy. But the war changed everything for me. Killing didn’t seem so hard, after I shot that German kid in France. Quite easy to do, in fact.

  Anyhow, that’s all I want to say. About Dutch Branigan, and the big ruby, and the rest of the stuff we found down that tunnel. I guess it’s still there, most of it; the silver statue and the skeletons and Becket’s skull with a hole in the top where somebody took a chunk out of his brains. The jewels are in a field somewhere, buried outside of Canterbury.

  Everything’s still there, one place or another, unless anyone knows any different. I’m the only person alive who’s seen any of it, and I’ll be gone soon. Then all that’ll be left is this tape.

  So that’s what I’m doing here, putting it on record for somebody else to figure out. I’m not going to show this tape to my family. I don’t want my grandkids to know what I did in Europe. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it instead. I guess probably I’ll send it to some experts somewhere, England maybe, people who know what the treasure was all about. Must be someone, somewhere who kno
ws what it was about.

  Not me, though. I’m done now. Time for my medication. I’ll turn the tape off now and then I’m going to the bathroom.

  Chapter Three

  Thomas Becket and the French King’s Ruby

  Ezra Tyler was right about a big ruby in the cathedral. A jewel answering that description had been kept on public display in Canterbury cathedral for many hundreds of years. It had had pride of place at the tomb of Thomas Becket before vanishing mysteriously in Tudor times. What had happened to it since then was anybody’s guess.

  Thomas Becket had been Archbishop of Canterbury before being murdered in the cathedral in 1170. He had been King Henry II’s closest friend and ally until his appointment as Archbishop. The two men had become bitter enemies thereafter.

  Henry had made Becket Archbishop because he wanted royal control of the Church. He wanted the clergy to be under the same laws as everyone else in the land. The King’s laws, not the Church’s.

  Henry had expected his friend to carry out his wishes. Becket had stubbornly refused, insisting that the Church had the right to be governed by its own laws. Relations between the two men had sunk so low by December 1170 that Henry had resolved to get rid of his tiresome Archbishop, one way or another.

  Henry was Duke of Normandy, as well as King of England. He had moved the royal court to his castle at Bures for that Christmas. He was at Bures, in Normandy, when the Archbishop of York and two other bishops came to complain that Becket had just excommunicated them from the Church. Becket had done so without good cause, in their opinion. They wanted absolution.

  It was the last straw for Henry. He was outraged as the three men poured out their grievances.

  ‘As long as Thomas is alive, you will never have a good day, or a peaceful kingdom, or a quiet life,’ one of them told him.

  Henry agreed. He was spitting with rage by the time the men had finished speaking.

  ‘Becket has eaten my bread,’ he complained to the assembled court. ‘The man has lifted his heel against me. I showered him with gifts and he dares to insult the King and the whole royal family. He came to court on a lame pack animal and now he thinks he sits on the throne itself.’

  The courtiers all nodded agreement as Henry continued.

  ‘What wretches there are at court. What cowards, who care nothing for their allegiance to their master. Not one of them will deliver me from this low-born priest!’

  That was a challenge that couldn’t be ignored. The courtiers looked at each other after Henry had stormed out of the room. He clearly expected something to be done about Thomas Becket. It was up to them to decide what.

  ‘Where is Becket now?’ somebody asked.

  ‘Canterbury. He went there for Christmas.’

  There were several knights among the gentlemen of the King’s bedchamber. Four of them got together to discuss what to do.

  ‘We’ll have to stop Becket somehow,’ one of them said. ‘The King wishes it. He’ll reward us if we do.’

  The others agreed. Calling for their horses, they set out that same day, heading by different roads for the French coast. Three other courtiers were sent in haste to stop them, but the courtiers were too late. The four knights crossed to England next morning and made their way to Saltwood Castle on the Kent coast, a few miles south of Canterbury.

  The castle was occupied by an old enemy of Becket’s. He welcomed the knights and helped them to carry out their plan. A few local men were levied as troops in the King’s name. On the morning of 29 December, the men assembled behind the knights and followed them to Canterbury. They arrived that afternoon at St Augustine’s, the abbey just outside the city walls.

  At the abbey, the knights issued another proclamation in the King’s name, forbidding anyone to offer any help to the Archbishop. Taking a dozen men with them, they then made their way around the side of the cathedral precincts to the gate in Palace Street.

  It was beginning to get dark as the knights stationed their men at the house inside the gate. From there, it was only a few yards to the Archbishop’s residence, where Becket and the cathedral clergy had just had a late lunch in the great hall. After Becket had left, the floor of the hall had been strewn with fresh straw before his servants and a crowd of Canterbury’s poor sat down to enjoy their own meal.

  The four knights left their weapons at the door and strode in. They were greeted by the Archbishop’s seneschal, who led them upstairs to Becket’s room.

  ‘Here are four knights from King Henry,’ he told the Archbishop. ‘They want to talk to you.’

  Becket had been warned that the knights were coming. He had been drinking heavily during lunch, telling anyone who wanted to escape the impending violence that they should do so immediately, while they still had the chance. He himself had no intention of going anywhere.

  He was talking to a monk as the knights came in. Becket knew three of the knights from his time as Lord Chancellor, but he ignored them all as they joined the other people sitting at his feet. He finished his conversation before turning at length to Sir William de Tracy and greeting him by name.

  Tracy didn’t reply. It was Sir Reginald Fitzurse who broke the silence after a while.

  ‘We have a message for you from the King over the water,’ he told Becket. ‘Do you want to hear it in private, or in front of everybody?’

  ‘Whichever you wish.’

  The monks got up tactfully and prepared to withdraw. Becket stopped them. He didn’t want to be left alone with the knights if they were going to murder him.

  ‘The King over the water commands you to do your duty to the King on this side of the water, instead of trying to steal his crown,’ Fitzurse told Becket. ‘You’ve caused a lot of trouble in the kingdom. The King orders you to come to court to answer for it.’

  Becket shook his head. He had only recently returned to England from many years of foreign exile. He wasn’t about to leave once more. ‘I won’t let the sea come between me and my Church again,’ he replied. ‘Not unless I’m dragged there by my feet.’

  It wasn’t what the knights wanted to hear. Becket complained in turn that he had suffered too. The King wasn’t the only one with a grievance, in his opinion.

  The knights took great exception to that. Jumping up, they crowded around Becket, yelling abuse at him, nose to nose. His own people sprang to his defence. Fitzurse ordered them to seize the Archbishop and arrest him in the name of the King. The monks took no notice. They clustered defiantly around Becket instead, daring the knights to do their worst.

  The knights decided to withdraw. They went to collect their weapons, calling for their own men at the same time. Throwing off the cloaks that had concealed their armour, they headed back to the hall with reinforcements, only to find that the door had been barred against them.

  There was another way into the building from behind the kitchen. The knights used a carpenter’s axe to break in. Most of Becket’s attendants fled at the sound, fearing what was coming. Becket was determined to stand his ground until it was pointed out to him that it was now five o’clock in the afternoon, time for vespers in the choir. He reluctantly allowed his few remaining followers to hustle him through the cloisters into the cathedral, where he would be safe.

  The knights followed. They caught up with Becket’s party just inside the cathedral door, by the entrance to the crypt. It was hard to tell who was who in the gathering gloom.

  ‘Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to the King?’ demanded one of the knights.

  ‘I’m here,’ Becket answered. ‘I’m not a traitor. What do you want?’

  Fitzurse shoved the carpenter’s axe against Becket’s chest. ‘You’re going to die,’ he told him. ‘I’ll tear your heart out.’

  Another knight hit Becket across the shoulders with the flat of his sword.

  ‘Run,’ he advised. ‘You’ll be killed if you stay.’

  More people were arriving every minute. The townspeople had heard what was happening and were rushing into the cath
edral, crowding headlong up the nave. There were too many witnesses around for comfort. Rather than be seen abusing the sanctity of the cathedral, the knights grabbed hold of Becket and tried to drag him outside.

  Becket refused to go. He was a big man. He seized Tracy by his coat of mail and threw him to the ground. Fitzurse drew his sword in reply and took a swing at Becket’s head.

  He succeeded only in knocking Becket’s cap off. Tracy too swung his sword and wounded the only remaining monk in the arm before grazing Becket’s head and cutting into his shoulder.

  Blood trickled down Becket’s face. He wiped it off with his sleeve. He could see that there was no hope now.

  ‘Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit,’ he declared.

  Becket fell to his knees as Tracy hit him again. He was face down on the floor when another sword stroke severed the top of his head from his skull. He was hit so hard that the sword point broke on the flagstones.

  To finish the job, another of the killers poked the end of his sword into Becket’s brains and scattered them all over the floor. Then they all fled, whooping in triumph as they headed back to the Archbishop’s house through the cloisters.

  It was some time before the monks could bring themselves to return. Approaching very cautiously, they held up a light. Becket was lying face down where he fell, his scalp hanging by a single piece of skin. Blood was oozing slowly all over the floor.

  The monks turned the body over and bound Becket’s wounds with a torn shirt. They collected the broken sword pieces and scooped up Becket’s blood and brains, precious relics of the martyr. The townspeople were pressing forward by then, determined to see the corpse for themselves. They wanted to dip their clothing in the blood in case it had miraculous properties.

  Benches were placed across the floor to keep them away. Opinion about the murder was strongly divided in the town. Plenty of people thought that Becket had got what he deserved, openly defying the King. What they all agreed on was that his comeuppance should never have happened in the cathedral. Murder in the house of God was sacrilege.