The Abbot of Stockbridge

by Philip McCutchan

  The Long Knife, persona non grata in Britain and America, known to the intelligence services of both countries, left clandestinely from a small port on the estuary of the Elbe.

  *

  The Abbot of Stockbridge was at his South Kensington residence. The man Oliphant, who answered Hedge’s telephone call, said the boss would see him. Reverend Father in one place, Hedge thought, plain boss in the other, which seemed to epitomise Cousin Wally’s two roles in life.

  Half an hour after his call, Hedge was admitted by Oliphant. Oliphant smiled familiarly and said, “Hullo, ducky.”

  “Good afternoon, Oliphant.”

  “I’m not put down, you know,” Oliphant said cheekily.

  “I really don’t care what you are. Kindly take me to Mr Crushe-Smith.”

  “Righty-oh, then.”

  The Abbot of Stockbridge was in his study, sitting at a big mahogany desk, writing. He waved at Hedge. “There you are, dear boy. What can I do for you?” He gave Hedge a conspiratorial wink. “Have you thought about what I said yesterday?”

  “No,” Hedge said. Then he added, “Yes.”

  “Make up your mind, dear boy. I would have thought it rather important, wouldn’t you, that you get it right.”

  “It’s a difficult situation for me,” Hedge said.

  “Yes. I see that.”

  Hedge glowered at his cousin. There was nothing of the abbot about Wally today. He was dressed in a business suit, pin-striped very discreetly, white shirt, gold cuff-links, very expensive silk tie. Like a successful stockbroker. Hedge’s clothes were good, but they clearly hadn’t cost what sat so neatly upon Cousin Wally’s plump, well-fed body. It was an abomination that a man like Cousin Wally should be so well-heeled while one of the props and mainstays of the Foreign Office should be made to look and feel like the proverbial poor relation. It wasn’t fair, really it wasn’t.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what, Wally?”

  “Oh, well done. Nicely alliterative I must say.” Cousin Wally shot his white cuff and looked at a gold watch, one that kept itself wound by the normal movements of its owner’s wrist. “I hate to hurry you, dear boy, but I’ve an appointment shortly. Now: is your answer yes or no?”

  “Yes,” Hedge said reluctantly. “Yes, it’s yes.”

  “Oh, good. That’s a relief I must say. You really can be very helpful.” There was a brief pause. “Have you anything to offer at this moment, Eustace?”

  “No, I haven’t as it so happens. There hasn’t been time. Not yet. I’ve been thinking over — what I should do. The yes or no.”

  “Quite. But not, I would have thought, a particularly hard choice. I think you do realise the alternative?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. But there’s really no need for threats of that kind, you know.” Hedge made an effort to sound friendly. “After all … we’re cousins. Second cousins,” he couldn’t help adding.

  “Yes, yes.” There was a mocking grin on Cousin Wally’s face. “So it’s all in the family. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Hedge said, trying not to say it through set teeth.

  “Yes. I’d remember that if I were you. If I were you, Eustace, I’d be damned sure never to forget it.”

  *

  Hedge left the South Kensington house in a haunted frame of mind. Before being ushered out by the wretched Oliphant, he had tried to find things out, as instructed by the Head of Security. He had tried very discreetly but Cousin Wally had cut him off sharpish. Cousin Wally was saying nothing. It was Hedge’s job to talk, Cousin Wally said pointedly. And talk he better had.

  “Oh, yes. When there’s anything to, er, talk about.”

  “In your job,” Cousin Wally had said, “there will be.” And that had been that.

  Hedge walked away from the house, making towards Kensington High Street. He wanted a taxi, and two empty taxis passed him shortly after he had left the house, but he disregarded them. No connection between Cousin Wally’s house and the FO must be advertised. There were no flies on Hedge. But when he picked up a taxi at last in the High Street he thought perhaps he was overreacting. After all, he was only obeying orders.

  Back in his office suite he got his secretary to ring down for Shard. Shard wasn’t there; his DCI was and would he do?

  “It was Mr Shard I wanted,” Hedge said snappishly. “Where has he gone?”

  “It’s understood he’s gone down to Hampshire, Mr Hedge.” Hedge banged the telephone down angrily. Hampshire: Stockbridge? Shard should have told him. It was very remiss. Anyway, Shard wouldn’t be finding the Abbot of Stockbridge in residence. A few minutes later Hedge had a surprise. His security line from Number Ten rang. That gave him an immense shock and the blood rushed to his head in a torrent. But all was well; very well indeed. A smooth voice spoke in his ear, a man’s voice. “Mr Hedge? I’m instructed by the Prime Minister to tell you how much she appreciates your readiness to serve. I don’t know if you follow? Events, you know. She’s really most grateful and sends her personal congratulations … she was much impressed by your handling of the Logan affair as well — as you know of course.”

  “Ah.”

  “Her message is, keep up the good work.”

  “Yes. Very gratifying. Thank you. And please be so good as to thank the Prime Minister.” The call was cut. Hedge preened. It was nice to be appreciated; and the PM really was a very splendid woman indeed. It would never do to let her down. Hedge stopped preening and sat transfixed with horror. In the circumstances, what could he possibly turn out to be other than a most dreadful let-down one way or the other?

  *

  Shard drove the Volvo out for the A30 to Stockbridge. His idea was a simple recce, establish the lie of the land around the monastery and see what if anything he could pick up, discreetly, in any local pub or village store. Monasteries were usually of some sort of interest in their vicinities and probably bought at least some of their supplies locally.

  Reaching Stockbridge he checked in at the Grosvenor Hotel in the main street. It was by now late afternoon; he decided that he would drive out to the monastery right away and get the geography fixed, then make his preliminary prowl after full dark.

  He had no difficulty, after having made enquiries from the hotel’s reception desk, in finding the monastery of God’s Anointed. Turning right out of the hotel, he turned right again at the western end of the village on to a road signposted for Longstock, a fairly steep climb. The country was quite well wooded in parts. The road was narrow; there was little traffic. Longstock, something over a mile from Stockbridge, was an attractive village with a number of small thatched cottages. The road continued through, very twisty thereafter and with sharp bends, and climbing, and again well wooded in parts. Shard turned north-west farther along for the villages of Abbot’s Ann and Monkston. The outskirts of Abbot’s Ann consisted chiefly of council houses but these gave way to more thatched cottages and an old-world village atmosphere. A steep hill led down to Monkston. Farther along, still following the directions given him in the hotel, Shard found the monastery. There were big gates standing open, and a long, winding drive. Only the roof of the building could be seen from the road. Shard drove on past, found a road off to the right that appeared to circle round behind the monastery. At the rear were thickly-growing trees, almost a forest, and once again, in one or two places, there was a glimpse of the roof. As Shard came past the back there was the sound of a bell being rung. An assembly for prayers? Or the call to the refectory maybe. Or possibly something quite different: the passing of orders to such of the temporary lay brothers who might be ready for the off, all set for infiltration into the community under new identities supplied by the Abbot. By Hedge’s Cousin Wally Crushe-Smith.

  The whole thing stank. Hedge was doing more than play with fire. So could he, Shard, be. It wasn’t a good position to be in. What he would be doing would be, largely, saving Hedge from himself. Or trying to. As well as trying to bowl out what formed a very nasty threat to British security
. And to peace.

  He drove back towards Stockbridge and the hotel. Not far from the monastery he found a village pub. He stopped and went in. Driving, he kept off the hard stuff, asked for a half-pint lemonade shandy.

  “New to these parts?” the landlord asked as he filled a glass. “Don’t get many chancers around here. Mostly they don’t leave the main roads. Spirit of adventure lacking.” He grinned, matily.

  Shard said yes, he was a stranger. “Business at the monastery,” he said. “Or may have. I guess some of the monks’ll have families in the outside world. Families they’ll want to provide for.”

  “You’re in insurance?”

  Shard nodded, and named an insurance company. “Might be worth a call in the morning.”

  The landlord said he didn’t know much about the chances of selling life insurance to monks. “Don’t reckon they have any money of their own, have they?”

  “Perhaps not. But —”

  “I reckon they’ll say God provides.”

  Shard laughed. “Still worth a shot. I have to live.”

  “Sooner you than me. I reckon they’re a close-knit bunch. Close fisted with it — they don’t spend much around here. Don’t believe they even shop in Stockbridge. Mind you, there’s money there, or I reckon there is. I’ve seen the boss bloke, the abbot, driving in and out. Jaguar mostly. Sometimes one of those big new Toyotas, Lexus LS 400. Other times a Range Rover. Always with the current year prefix.”

  Shard nodded. “Do any of the monks ever come in here?”

  “Never.” The landlord leaned across the bar counter. “You never see them outside the monastery, except for the abbot, driving. They grow their own vegetables, brew their own beer so it’s said, and the main supplies, the groceries and that, they all come in from London. Fortnum’s,” he added.

  “Lap of luxury?”

  “That’s about it. Luxury.”

  Another customer, a local by the look of him, came in. The landlord attended to him. Shard finished his drink, reflecting that the monasteries of old, prior to Henry VIII, had been wealthy enough. Maybe some still were, but God’s Anointed didn’t get their revenues in the old way. Far from it. But that had yet to be proved.

  *

  Hedge double-agented when, just as he was about to leave the Foreign Office, his internal line buzzed. The Head of Security came on the line. “Ah, Hedge —”

  “Yes, Head. I’ve made a preliminary contact.”

  “You mean — er.”

  “Yes.” Even right inside the FO you were very circumspect. Before long they would probably give the operation a code word.

  “Anything?”

  “I’m sorry to say not, Head. He’s keeping mum.”

  “Surprised to see you, after so many years?”

  “Er … yes, very surprised.”

  “Natural, I suppose. No suspicions — you managed to cover up?”

  “Yes,” Hedge said, much relieved that the Head hadn’t — yet — asked him what his cover story as to his occupation had been. “No suspicions —”

  “Well, that’s good, Hedge. He’ll soften up, given time.” There was a pause, quite a pregnant one Hedge thought. “But not too much time. This thing’s dicey, very dicey. The chap — you know who I mean — he’s pretty imminent.” Another pause. “Butler. All right?”

  “Butler,” Hedge repeated in a mystified tone. Who on earth was Butler? Or did he mean Oliphant? Hedge asked just that.

  “Who’s Oliphant?”

  “My second cousin’s butler. Sort of butler anyway —”

  “No, no, no! That’s what it’s to be. Don’t you understand, Hedge?”

  Hedge ticked over: he’d been dead right about a code name for the operation. Butler. Quite good, really: butlers looked after the silver in big houses, and cleaned the knives. The Long Knife, of course; cutler might have been too near, too obvious. Hedge said, “Yes, I do understand, Head. Yes.”

  “Good. Well, it’s vital the chap doesn’t disappear after landing. I’m relying on you, Hedge.” There was a hint of steel in the voice now and this time Hedge hadn’t once been addressed as ‘old boy’. That was fairly indicative. Hedge said he would be doing his best and the call was cut. Hedge sat quaking. He knew he was never going to get anything at all out of Cousin Wally. And for his part the Abbot of Stockbridge would soon start getting nasty. It was really a case of who got nastiest first. And Hedge would be slap in the middle.

  Being unable to think of anything else to do — he’d checked the microfilm files but they were no help since the real identity of The Long Knife was totally unknown — he went home. There was still no Mrs Millington. He decided to go to his club for dinner.

  *

  Shard dined at the Grosvenor, taking his time over an excellent meal. After it, he went to the bar and sat with a half-pint of lager, reading a magazine from one of the tables. Shortly after ten p.m. he went to his bedroom, brought out an automatic from his locked briefcase, checked it, slid in a clip and put it in the pocket of his anorak. A pencil torch also went into his pocket. Then he went downstairs, round to the back of the hotel and unlocked the Volvo. He drove out of the car park, and headed towards the headquarters of Wally Crushe-Smith: he was thinking in terms of an HQ rather than a monastery, since if what Wilson of MI5 had told him was correct, the monastery aspect must be very phoney indeed.

  He reached the vicinity. The night was very dark and very silent. Nothing seemed to move anywhere, except for the occasional nocturnal animal’s slither or scurry. There was a feel of rain in the air, though it was not raining yet. Shard drove slowly past the big gates, still thrown open, looked along the drive as he passed but the darkness was too thick for him to see more than a few yards beyond the gates.

  He drove on, going round the rear of the monastery, following the road he’d used earlier. Just off the road, well shaded by trees, was a lay-by. Shard took the Volvo into the lay-by. Switching off his engine he sat for two minutes with his driving window wound down, listening.

  No sounds, nothing at all. But there was now a little wind, nothing much, and after a while he became aware of the faint sigh from overhead, the wind in the tops of the big trees. Then another sound, very faint and distant but borne along that breeze from the south-west.

  Shard listened: the sound was that of digging, a spade turning the earth. And it wasn’t just one spade.

  Poachers? Men setting snares, or digging out badgers perhaps. Or something else?

  It was worth investigating. This assignment was making Shard think in terms of dead bodies, resurrected or otherwise.

  He left the Volvo, shutting the door very carefully, no slamming. He checked the automatic again, then crossed the road and moved into the trees.

  *

  A little after that midnight The Long Knife, now in his departure port on the estuary of the Elbe, also made checks of certain items of equipment as he sat in the stuffy cabin of a fishing vessel that was about to leave for the open sea. Heavy revolver; a dismantled Kalashnikov of Russian origin; two knives, long and thin and very lethal, his own preferred weapons; a Cellophane packet containing two pills even more lethal than the knives; and a small amount of Semtex explosive in a strong leather case, long and round and not unlike the cases used in the wartime British Navy for the containment of the charges that used to propel the shells from the mouths of the big guns of the cruisers and battleships of those far-off days. Similar in shape, but smaller and more easily portable.

  As The Long Knife completed his checking, he felt the tremor of the vessel’s engine and the movements on deck as the lines were cast off.

  Getting to his feet, he looked out of the porthole. As the vessel gathered way he watched the lights of Cuxhaven fade astern. It might be a long time before he saw those lights, or any other lights of the Fatherland, again. If ever … there was all to gain now but there was equally all to lose. But the Fatherland stood pre-eminent, the restoration of the old glories, the noble ideals of the German Reich, and
losing must not enter his thoughts other than as a spur to success. The Long Knife was not accustomed to losing, and he would not lose this time.

  The fishing vessel left the Elbe estuary, heading, once clear of the land, on a south-westerly course through the North Sea as the British called it; The Long Knife preferred its proper name, the German Ocean. Quite soon now, the world might come to know it as such.

  Five

  The total dark hid Shard; his movements were cautious, his step light, he made scarcely any sound as he headed in the direction of the digging.

  It grew louder.

  Then it began to rain. At first Shard was unaware of the rain; the trees absorbed it. But he felt an increased dampness in the atmosphere and the sounds of digging grew a little muffled and he guessed at the fact of the rain and deduced that the digging was taking place in a clearing more immediately susceptible.

  A little later he saw the loom of light ahead. A blue-shaded torch, and vague, shadowy figures, around six of them he believed, standing, or bending, in a circle. Still the digging sounds, now very obvious as such.

  He moved closer.

  The figures became a little clearer. He saw habits, with long tasselled girdles. Hoods were drawn over the heads of the monks, the phony monks who were making a mockery of the term monastery. Something was being buried, but what? Arms, explosives for use by Cousin Wally’s associates in their mad schemes of changing the face of Britain?

  Then, as the blue-shaded torch shifted its beam, Shard saw something else: a truck, into which earth was being hurled. It had been not so much digging he’d heard as earth-flinging. He saw also what looked like sheets of heavy canvas, tarpaulins. He went on watching; the loading of the truck went on beneath rain that quite soon diminished to a fine drizzle. The blue-shaded torch swung again, lit on mounds of chalky earth.