The Abbot of Stockbridge

by Philip McCutchan

  Brother Peter snivelled but gave no direct answer. Brother Werribee, Shard thought, had too wide a mouth for his own good. True, the atmosphere was far from monastic but Brother Werribee had now confirmed as a fact that Cousin Wally operated through the medium of fear. And another thought: whatever he, Shard, was now heading for, which wasn’t likely to be anything particularly pleasant, he might in some way be able to make good use of Brother Peter who was not happy with his lot. That was at least worth bearing in mind.

  They reached the back portions of the monastery. It was a vast building, once a country house on a grand scale, basement, four storeys, plus extensive attics. There was a central block and two wings, with outbuildings and what had once been a stable block and was now garages. In the centre of the rear courtyard a well stood, wooden covers in place beneath the bucket that swung from an overhead beam. Shard was taken past this and into what looked like a butler’s pantry; and from here to the kitchens. Brother Peter detached himself from the escort and hopped across a stone-flagged floor to the comfort of a big wickerwork armchair with cushions, set to one side of an enormous kitchen range with four ovens and a pot of stew bubbling away on a hot-plate. Brother Peter’s sub-machine gun was laid on a mat.

  “Lovely,” he said with a sigh, nursing his ankle. “Oh, I’m ever so tired, I don’t know how I lasted —”

  “Shut up, Pansy-face, and get off your bloody bum, lock the bloody door, right?”

  Brother Peter did as he was told, looking huffy. As well as locking, he shot heavy bolts across the back door. Brother Werribee and the other monk, so far nameless, prodded Shard with their guns. Another door was pointed out to him and he was told to head for it.

  *

  Next morning, no Shard at the Foreign Office. Hedge, demanding Rennies, fired his guns at his personal secretary instead, finding fault with everything and not giving her a chance to say a word until he had emptied his mind of spleen.

  Then she said, “Chief Inspector Bell, Mr Hedge.” Bell was Shard’s number two.

  “What was that?”

  “He asks to see you, Mr Hedge.”

  “Then why didn’t you say so?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Hedge.”

  “What does he want?”

  “He didn’t say, Mr Hedge. Shall I send him up?”

  “Yes, yes, of course, do.”

  Chief Inspector Bell came up. Unlike Shard, he was a man of some deference and addressed Hedge as sir.

  “Well, what is it, Mr Bell?”

  “Word from Customs and Excise, sir. In Shoreham, West Sussex. They took a report from the Coastguard, a boat spotted off Splash Point, in Worthing.”

  “Well? Was action taken?”

  “It was, sir, but nothing positive emerged. The boat, a dinghy with an outboard motor, was in fact leaving the shore and contained only one man, the crew as I take it. Not being able to give a satisfactory explanation of his movements, this person was brought ashore and placed in custody in Worthing police station.”

  “I see,” Hedge said, and asked keenly, “And?”

  “Worthing police await instructions, sir. In the circumstances, if you follow me.”

  “I follow you,” Hedge said, and added crossly, “Where’s Mr Shard, do you know?”

  “I don’t, I’m afraid, sir. He left no instructions.”

  “Just like him,” Hedge muttered beneath his breath. “No Mr Shard when he’s wanted. Is this man being charged? And if so, what with?”

  “No charge, sir, pending Whitehall instructions.”

  “I see. So they can’t go on holding him indefinitely.”

  “No, sir.”

  Hedge’s lips thinned. “Very well. I shall go myself to Worthing.” Obeying his orders from the Head of Security, Hedge would go into the field. He would go to Worthing by train. No, not all the way to Worthing: he would leave the train at Shoreham and have words with Customs and Excise before going on to see the apprehended man. It was always just as well to have the background story first. And then Customs and Excise could drive him to the police station in Worthing.

  *

  Shard had been placed in a cell overnight: Brother Werribee said he would be interrogated in the morning by Reverend Father’s sidekick, the precentor, Brother James.

  “Don’t look much like a poacher to me,” Brother Werribee said. “I reckon poachers don’t carry automatics.” Shard’s gun and torch had naturally been removed on first contact in the forest. “Don’t sound like a poacher either. Or dress like one. Collar an’ tie. Reckon you’re not short of a bloody bunny rabbit or two, right?”

  Shard shrugged. He hadn’t expected the poacher angle to stand close scrutiny in any case, not beyond the simple mind of Brother Peter. But he was not saying anything and Brother Werribee, having placed him in the cell, didn’t press. Nor did he linger; he locked the door and left. The cell was situated in the extensive basement area and could once have been a store-room, a small one, or a boot room or similar. The walls were obviously thick and the door was strong. There was no window and there was no light once Brother Werribee had gone and had used the switch, which was situated in the passageway running outside. The darkness enveloped Shard, thick and heavy, almost tangible. He wondered what the apartment’s normal purpose was. A spare cell for visiting monks, the normal accommodation accorded the brethren of God’s Anointed, or the monastic equivalent of a police or punishment cell? Before the light had gone Shard had seen a plank bed with a rather dirty blanket and beside it a kind of small cupboard, presumably for the occupant’s personal possessions, the sort of receptacle that in the pre-monastic days of the great house might have contained a chamber pot. That was the total furnishing. Who would be a monk?

  Shard’s wrist-watch had been removed along with the handgun and torch. He had no idea, after a while, of the time. He might as well try to sleep, there being nothing else to do other than to reflect that he was now in the hot spot, the seat of Cousin Wally’s religious, query, empire. If Cousin Wally came down in person, he might learn quite a lot about Hedge that he didn’t know currently.

  That should be interesting.

  He also had a shrewd idea that he might soon come face to face with The Long Knife. That should be interesting too, if very dangerous.

  *

  Morning came, though Shard was not immediately aware of the fact. He hadn’t found much sleep when the light came back on and the door of the cell was opened and Brother Peter and another monk stood in the doorway with what proved to be breakfast: a jug of water and three slices of bread, somewhat stale as he found.

  “What happens next?” he asked.

  Brother Peter gave a high-sounding giggle. “You’ll be for it,” he said. “Prying where you’d no business to be, it’s a sin. Unlucky for you I was having a — was where I was. Reverend Father’ll commend me for that,” he added virtuously.

  “I congratulate you indeed, fortuitous though it was.”

  “Eh? Pardon?” Brother Peter was puzzled. “Come again?”

  “Oh, never mind.” Shard examined the bread. “How’s your stomach now?”

  “Better. Oh, much better I’m glad to say. I’ve had a cross word or two with Brother Kitchener I can tell you. Oh, ever so cross I was.” Brother Peter gestured with his hand, a brushing off motion as if swatting at a fly. “And Brother Kitchener was ever so sorry, he was really. Something was off, see, and he hadn’t noticed would you believe it.” Brother Peter paused. “Well, I must be off, there’s work to do. Bye-bye.”

  A woman’s work was never done, Shard thought sardonically, the phrase being one used frequently by his mother-in-law to the accompaniment of forbearing looks directed at himself. He thought now of Beth. How would she be bearing up? No news, it was said, was good news. Maybe so, but not always to a policeman’s wife. Shard knew, having put his head into the lion’s mouth, that he might never extract it again. Brother Peter had been farce; Reverend Father wouldn’t be. Nor might the precentor be either. Cousin Wally wo
uld presumably have chosen a dependable lieutenant.

  Soon after Shard had eaten his breakfast, back once again in that total darkness, the cell was opened up and the Australian tones of Brother Werribee ordered him out to face what had to be faced. And beaten.

  *

  Hedge took a taxi from Shoreham railway station to Customs and Excise. His arrival having been telephoned ahead he was surprised not to be met with transport, but there it was, Customs and Excise were not the Foreign Office and so, as in the case of the police too, what could you expect? However, he was received with proper courtesies when he reached the Custom House and so he was mollified.

  He lost no time. “This man,” he said. “The seafarer. What were the precise circumstances?”

  They told him, in detail. The report from the coastguard had caused a full alert of the waterguard section of HM Customs and Excise and the boat had been pounced upon with no time lost, a fast customs launch having sped out from Shoreham docks to intercept.

  “A thorough search, Mr Hedge.”

  “Of the man?”

  “Of the man and the boat, Mr Hedge. Very thorough … drugs, you understand.”

  “Not presumably a long job. Not of a rowing boat.”

  The officer seemed a little hurt. “Not a very long job, no.”

  “And were there drugs?”

  “No, Mr Hedge, boat and man were clean in that respect. Which was why our suspicions were aroused, you see.”

  “Ah. Suspicious, is it, when no drugs are found?”

  “Yes indeed, Mr Hedge. It’s drugs we normally expect to find when boats are on the move clandestinely. When you don’t find drugs, then the mind leaps to other potentialities.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “Especially at this moment in time, Mr Hedge. Without speaking of matters that shouldn’t be referred to openly … I think you get my drift, Mr Hedge?”

  “Yes. Very commendable. Now, what about the man himself? Has he been questioned?”

  “Yes, Mr Hedge, but he was unable to answer our questions to our satisfaction. His English is virtually non-existent.” The customs officer, who was an earnest rumpled-looking man wearing two rings of gold lace on his cuffs like a naval lieutenant, now ruffled his hair which made him look more rumpled and earnest than ever. “He answered just one question, to do with his nationality, which was clearly not British. He said he was Dutch.”

  Hedge raised his eyebrows. “Dutch? Why was not the Foreign Office informed of this, pray?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, Mr Hedge, I wasn’t aware they had not been. In any case, I believe his claim of Dutch nationality to have been false —”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, there were a lot of neins and heins and Herrs if you follow. Ja was also said, though not often. When this was reported to me, which was a while after the event, I immediately telephoned the Missions to Seamen in Littlehampton. Their opinion was that the man was probably a German national.”

  SIX

  There had been a report from the Stockbridge area. Cousin Wally said, “That telephone call, Oliphant.”

  “Oh, ah?”

  “As a result of it I have to go down to the monastery. I can’t say how long for.” Reverend Father, as Cousin Wally was about to become again, gave a cheery smile. “Hold the fort, Oliphant, old boy, won’t you?”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “I know I can rely on you. Just one thing: if there are any enquiries along … well, along certain lines, you know what I mean … you’re still not to let on that Mr Hedge has visited this house. Understood, old boy?”

  Oliphant nodded and with a duster flicked at Cousin Wally’s desk: Oliphant was very house-proud. “You’re the boss,” he said.

  Ten minutes later the Abbot of Stockbridge was on his way in the Toyota Lexus LS 400 that had been spotted previously by the innkeeper near the monastery. With him he took no luggage: Reverend Father’s suite in the monastery was always fully equipped to receive him. Clothing, toothbrush and all. Also all necessary weapons, nicely and handily concealed, a home from home.

  Being much worried as a result of the telephone call, for intruders were or could be a threat, he took the drive very fast though being prudently careful to keep mostly within the speed limit. The Bill, if provoked, could become nosey.

  The telephone call to South Kensington had been sketchy; a fuller report was rendered by the precentor within minutes of Reverend Father’s arrival at the monastery.

  “You’ve not been able to find out who this man is, then?”

  “No luck at all,” Brother James said briefly, picking at his teeth with a matchstick. “Not that I’ve really tried yet …”

  “You mean you’ve not roughed him up?”

  “No. I thought it best to wait for you to get here, see.” The Precentor of Stockbridge had once been a boxer and looked the part with his flattened nose. Legitimate boxing had ceased when jiggery-pokery behind the scenes, the fixing of fights and so on, had landed him in gaol on charges of fraud and GBH; and he was well capable of roughing up when it was expedient. He looked as though he enjoyed it. He asked, “Do right, did I, Reverend Father?”

  Cousin Wally answered absently; he had been thinking hard. “Yes. Yes, quite right, Brother James. You’d better bring him in now, then we’ll see.”

  “Give him the chop?”

  “I said we’ll see.”

  Brother James said warningly, “Don’t want to take chances, not with —”

  “No, indeed not, and I shall not do that, you may be sure. But before making any decisions, I shall see the man. And the chop, as you put it in your wretched prison vernacular, Brother James, may not come about. Persons are often more use alive than dead. Go and get him, if you please, Brother James.”

  *

  Hedge had been delivered by Customs and Excise to Worthing police station. He was taken to the interview room and the seafarer was brought in under guard by two constables who remained standing on either side of him as he faced Hedge who was seated at a table.

  “Now then,” Hedge said, clearing his throat. “Do you speak English?” The formal enquiry had to be made.

  It was met by a blank look.

  “No English at all?”

  One of the constables answered. “He doesn’t seem to, sir.” Hedge grunted. How, he wondered, was he to interrogate a man who spoke no English or, more likely he believed, didn’t intend to? It was an impasse. He addressed the policeman. “Nothing found on him according to the customs people. No means of identity.”

  “That’s correct, sir. We made our own body search, of course.”

  “Still nothing?”

  “Nothing at all, sir.”

  Hedge grunted again, crossly. He was wasting his time, he felt. The seafarer looked bored, yet cheeky with it, as if he knew that his interrogator had no idea what to say or do next. Then Hedge got abruptly to his feet and announced, “He’ll have to be taken to London and — and dealt with there. I’ll fix that with your superintendent and the Home Office — this may turn out to be … not what it may appear on the surface. It may be —”

  Hedge was interrupted by a sergeant who came bustling through the door into the interview room. “Mr Hedge, sir —”

  “Yes?”

  “A call from Whitehall.” The sergeant glanced towards the suspect seafarer. “If you’d care to step outside for a moment, sir?”

  Hedge got up from the table and followed the sergeant outside. “If you’d call back, sir. The Home Office. The Under-Secretary himself.”

  “Ah. Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No, sir, he did not.”

  It must obviously be important, but not a great deal could be said on an open line. Hedge was accorded the privilege of the superintendent’s office. He was quickly in touch with an assistant under-secretary and then, almost immediately, with the Under-Secretary of State himself.

  “Hedge, Under-Secretary.”

  “I know that. What are yo
u doing?”

  “An interrogation, Under-Secretary —”

  “The man in the boat?”

  “You know about him, Under-Secretary?”

  There was a snap in the voice. “Of course. Drop it, Hedge. See that he’s taken under strong escort to — you’ll know where. Amanda Gunning. And come yourself … I might add that I have the authority of your own Head of Security —”

  “Yes, Under-Secretary. I had already decided that the man should go to London.” Hedge was determined to get that in rather than allow the Home Office to steal his thunder. He was mentally congratulating himself on his quickness of thought when the bombshell burst. The Under-Secretary asked with apparent casualness, “Does the name Crushe-Smith mean anything to you? Walter Crushe-Smith?”

  *

  “My name,” Shard said, “is Jones.”

  Reverend Father grinned. “Smith and Jones. Very neat.” He paused. “Do you follow my poor attempt at a joke, Mr Jones?”

  Being officially ignorant of Cousin Wally’s identity, Shard shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, never mind. What were you doing in the monastery grounds, Mr Jones? Looking for mushrooms, perhaps?” Shard shrugged. “If you say so.”

  “I don’t say it.”

  “Another joke?”

  “Equally poor, Mr Jones. Come, now. You must have had a purpose, mustn’t you?”

  Shard, having nothing to say, said nothing. He was in a spot and he knew it. Brother James was standing close behind him and breathing heavily. Reverend Father said musingly, “People without good reasons for doing so should not go wandering about on other people’s property, should they? It’s not done, you know. It really isn’t. Well?” The word came out like a bullet and Brother James moved in closer.

  “I’ve nothing to tell you,” Shard said. He had seen the resemblance to Hedge, but Cousin Wally was a very different character, serene, self-assured without being pompous, as hard as flint behind the stomach and the fat. He was not going to get away with his penetration of the monastery grounds. He’d thought fleetingly, but only fleetingly, of offering as a reason a need to relieve himself in the monastery’s trees, but no-one with that simple but urgent need would have penetrated the trees for about half a mile, being subsequently apprehended by Brother Peter well past the place where that hole in the ground had been dug.