The Abbot of Stockbridge

by Philip McCutchan

  “Quite, Prime Minister —”

  “It is simply diabolical. And you have been so brave, Mr Sedge. So very brave.” She gave him a winning smile and sat for a moment on the bed. Hedge shifted his feet just in time to accommodate her. Mrs Heffer waffled on about bravery and the tremendous fighting spirit of such as himself. Remembering the Queen waiting in Buckingham Palace, Mrs Heffer brought her discourse to an abrupt end, rose from the bed, shook Hedge’s hand warmly, and processed back to the main entrance. Hedge was much flattered but was chagrined at being called Sedge; he hadn’t liked to correct her but hoped that someone would set the record straight. After the PM had gone, Hedge’s spirits sagged. There had been a euphoria about her visit but now the future loomed strongly. He had yet to report to Amanda Gunning’s stronghold in Knightsbridge and be catechised again about Wally Crushe-Smith.

  *

  “That hole in the ground,” Shard said.

  “Nasty, ever so nasty.”

  “Yes.”

  “Fall in if you don’t watch it. Of course, there’s the tarpaulins.”

  “Yes.” Shard was keeping his tone casual, just showing a polite interest, that was all. “What is it for, do you know, Brother Peter?”

  “No. That is, I’m not supposed to say.”

  “No, of course not. I understand that. Never mind.”

  Brother Peter frowned, then gave an uncertain titter. “I bet you’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”

  Shard shrugged. “Not really. None of my business.”

  “I bet you’d like to know just the same.”

  Shard played it very carefully. He shrugged again, totally disinterested now. It was clear to him that Brother Peter couldn’t wait to reveal his knowledge, wanting to surprise, astonish, shock. A ready-use grave was still Shard’s theory, but he said, “I expect it’s some kind of rubbish disposal. Bury the monastery’s old tin cans and so on.”

  Brother Peter giggled and patted at his hairstyle or what was left of it after the tonsuring process. “Tisn’t, you know.”

  “No?”

  “No.” Brother Peter frowned, seeming suddenly uncertain. “To be like perfectly frank and honest, I don’t really understand. But it’s not for old tin cans, that I do know. The lads have been set to dig down deep … like I said, I don’t really understand, it’s not my line, if you follow me.”

  “Exploring for oil?”

  “Not that, no. Don’t think it’s that. They won’t bloody explain. They just think I’m daft.”

  “I’m sure they don’t really, Brother Peter.”

  “Well …” Brother Peter wriggled his bottom. Shard wondered if this was the moment to make a grab for the gun but, oddly, it was still being held on a steady aim for his stomach. Besides which he hadn’t yet managed to get any hard information or indeed much sense out of his gaoler. Still casual, he asked if the monastery had many visitors.

  “From outside like?”

  Shard nodded. “Yes.”

  “Lay or monastic, do you mean?”

  “Either.”

  Brother Peter thought for a while and then said, “Yes. But they don’t seem to stay long.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “Ask me another. Maybe it’s that Brother James. They come to meditate, see. Recharge their batteries, Reverend Father puts it. But they seem to disappear after a couple of days re-charging.”

  Shard wondered: into that hole, or others like it, now refilled with earth? But if Cousin Wally’s financial empire was built, as it was said by Wilson of MI5 to be built, on the import of undesirable aliens, political opportunists and so on, then presumably Cousin Wally wasn’t in the business of murder. But that hole still nagged at Shard. He asked again about it, still very casual.

  Brother Peter gave a pout. “I said, I don’t bloody know, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, only don’t go on about it. You was asking about visitors.”

  Shard said nothing.

  “We get some right weird ones and all. Anyway, I call them weird. Blokes what hold services in the chapel, sort of secret.”

  Still Shard kept silent. It seemed the way to bring out the best in Brother Peter, who went on, “Secret like I said but, well, I did manage to find out like. Naughty me.” He tittered and gave his gun-hand a smack. Shard shifted sideways; such indiscreet action could cause a tragedy. “Buggers were praising someone. Name of Hilper I think it was, but —”

  “Hilper? Could it have been Hitler?”

  “Could be, I dunno. Know him, do you?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “You a mate of his? That why you’re here, is it?” There was a crafty look now in Brother Peter’s eye. “Don’t you say a word to Reverend Father about what I said. Or Brother James —”

  “No, of course I won’t,” Shard said reassuringly. “And Hitler’s definitely not a mate of mine. But go on.”

  “Music and singing,” Brother Peter said reflectively. “Bloody organ full blast. I dunno … singing like that Rule, Britannia thing only it wasn’t Rule, Britannia. More like … I dunno.”

  “Deutschland über Alles?”

  “Yes, could be. Sounds something like what I heard, yes.”

  Things were coming together: German nationalism as expressed in terms of Nazism, Cousin Wally’s alleged trade, The Long Knife … and that strange hole in the monastery grounds. There was an obvious link, but Shard was still pretty much in the dark. In any case, even if he had any hard information, it would be useless in his current situation. He turned again to Brother Peter’s personal predicament vis-à-vis Brother James’s bullying and the taunts of the other monks.

  “Have you ever thought of relinquishing your vows, Brother Peter? I mean, you’re obviously not happy with monastic life, are you?”

  “No, I’m bloody not! I said that.”

  “So you did. Well, why not get out?”

  “Huh. The chance’d be a fine thing.”

  “You mean there would be problems?”

  “More than bloody problems, mate. Reverend Father, he’d have me balls for breakfast. It’s a case of once in, never out, not if you’re like on the staff, which I am. Staff as against the lay brothers, which is what some of them visitors become —”

  “Are there ever any sisters, lay or otherwise?”

  “No. Like I told you, no fanny. This is a Men Only establishment,” Brother Peter said primly. “Which is why there’s that place in Salisbury made use of. Anyway, what I was saying: some of the visitors like become lay brothers just temporary, then they sod off like the short stay mob.”

  “Rather confusing,” Shard murmured.

  “Dead right. Especially like for Brother Cellarer what manages the domestic side. And Brother Treasurer and Brother Kitchener. Meals and that — you know. And Brother Cellarer always on the bloody booze, talk about a piss-artist, oh my word! Once I heard him say he could drink a prodigious amount of bloody mead, and on the word prodigious he passed out like a bleeding light he did.”

  Shard clicked his tongue. Brother Peter was doing very well. “Do I take it you don’t drink?” he asked.

  “Don’t touch a drop. It’s a sin, see. Then there’s my tummy.”

  “Yes, of course. Your tummy.”

  “Gives me hell sometimes. Like at compline.”

  “Complan?”

  “Compline. Complan’s a food, didn’t you know? Good stuff, I find.”

  “For your stomach?”

  “Yes. Compline’s prayers.”

  They were getting along like a house on fire. But time could be short. There was a need to hurry Brother Peter along, and to keep him more to the point.

  *

  Amanda Gunning came in person to Redhill, accompanied by a thick file of documents and two men from the house in Knightsbridge, neither of them known to Hedge but obviously vouched for by the simple fact of Ms Gunning’s presence. One of the men was short and fat, not unlike Hedge himse
lf, and had a cast in one eye, which was off-putting because Hedge didn’t know for certain when he was being looked at. The other man, a younger man, wore a heavy black beard, a T-shirt, jeans and sandals and carried a tape recorder. Hedge looked at him with distaste. Such a person would never be permitted in the Foreign Office but the Knightsbridge lot, except for Ms Gunning who had been at Roedean and Girton, were a pretty common bunch.

  For the purposes of MI5, Hedge’s bed had been shunted on its castors from the cubicle to a private room. An office, in fact, vacated by the social workers to accommodate Hedge for the time being. On the walls were various charts with ticks and crosses against a number of nursing homes and geriatric units and a calender extolling the virtues of a brand of toilet paper.

  The short, fat man adjusted his cast towards, more or less, Hedge. He spoke in low tones, like a conspirator which Hedge in fact considered all MI5 operatives to be. He bent towards the bed and began his task.

  “Walter Crushe-Smith, Mr Hedge.”

  “Yes.”

  “We know of the relationship. But there are consequential matters to be gone into.”

  Hedge palpitated beneath the bedclothes. But he was given, quite fortuitously, a breathing space for further thought. Just as the man with the cast was formulating further speech a telephone rang on one of the desks. Ms Gunning answered it. “No, I’m not Elsie. I’m sorry, but …” Hedge could hear a rattle like a machine-gun coming from the telephone. “Yes, this is the … No. I realise your anxiety but …” Ms Gunning’s face was a study in annoyance. “This office … no, I’ve already said … my dear woman, I don’t know anything about Doctor. Please ring off.” Without waiting for the caller to do so, Ms Gunning banged down the receiver. “A patient or something,” she said to the man with the cast. She had scarcely spoken when the telephone rang again. She snatched it up, said, “Doctor’s on holiday,” banged the instrument down for the second time and, being a woman of resource, called the hospital exchange. “No more calls to be put through until further notice,” she ordered crisply. “I have Whitehall authority.”

  Thereafter the telephone remained silent. The exchange operators had heard all about Mrs Heffer’s recent visit.

  “Now, Mr Hedge. You may not be aware that a watch has been placed on Walter Crushe-Smith.”

  “Ah.” Hedge’s heart beat like a drum. “In that case …”

  “Precisely, Mr Hedge.” There was a pause while the cast steadied like a probe, or laser. Hedge had it worked out now: when the fat man appeared to be looking at a desk-top nameplate reading Elsie Sprott he was in fact looking at Hedge. “You were seen entering the house of Walter Crushe-Smith.”

  “Oh. Was I?”

  “Yes. Also the monastery.”

  “Really. Well, let me tell you, Mr Whatever your name is, you haven’t yet had the courtesy to tell me, that I was acting on orders received from my Head of Security in the Foreign Office. So there.”

  The fat man was unabashed. “Quite so, Mr Hedge. And I’m left wondering why we were not informed of this somewhat earlier.”

  Hedge muttered pathetically, “An oversight on the part of my chief, I dare say. I’m very sorry.”

  “Yes. An oversight, I see. And now I am satisfying my own wonderment for myself.” The fat man leaned closer. Hedge became aware that his breath smelled nasty; he was a nasty little man, Hedge thought, and a dangerous one. “The first time you visited Walter Crushe-Smith, which was at the monastery not his house, was before you had received orders from your Head of Security.”

  Hedge remained silent. He felt as stiff as a corpse.

  “And now I have to ask, Mr Hedge, what was the purpose of your visit on that first occasion?”

  Hedge tried to think fast but his mind was numb. He simply couldn’t get it to concentrate. He had to have time; preferably he had to consult Shard. He gave a sudden sharp bleat and clutched at his stomach, at the same time swivelling in his bed and doubling his body up in what was meant to be agony. He said in a gasping voice, “The doctor, quickly. The pain … oh dear!”

  The fat man was angry. “Oh, bugger,” he muttered. “Amanda?”

  Ms Gunning sprang into action. She called the exchange. It was the exchange that spoke first. “Does this mean the line’s clear?”

  “It does not —”

  “There are three geriatric —”

  “Kindly shut up and call a doctor at once. The social work office. And a nurse.”

  *

  Brother Peter, under gentle persuasion, had grown maudlin, talking about his past. There were references to mum and dad, dad having been a coal miner (the family had lived in Yorkshire) until his occupation had been overtaken by a combination of Arthur Scargill, Mrs Thatcher and the greenhouse effect. Dad had eventually died on the dole and mum had married again. After the marriage, the stepfather hadn’t wanted Brother Peter, not yet Brother at that time, around. Brother Peter had arrived at the monastery of God’s Anointed by way of petty crime and an eventual prison sentence, after which he had moved south from Yorkshire, joining a party of sheepskin-clad hippies in a converted bus bound for Stonehenge. He had been picked up in Amesbury by one of the Stockbridge monks, a Brother Simon, who had bought him a cup of coffee and a bun in a café called The Friar Tuck which Brother-to-be Peter, being slightly dyslexic, had thought was The Triar Fuck. He had giggled at this and then one thing had led to another.

  “Life’s like that,” he said. “I liked the monastery at first but then I got like fed up. I’d really like to be back in Yorkshire again.” Brother Peter, slouched back against the doorpost, seemed to have gone into a kind of reverie, maybe seeing the dales and fells of the North, the tumbling, rock-bedded rivers and the horned sheep. Or, alternatively, the grim mills and warehouses and mean back streets of Bradford, Leeds or Huddersfield. Anyway, his concentration was going and the automatic was tending to waver. Shard tensed: the use of his leg muscles for a quick dive for Brother Peter’s gun-hand, and the crashing to the floor of the monk could be a better prospect than any attempt to wean a fed-up Brother back into the world accompanied by the prisoner. The fear of Reverend Father was only too likely to keep Brother Peter rooted to the monastic life. Shard was ready for a swift spring when Brother Peter came back to life and steadied the gun once again on Shard’s chest.

  “Hear that, did you?” he asked.

  Shard listened. He heard a distant crunch, tyres on gravel, then the squeal of brakes in need of servicing.

  “That’s the bus party back,” Brother Peter said. He stepped backwards and banged the door shut. The bolts were pushed across from outside. Back to square one, Shard thought. With the arrival of the satisfied brethren there would have been no point in a rush on Brother Peter. Too late; and Brother Peter could still be an ally of a sort, to be preserved for future use.

  Eight

  Hedge was at home now.

  The doctor, hastily summoned, had not felt inclined to suggest that a highly-placed member of the Establishment was malingering but he had raised no objections when the MI5 man had said, in an aside, that Hedge was making heavy weather of a near miss; and, with Hedge’s status in mind, the consultant was summoned and Hedge was discharged. He went back to London with his inquisitors and whilst en route was forced to answer the last question asked before his relapse: what had been the purpose of his first visit to Walter Crushe-Smith?

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Oh, come now, Mr Hedge.”

  “I am a busy man. I have much on my mind. Do you expect me to recall each and every detail?”

  “This is not exactly a detail, Mr Hedge.”

  Hedge breathed angrily down his nose. “I consider that it is.”

  “On the contrary. It is a matter of the utmost importance.”

  “Rubbish. In any case, I can’t remember so that closes it, does it not?”

  “No, Mr Hedge —”

  “But if I can’t remember, I can’t remember, can I? Surely that’s obvious? Do you expect
me to trump up some sort of — of tomfool story just to satisfy you, is that it?”

  “Certainly not, Mr Hedge —”

  “Then kindly stop bullying me. I don’t like it and I won’t have it. One is not accustomed to this sort of thing in Her Majesty’s Foreign Service and I shall put in the strongest possible complaint the moment I reach Whitehall. I shall if necessary place the matter directly before the Prime Minister herself. Mrs Heffer, in case you don’t know, is very well-disposed towards me.”

  That shut the fat man up. Hedge savoured a moment of triumph and sat back in his seat, trying to look nonchalantly out of the window at the passing scene. The fat man, however, was not in fact shut up for very long. As the MI5 car overtook a furniture van rather fast, and Hedge was tilted against the angular form of Ms Gunning, the fat man dropped his bombshell.

  “The fact that you initially concealed your relationship to Walter Crushe-Smith is seen as very relevant.”

  Hedge went pale and began to shake. In a high voice he said, “I have no comment at this stage.”

  “None is necessary, Mr Hedge. Not at this stage.”

  “Except one. My chief in the Foreign Office is in possession of the fact of the relationship. Just as much as you.”

  “Which brings us back to that first visit of yours. The visit before the fact, if I may put it that way.”

  A little later Hedge was deposited at his house. With instructions that he was not to leave it. A plain-clothes man would be on duty outside. Cat-and-mouse again.

  Hedge felt that the end of his world had come. What would Mrs Heffer think of him now, her trust betrayed, her goodwill thrown back in her face?

  *

  The bicycle from Worthing via Petersfield and Winchester turned in that evening to the drive of the monastery, quite openly. The Long Knife pedalled on for the front door above the stone steps, dismounted and pulled at the bell-pull. The distant clang was answered by Brother Paul.

  “Yes?”

  “Reverend Father.” The accent was guttural and commanding. “Very quick.”

  “Well, I don’t know about quick, Reverend Father’s —”