The Abbot of Stockbridge

by Philip McCutchan

  Hedge stopped and stared. Steal a car? Well, quite a defector-like thing to do, and transport was vital. Not really realising the enormity of his crime, he opened the Mini’s door and got in. Hedge had heard it said that all young girl drivers shared certain things in common: they never checked the oil, they never checked the tyre pressures or the radiator water, and they always left the key in the ignition. The young girl owner of the Mini had followed the pattern and indeed had gone one further: she had left the ignition switched on.

  Hedge had moved out into the traffic and insinuated himself into the one way system for the A272 to Stockbridge …

  Cousin Wally was going on. “So you nicked a car. Naughty boy! Could be a bloody stupid boy too. You’re quite sure you weren’t followed?”

  “Quite sure. If I had been, I’d have been arrested, presumably.”

  “Yes. You’re right there, Cousin Eustace. Still, it was a chancy thing to do. I value my privacy, for reasons you’re well enough aware of.” Cousin Wally paused and readjusted his habit. “So what’s new?”

  “New?”

  “Have you,” Cousin Wally asked with forbearance, “found out anything helpful? You’ll remember our bargain, naturally.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “So?” Reverend Father studied Hedge intently. “You look distrait, Cousin Eustace. That’ll never do. Tell me all, why not?”

  Hedge took a deep breath and came out with it, not really believing that he would be able to carry it off but steeling himself with fantasies of the honours to come if he should succeed. He said, “I’m joining you. I’ve, well, defected. You see, it’s come out about the — the relationship. Things have really become most awkward for me.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. Most awkward.”

  “You’ve been chucked out of the FO? My God,” Reverend Father said, laughing heartily, “that’s really rich! You, of all people, to be publicly discredited!”

  “It’s not funny,” Hedge snapped.

  “Not to you, perhaps, Cousin Eustace. I see that.” Reverend Father had a rather nasty glint in his eye; a sort of gloat. “For a pompous little prig like you I don’t suppose it’s far short of tragedy. Having to come to me for shelter, that’s —”

  “I said I’d defected. That’s somewhat different from coming to you for shelter. I can be useful to you — you’ve already made that point some days ago. I —”

  “You won’t be much use now you’ve cut your Foreign Office connections. Not, that is, as useful as before. But I suppose you do have a good deal of background knowledge, the way you people work and so on.”

  “Yes,” Hedge said. “That’s what I thought you’d find useful. And as for me … I’m totally disillusioned. After all my years of loyal service — to have all that thrown back in my face … it’s really too bad.” He added, “I’ve not been thrown out exactly. But my career’s finished whatever happens. And it was on the cards that I would be — er — dismissed the service, of course —”

  “So you decided to get out one jump ahead of the pack?”

  “Yes, I —”

  “And now you want,” Reverend Father said, “to get back at the buggers. Very natural. Well, I can certainly make use of you. Cousin Eustace. You’ll have to remember one thing, though.”

  “What thing?”

  “A very important thing: loyalty. From now on, loyalty to me.”

  “Family feeling —”

  “Oh, yes,” Reverend Father said pleasantly. “We both know how much family feeling there is between you and me. Allow me to make a very pertinent point. If ever I find cause to suspect your devotion to me and the cause, dear Cousin Eustace, then action will follow swiftly, and as inevitably as night follows day. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, and I assure you —”

  “Well, don’t let’s have any misunderstandings on the matter. Crystal clarity is always so much better, don’t you think? Then everyone knows just where he or she stands, don’t they?”

  “I —”

  “Disposal,” Reverend Father said, “is very easy here at Stockbridge.”

  “Disposal?”

  “Of the dead, Cousin Eustace.”

  “The dead?” Hedge’s mouth sagged and he felt suddenly very cold, almost as if dead already. “Is that meant to be a threat, Wally, to be taken personally?”

  “Yes,” Reverend Father said, “but let us hope it won’t come to that, shall we? And now to currently more practical concerns. Of course, you can’t remain here in the monastery — not for long. Defection is defection, and you say the relationship is known. I don’t want prod-noses poking about my premises. That’s the first thing. Now the next.” Reverend Father took up an internal telephone. He spoke into it. “Brother Chamberlain’s to come up at once. A new brother joining, to be fitted with a habit.” Putting down the telephone, Reverend Father turned again to his cousin. “You’ll need a name,” he said. “As a lay brother it won’t be a saint’s name. And Brother Hedge is out for obvious reasons.” He frowned in thought, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Oliphant,” he said after a few moments.

  “Brother Oliphant? I don’t think —”

  “No, no, it’s just that thinking of Oliphant … you’ll be known as Brother Ducky. How’s that?” Reverend Father went into a paroxysm of unkind laughter.

  Eleven

  Both waterfall and stream were negotiated in safety by all hands and Brother Peter’s bravery returned just as soon as the pathway flattened out and the rush of water was contained below a steep bank. The danger, Brother Werribee said, was past. The pommie poufter could breathe easy again.

  “Don’t keep on calling me that,” Brother Peter said, and Shard sensed, though he couldn’t see, the pout that accompanied the words.

  “I’ll call you what I bloody please, poncy-boy.”

  “It’s not brotherly —”

  “Shut yer bloody gob.”

  “Bloody Australians,” Brother Peter muttered into Shard’s ear. “Such big he-men, though … I always try to make allowances like. If only he’d …”

  “If only he’d what?”

  Brother Peter giggled coyly. “Well, never mind. Everything can’t be perfect, can it, in an imperfect world.”

  They moved on, still behind the torch. The ledge began to climb, high now above the water. It was not long after the stream had vanished altogether into some hole that a pinpoint of light was seen ahead. On they went, climbing still, no-one saying anything now. Not until they were within some twenty metres of the source of light, when Brother Werribee halted the advance and addressed them.

  “The pick-up’ll be ready soon as we’re through. Keep yer blinkers on the bloke, Brother Poncy, and don’t let him try anything, right? Don’t be afraid to use your gun. We’re in remote country, no-one around to hear.”

  Moving ahead of the others, Brother Werribee approached the exit. When close to it, he halted and gave a low whistle. He waited for thirty seconds then repeated it, this time waiting for around ten seconds before repeating it again.

  A man’s head appeared, framed in the hole, silhouetted against the daylight.

  “All clear, Coggan?”

  “All clear, Brother, yes,” an Irish voice answered.

  “Transport ready? If it’s not, we’ll wait in cover till —”

  “It’s here now. You can come out, no worries.” The head disappeared. Brother Werribee turned round and passed the order for the party to emerge. They did so, Brother Peter’s gun now back in Shard’s spine. Shard looked around into a sunny day: he had no idea of his whereabouts. No familiar landmarks; and it was as remote as Brother Werribee had said. Not a soul in sight, just high, open country swept by a slight wind from the south-west. Then Shard picked up the tank tracks furrowing a distant slope: Salisbury Plain, and a military training area? Somewhere, there would be troops. He took in the Range Rover waiting in the lee of a small hillock with scrubby trees growing, an oasis of nature left by the army’s guns and ta
nks. Of course, Reverend Father or whoever had organised the exit from Stockbridge would have chosen a day when there was known to be no troop exercise on the programme. But Shard had a feeling that the time had now come to strike a blow for freedom. It was unfortunate that the blow had first to be struck against Brother Peter. Brother Peter was the soft underbelly of the opposition; and he was the one who had the gun ready in his hand, and Shard was in need of a gun.

  The party, under the orders of Brother Werribee, was now heading for the Range Rover in single file, Brother Werribee in the lead, then The Long Knife, then Shard with Brother Peter bringing up the rear, his gun bumping Shard’s spine. Taking his chance, Shard stopped dead in his tracks and bent his body forward. Uttering a shrill cry, Brother Peter seemed to catapult over the bent back and in so doing dropped the gun. Shard grabbed for it, got it in his grip and came upright. The next moment he was flat on his back and unconscious. The German had been just too smart for him and thereafter Shard was never quite certain what had hit him.

  *

  Brother Chamberlain, the monk who saw to the vestments and general clothing and accoutrements of the monastery of God’s Anointed, looked precisely what he once had been: a chucker-out in a night club. Now, he surveyed Brother Ducky from head to foot, critically.

  “Fat little bloke, innee? No muscle, all lard. Couldn’t stand up to a fu — a flea. What a name an’ all, eh?”

  The Abbot clicked his tongue. “I don’t want your comments, Brother Chamberlain. Just get on with the job.”

  “Sorry, Reverend Father.” Brother Chamberlain surveyed Hedge once again, narrowing his eyes at flab. Then, from an assortment of garments which he was carrying over his arm, he selected a habit and threw it towards Hedge. “Catch,” he said.

  Hedge caught. “What do I do with it?” he asked.

  “Well, put it on, cock, what else? Sorry, Reverend Father, should have said Brother Ducky.” He gave a coarse laugh. Hedge struggled with the unfamiliar clothing and Brother Chamberlain laughed again. “Strip first, Brother Ducky. Not bare buff, just down to the underwear like, get me?”

  Hedge, scarlet with embarrassment, appealed to Cousin Wally. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes,” Reverend Father said. “You have. And when you’re kitted out you’ll be tonsured.”

  Hedge went through the routine of joining the brotherhood. Tonsured and habited, instructed in the daily routine of the monastery and how to stand meekly before his superiors (which were everyone in the place since he was the newest entry) with his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of his body and concealed by the wide, flapping sleeves of the habit, a coarse garment that tickled, he felt that he had lost his identity. If Mrs Heffer could see him now she wouldn’t even be aware that he had once been the respected Hedge of the Foreign Office, a pillar of the Establishment. Now he was nothing; and he couldn’t wait for the moment of escape to come. He detested being known as Brother Ducky; the name caused ribaldry amongst his fellow monks; and since the monastery was not run as Hedge believed more orthodox monasteries were run, that was, on properly disciplined lines, the ribaldry was unchecked by those who should have been in authority. For the first time since leaving school, Hedge became the butt of all, the target for bullying. Had it not been for the death threat from Cousin Wally, he would have escaped before the day was out. That was, if he could: it seemed that Cousin Wally was taking prudent precautions. A brother, a lay brother named Brother Fortescue, as tough-looking as Brother Chamberlain, kept close at all times. Orders, he’d said briefly, from Reverend Father.

  Despite the lack of discipline and proper orderliness, the saying of prayers took place several times a day and during these prayer sessions Brother Ducky’s whirling thoughts tended to settle down just a little and he was able to concentrate on other worries. One of them was that Cousin Wally had seemed from the start extraordinarily untroubled by having been put under surveillance by MI5. Hedge wondered why this should be.

  He was soon to find out.

  *

  Shard came to in the back of the Range Rover, or to be precise on the floorboards in the back of the vehicle, which was moving, or so it felt, at breakneck speed. Feet, the feet of the German and of Brother Peter, rested on his body. As he stirred, the German said something in his own language. Brother Peter also uttered, informing Brother Werribee, who was in front with the man called Coggan, who was driving, that the prisoner was coming round.

  “Watch him,” Brother Werribee said. “No more bloody carelessness, right?”

  “No, Brother Werribee,” Brother Peter answered.

  Racked with pain in his head, feeling sick to his stomach, Shard registered that the day had darkened. It was not yet night but it wasn’t far off. If the Range Rover had been travelling at its current speed right through the day, they must have covered a pretty fair distance. That distance could have been in any direction, of course; but Shard’s hunch was that it had been north. He still had the connection with Jervaulx Abbey in mind. The Jervaulx Resurrectionists: that had to mean something, though currently Shard’s mind was a blank as to what that might be.

  Night came down. The Range Rover went on, traffic sounds that Shard had noted earlier were fading out, the roads emptier now. Rain started, and the air was becoming noticeably colder: north was more and more likely. There were no stops for petrol, no stops for food. Twice, after Brother Peter had been squirming around in his seat and had at last notified Brother Werribee that he was bloody bursting, a stop had been made for relief. Shard had been brought out, almost too giddy to stand without assistance, but had seen nothing but thick woods on both sides of a road that looked like a B road. No clues as to which, or where. And certainly no chance now of a break-out even had he been fit for action.

  After the second stop, another long drive through a wet and windy night. Shard had no real idea of the time: his watch had been removed back in the monastery. But at last the drive ended. It ended in an anonymous dwelling, a small farm by the look and smell, in remote country. Shard, removed under strong guard from the Range Rover and hustled inside, was given no chance to identify his surroundings. But the keenness of the air and a glimpse of a dry-stone wall around a pigsty suggested the north of England pretty loudly and clearly.

  In the house, which appeared to be otherwise unoccupied, a meal was ordered, Brother Peter being propelled to the kitchen regions to prepare it. Stocks, Brother Werribee said, had been got in against their arrival. Brother Peter would find everything he needed in order to produce fried eggs and bacon and fried, sliced potato. The German took over the guard duty on Shard, bringing out a knife the better to perform his duties, and starting off by presenting the weapon with its lethal point a matter of millimetres from Shard’s adam’s-apple.

  “One move,” he said harshly. “Just one move. That will give the excuse. This is well understood?”

  “Well understood,” Shard answered.

  Brother Peter came back from the kitchen quarters with a complaint. “Can’t find any milk,” he said.

  “What d’you want bloody milk for, poncy-boy?”

  Brother Peter stamped his foot. “I do wish you wouldn’t call me that, it’s not fair —”

  “Oh, fer Chrissake! Shut yer gob. And answer the question. What d’yer want milk for?”

  “There’s a tin of Ovaltine. I do like a glass —”

  “Go outside and find the bloody cow and bloody milk it.”

  Brother Peter flounced away in a temper, muttering to himself. Brother Werribee swatted at a fly that had landed nearby. The German kept his watch on Shard, all set to miss nothing whatever. No-one spoke. Cooking sounds came from the kitchen; so did an appetising smell, though Shard had no appetite. He had asked for a drink of water and this had been brought by Brother Peter. After it his mouth at least felt a little better. There was a lump like an ostrich egg on the back of his head and he was still seeing stars. The smell of frying was making him feel sicker than ever.

  As Brother Pete
r came in with the first of the fry-up for Brother Werribee’s consumption, a telephone rang stridently.

  *

  Brother Ducky had earlier been sent for by Reverend Father, an abbot now out of his habit and wearing a track suit of blue and yellow stripes. On his desk lay a stripped-down automatic assault rifle — cased, but the case had not been closed. Cousin Ducky saw a threat in the very fact that the rifle had been left for him to see.

  Cousin Wally looked him up and down. “You look bloody awful but it won’t be for long as it happens. Needn’t have bothered to kit you out. Here.” He went to a cupboard and heaved out Hedge’s tweed coat, grey trousers and shirt. “Put them on,” he said.

  Hedge asked, “Do I take it there’s been a change of plan?”

  “You do. Your friends — MI5. They’re not so green as they’re grass-looking.”

  “Are they dosing in?” Hedge asked hopefully.

  “It would appear so. Two men dressed as poachers have been seen snooping around inside the perimeter.”

  “Oh. My man Shard,” Hedge began, then stopped and went very red. What a stupid thing to say! He could find no reason why he had said it, had no idea what he had intended to add to what he’d begun. It wasn’t really his fault, you couldn’t blame him, he’d had a simply wretched day being every monk’s butt and he was really at the end of his tether what with that and his thoughts about Mrs Heffer who was relying upon him while he was getting absolutely nowhere. Thoughts about death, too. Perhaps Cousin Wally hadn’t quite heard; but Cousin Wally had.

  “Your man Shard. Who, might one enquire, is he?”

  “Oh … just my man Shard, don’t you know.”

  “No, I don’t know, dear Cousin Eustace, and I would like very much to know. So tell me, h’m?”

  “He’s really no-one in particular …”

  “Just a poacher, perhaps? Hence the natural reaction?” Menace had now crept into Reverend Father’s tone. “Or is he something more than that? Is he, for instance, an agent of MI5?”