The Abbot of Stockbridge

by Philip McCutchan

  Dr Pumphrey looked around for help. There were two tourist coaches parked, both of them now filled and, by the look of them, ready to start off again. Well, of course, he couldn’t impede them by asking the advice of the drivers, that wouldn’t be fair. Somewhere there would be a garage, with a mechanic. In the meantime there was a call of nature to be answered. Dr Pumphrey entered the public lavatory just as Brother Peter was coming out.

  *

  The lavatory was empty now of Old Age Pensioners and brothers, Brother Chamberlain having re-embarked aboard the coach after delivering Reverend Father’s hurry-up message. There was in fact hurry in the air: the Bishop of Durham’s need had suddenly become urgent and Brother Peter was hurrying to rejoin the coach, his gumption, as Shard had suspected, not being up to scratch. They collided in the doorway. Dr Pumphrey was of more than ample build and Brother Peter was knocked flat, striking his head sharply on a very hard porcelain urinal.

  “Oh, dear me, I do apologise,” Dr Pumphrey said before realising two things: first, the man he had inadvertently struck with his stomach was lying unconscious; and two, that behind the recumbent body stood a uniformed police constable.

  *

  Reverend Father had given the signal for the off, and the coach was moving ahead for the left fork for the area of the Ribblehead viaduct. Brother Chamberlain had been sent back yet again to urge speed on Brother Peter. Over the shoulder of the Bishop of Durham he had seen the police constable, and he had immediately scarpered back to the coach.

  Reverend Father had been adamant; so had Klaus The Long Knife. They must get the hell out, Reverend Father said, and take a chance on Brother Peter grassing — if he knew what was good for him, Reverend Father said, he wouldn’t open his mouth. In any case, the time was approaching now and to have the Bill poking about would be fatal. There would probably have to be a shoot-out and thereafter they would be a marked coach. Even if there was no shoot-out, Reverend Father said, the Bill would take a long time to pacify, Yorkshire people being a trifle thick and slow, and the delay would be fatal.

  Better by far to leave Brother Peter behind.

  “One guess,” Brother Werribee said, “what that Bill was there for. Little pommie poufter …”

  *

  The constable had rocked backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, looking severely, as constables do in times of doubt, at Dr Pumphrey. And at the purple dickey.

  “Where might you be the bishop of, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I don’t mind at all. Durham. And I’m on my way to meet the Prime Minister.” The constable looked suitably impressed. “And I’ve had two accidents. My car has broken down — the Dean’s daughter, you know. And now I’ve knocked this poor fellow down.” Dr Pumphrey studied the recumbent body. “Obviously, he needs medical attention.” Suddenly Dr Pumphrey seemed to comprehend a possible reason for the policeman’s presence. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Has there been … er, some sort of trouble? I’m a man of the world, you know, and —”

  “No trouble, my Lord, no, other than to this gentleman’s head.” The constable seemed to think further explanation was needed. “I am on duty, and was like on watch, see. For nasty occurrences, sir, concealed in one o’ the cubicles, emerging unseen in rear of the gentleman now upon the floor. Nothing nasty took place I am relieved to say. And now there is the question of that medical attention of which you spoke. But,” he added as Brother Peter stirred a little, “I do believe the gentleman is coming round.”

  He squatted by Brother Peter and raised the head, upon which a large lump was forming. “Better, are we, eh?”

  Brother Peter’s eyes opened. He saw a policeman and a bishop. He stared wildly. “Oooh,” he said faintly. “Whatever happened, and where’s bloody Reverend Father?”

  Dr Pumphrey met the constable’s eye. “Poor fellow,” he said anxiously. “I fear he’s wandering … that bump on the head, you know … are you aware of any monks in the vicinity?”

  The constable was not. He spoke again of the urgency of providing medical attention. Dr Pumphrey offered his help; the constable said, leave it to him, they mustn’t keep Mrs Heffer waiting. He also said he would arrange as soon as he could for the Mini City to be removed to a garage and meanwhile he would telephone through to Leyburn for a patrol car to come along and onforward the Bishop to the Ribblehead viaduct. “We all know what young girls are like, my Lord, Dean’s daughters no doubt being no different from the rest.”

  *

  “It was ever such a bang,” Brother Peter said to the doctor. “Ever so nasty, it was, and the floor was wet like. And a bloody bishop and all, if you’ll pardon the language, Doctor.” The medic smiled. “Don’t let it bother you, I’ve heard worse.”

  “But me to say it, see. Being a monk.”

  “Monk?”

  “Yes, monk. I’m Brother Peter.”

  “So that was why you spoke of Reverend Father.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes.”

  “To the Bill?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, my God,” Brother Peter said. He had determined to say nothing to the Bill until he was certain the coach was on its way. “That’s gone and done it and all. Reverend Father … he’ll have me balls for breakfast, he always said he would.”

  “A curious thing for a Reverend Father to say I’d have thought —”

  “You don’t bloody know Reverend Father, mate! Sorry — doctor.”

  “I think,” the doctor said, “you’d better tell me all about it, don’t you?”

  “Don’t know. Got me own skin to think of, haven’t I? Mind, I am back in Yorkshire and that makes a difference. That bloke, the one what wasn’t a brother, not even a lay one — he was always on at me to scarper.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Not that Reverend Father ever knew, or that bloody Brother Werribee. Brother Werribee’s an Australian, see, and uncouth with it. Then there’s this Brother Ducky. But this bloke —”

  “What bloke? Brother Peter, was it?” The doctor had become bewildered.

  “No, that’s me. This bloke … well, I dunno who he is. Just a prisoner like, though of course I shouldn’t be saying that, not really. But he’s ever so nice. Friendly, see? I could talk to him … told him, I did, that it was because of the Triar Fuck, like …”

  *

  The doctor reported back to the police: the sub-station in Hawes was manned that day and the constable was at the end of the telephone, having despatched Dr Pumphrey towards Mrs Heffer. “Wandering, is he doctor?”

  “Undoubtedly. I thought I’d better keep you informed.”

  “You thought right, doctor, if I may say so.” The constable paused, staring at his removed helmet reposing on the table beside the telephone. “To recap, doctor. You said summat about a — a —”

  “Fuck. Yes. He seemed very confused, but I gathered, or I thought I gathered, something about a ‘bloke’ unknown and an Australian called Werribee. And …”

  “And, doctor?”

  “Something about trying a fuck. And there was a Brother Ducky.”

  “I see, doctor.” The constable’s tone was very heavy now. “In that case, I shall advise the Inspector at Leyburn to mount a watch at the bedside. Things could have like been taking place in the public toilet before my own arrival, if you follow my meaning.”

  *

  The monastery coach continued towards the Ribblehead viaduct with Hedge still up front alongside Reverend Father and with Brother Chamberlain close, too close for any current action. Shard was now being guarded by Brother Infirmarer with gun, and with Brother Werribee not far ahead still fulminating about pom poufters in general and Brother Peter in particular. By this time he had got even Reverend Father rattled, going on and on about Brother Peter opening his yap under police duress. Brother Peter, he said, would do anything to protect his own skin.

  Reverend Father told him to shut up. Alarm and despondency, he said, were the last t
hings they needed just now. He conferred with his kinsman.

  “What do you think, Brother Ducky?”

  “In regard to what … Reverend Father?”

  “What Brother Peter can achieve. At this stage, I mean.”

  The coach had just passed the right turn for Dent. There was not much farther to go to the viaduct and the marquee, and the left turn for the road through Horton-in-Ribblesdale, which the coach was scheduled to take for its disembarkation and dispersal point. Hedge cleared his throat and said, “I think it’s a little late in the day really. Of course, it does depend on how quickly Brother Peter cracks.”

  “Yes. Let’s suppose he does. Contact would be made as fast as possible with the Prime Minister’s party, that’s obvious. What do you think Mrs Heffer’s reaction would be?”

  Hedge pursed his lips. “That’s very hard to say. Immediate withdrawal — or carry on regardless? She’s a very bold woman, you know. Retreat isn’t her forte, never has been.”

  “Not much help, are you, Brother Ducky?”

  “I’m very sorry,” Hedge answered stiffly.

  “It’s your civil service background. Not that you ever did give a straight answer. No doubt that’s why they took you on. Try to give me an answer to this one: if Brother Peter’s grassed, and gets his message through, do you think Mrs Heffer would be allowed to carry on regardless as you put it? Wouldn’t the brass have something to say about that?”

  “Yes, I expect they would.”

  “So do I. Very vociferous, I’m sure. So what it boils down to is this. Do we postpone, wait for the fuss to die down, go to ground in the meantime, then try again when they think they’re safe enough to go ahead? I’m not sure that —”

  There was an interruption, and it came from the German, who had been listening intently. He bent forward and tapped Reverend Father’s shoulder. “We go on,” he said harshly. “We have gone too far not to go on now. I speak not only of us who are here, but of my principals in Germany also. Events are much advanced … to have delay now, it will be totally unacceptable.”

  “It will, will it?”

  “Totally unacceptable. This I mean. Do not misunderstand. I —”

  “But —”

  “I am telling you. You will go on. That is my order. You will obey.” The Long Knife added, “Brother Peter, he is a silly, confused little nonentity. His story, if he tells it, will not be believed. He will be considered mad.”

  “But if he mentions Stockbridge —”

  “That he will not do, thinking of his own skin. If he had spoken already, the police would by now be behind us.” Reverend Father nodded and accepted. There was no further discussion. The coach went on, fast. Soon the viaduct was seen ahead as they came down the final sloping bend. The marquee was all set up and there were a number of cars, army and civilian. There was a good deal of brass around, some of it in uniform, some of it in lounge suits but looking like brass nevertheless. As the coach slowed for the left turn, quite a sharp one for a big vehicle, a police car came from behind like the wind, shooting ahead of the coach. There was considerable alarm on the part of the monks but this was short-lived. The Bill was not interested. From the police car stepped a portly figure with a clerical collar and purple dickey. The Bishop of Durham (who had inadvertently left his lunch pack behind in the Mini City) had arrived.

  *

  The monastery party, which had only a mile or two of the Horton-in-Ribblesdale road to travel before the pull-off into cover, was preparing to disembark. A number of the brothers were on their feet, lurching about dangerously as the coach took the many bends of the road. As they approached one of these bends there was a yell of terror from Brother Samuelson at the wheel. The brakes were crammed on, the coach lurched in towards the side of the road, and the brothers fell about like scattered ninepins. Hedge was thrown hard against a pane of glass where he was flattened by the heavy body of Brother Chamberlain. As the coach rocked, the motor-cycles of the Prime Ministerial outrider escort shot past and behind them came Mrs Heffer’s car and the cars of the lesser fry from Whitehall.

  *

  “Rufus!”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.” Mrs Heffer was in an obvious state about something or other and it didn’t seem to be about the dangers of the close encounter with a touring coach.

  “I’ve just seen him!”

  “Who, Prime Minister?”

  “That brave man, Rufus! Mr Sedge of the Foreign Office.”

  The Home Secretary was bewildered to say the least. “Where, Prime Minister?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Home Secretary, in the coach!”

  Sixteen

  Rowland Mayes had been sent for immediately the motorcade had stopped. He had been virtually dragged from the leading lesser-fry car; Mrs Heffer wasn’t even waiting for the salutes and the handshakes and the other pleasantries of arrival. She was in a ferment.

  “Did you see him too, Roly?”

  “No … er — who, Prime Minister?”

  Mrs Heffer stamped her foot. “Sedge, of course. Your Mr Sedge. In that coach! Did you see him?”

  “No, Prime Minister.” Rowland Mayes was as bewildered as the Home Secretary had been. There was no possibility that Hedge could have been aboard a coach filled with tourists or what-have-you — Americans most likely, doing the dales. “I’m afraid —”

  “How useless you are, Roly,” Mrs Heffer hissed, not caring who heard. “You must have seen him. Poor man, he was obviously in pain, squashed flat against the window, probably being tortured I shouldn’t wonder, what with Germans being involved in this wretched business. The question is, what is that coach doing here?”

  “I — I really don’t know, Prime Minister —”

  “Then had you not better find out as soon as possible, Foreign Secretary?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.” Rowland Mayes turned away to go and find out. But of course no-one knew; North Yorkshire these days was inundated with coaches in the season; the dales, thanks largely to James Herriot, had been opened up. The genuine hill walkers and potholers had been swamped by the gawpers and their trails of litter. And one coach was much like another. One of the policemen of the escort thought he’d seen Ely painted on the side and that was all. It might, he said, have been Iffley. The encounter had been a very fleeting one. Anyway, a police car was sent back along the road towards Horton-in-Ribblesdale.

  *

  “I’m all right,” Brother Peter protested. “Anyone’d think you thought I was barmy or summat, which I’m bloody not.” This was being said to an army psychiatrist at the military hospital in Catterick. The Hawes doctor had contacts there and Catterick contained the nearest psychiatric department to Hawes. “There was a Brother Ducky, not his real name of course, but you know how it goes. In a monastery like.”

  “Tell me,” the psychiatrist said gently.

  Brother Peter sighed; there was so much to tell and this bloke would never believe the half of it. “You don’t believe I’m a monk at all, do you?” he said. “If I’d got me habit you would.”

  “Ah yes. Your habit. Where is it?”

  “Rolled up. In the bloody coach.”

  The psychiatrist was patient; he had plenty of time and probing was often fun. A man got tired of continual golf and mess chit-chat and the occasional session with a disgruntled soldier trying to work his ticket by saying he had a pain in the head, having been told by the old sweats that it was virtually impossible to prove that you hadn’t got a pain in the head. Monks, or persons attempting to pass themselves off as monks, were refreshingly different. The psychiatrist asked a number of questions and got very confusing answers. He did, however, elucidate that the person had come, or said he did, from a monastery in the south of England, though the person appeared to have forgotten, or was not saying, exactly where. Along with this came information about a café in Amesbury called The Friar Tuck.

  “Friar Tuck?” Something at once clicked in the psychiatrist’s mind: the police, and his medical cont
act, had spoken of someone — this person in fact — trying a fuck, it not having been specified who with but there had also been the report of a Brother Ducky, which could be suspicious. The psychiatrist was not unfamiliar with the army expression, fuck a duck, not that this was entirely germane to the current issue, but still.

  Brother Peter came up trumps. “Yes,” he said. “Friar Tuck. I do sometimes get it confused like, silly me, and call it the Triar Fuck.”

  “Yes, I see. Very natural really.” There had quite clearly been an error of alliteration on the part of the police; that was one thing solved. There was no element of sex involved, the psychiatrist was now certain of that. Further probing questions followed and a picture of a sort emerged. As a result the psychiatrist reached a diagnosis: the person was somewhat confused, no doubt as the result of being clouted by the Bishop of Durham’s stomach, and was undoubtedly simple-minded. But not mad. Not in any sense dangerous. There was no medical reason, either, to keep him in hospital according to the medical consultant. The psychiatrist wrote a full report, a précis of questions and answers. He also had a word with the constable from Hawes, who had on orders from the nick at Leyburn accompanied the patient to Catterick.

  He said, “The man’s certainly confused and very fanciful. There was talk about some German with a nickname, and a tunnel, and the Prime Minister.”

  “Prime Minister, sir?”

  The psychiatrist grinned. “Blowing up Mrs Heffer.”

  “I see, sir. You’d not call that mad?”

  “Not really. But I’m not to be quoted on that.”

  “Quite, sir.” The constable reached into the top pocket of his uniform jacket and brought out a biro and a notepad which he began leafing through. “Do I take it, sir, you’re not aware that the Prime Minister is this very day present at the Ribblehead viaduct, in connection with the military explosives arsenal beneath Langstrothdale Chase?”