The Abbot of Stockbridge

by Philip McCutchan

The psychiatrist was startled. “Good heavens, no, I didn’t know that. D’you mean —”

  “I must ask to have words with the patient, sir. Urgently.”

  *

  Shard, when the coach had taken its violent avoiding action, had been knocked out by the impact of Brother Infirmarer’s body and by the glass of a half-bottle of whisky carried in the monk’s hip pocket. The bottle had broken and there was blood, Shard’s blood mixed with some from Brother Infirmarer’s bottom and fragments of glass. When Shard came round the coach had stopped and was in cover at the inward end of a deep ravine with a bend in it giving total concealment from the road. Shard was lying on the ground, rocky ground, wrists and ankles tied once again, and the monks had split up. Hedge, hovering anxiously by his side, told him this. Hedge said, “Brother Werribee’s gone off on the motorbicycle.”

  “Motor-bicycle, Hedge?”

  “Yes, don’t you remember, the briefing at Jervaulx? He’s heading towards Fountains. To start the fuse-trail.”

  Shard gave his head a shake to clear it; that was a mistake. Pain shot through his temples. He managed to say, “It’s a long way to Fountains, Hedge.”

  “Yes, but not, I gather, at Brother Werribee’s speed. He’s apparently a very skilled motor-cyclist. And we all know Mrs Heffer. She’ll go on speaking for, well, quite long enough, my — er — second cousin says.”

  “And the parley?”

  “That’s part of it, I gather. The German’s going to delay, giving Brother Werribee time.”

  “And they’ll not get suspicious, out there?”

  “My — er — second cousin —”

  “For heaven’s sake, Hedge, stop being mealy-mouthed about the relationship. You’re in this to your eyebrows and it’s not going to look nice. If we come out of it in one piece, which if you ask me looks pretty doubtful. Have you done anything to help?”

  “I’ve not been in a position to. Come to that, you’ve not been any help yourself. Anyway, as I was about to say … Reverend Father doesn’t think there’ll be any particular suspicions as a result of our delaying. There could be all sorts of reasons — he says.” Hedge paused. “Brother Samuelson did say a police car had come past once we were in the ravine, probably just checking back along the route. We weren’t seen and they’ll be satisfied now, I imagine.”

  The conversation ceased when Reverend Father approached with the German. “Not long now,” he said, “before the balloon goes up. Or may go up. Whether or not it does, is up to Mrs Heffer.” He looked down at Shard. “I’m sorry about this, my dear chap,” he said, “but it won’t be the first time, will it, that a police officer has given his life in the course of duty. You see, I don’t believe we’re going to have a use for you when we pull out after the parley.”

  Shard asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Very simple.” Reverend Father pointed towards a hole in the rock face. “That’s the entry to a cave system that leads close to the arsenal. Of course there’s no direct access, it’s blanked off — but it’s close enough. You’ll go in that fissure, my dear Shard, when the rest of us move on out.” He paused, his glance flickering over Hedge. “You too, dear cousin, I rather think. But that’s largely up to Mrs Heffer too.”

  *

  The Bishop of Durham, bereft by his own forgetfulness of his ham sandwiches with garnish, had been forced to take the buffet lunch provided in the marquee. He had eaten three chipolatas on small sticks, some prunes rolled in bacon — very good, those — and also, rather by mistake, some pate on toast. Having eaten this he was convinced he was going to suffer salmonella poisoning. His face showed gloom and potential anguish; Mrs Heffer was heard to remark on this.

  “Poor Dr Pumphrey looks as though he’s about to be sick. Have I shaken hands with him yet?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister —”

  “Oh. There are so many people, one forgets.” She looked round the throngs of worthies, the mayors, the chief executives, the military, the high-ranking police officers sweating into their best uniforms — it was a very hot day, even the tarmac road surfaces were tending to melt, and she felt constricted in her sensible coat and skirt: one had to dress sensibly in Yorkshire and not try to import London fripperies to the dales where plain, workaday people lived with their sheep and pigs and their quite impossibly primitive and draughty farmhouses where, in all conscience, you needed sensible clothing and woolly stockings. There were any number of sensibly dressed women present today, the flattish hats of Tory women councillors — Mrs Heffer supposed they were — predominating. The farmers and their wives, who had come to protest, were also there in force. The older menfolk wore, in some cases, breeches and gaiters and deplorable old tweed jackets, many of which had in fact been removed to show heavy canvas-and-leather braces and shirts. Others, more conservative, wore blue serge suits with waistcoats at bursting point over large stomachs — farmers always ate well, Mrs Heffer knew that, yet they were always complaining — moaning, she called it — about poverty which was manifest nonsense. As for their wives, the older ones at any rate were mostly of very solid construction and with very grim faces, the sort that always called a spade a spade and would not be above embellishing it. This boded ill for the protest which in any case Mrs Heffer intended to reject.

  The protest — and something else.

  Mrs Heffer, sandwich in hand, turned on Rowland Mayes.

  “Where is that man?” she demanded.

  Rowland Mayes, as usual, got it wrong. “Hedge, Prime Minister?”

  “No! The German. The man with the name.”

  “He hasn’t shown yet, Prime Minister.”

  “I know that. Which is why I asked the question.”

  “I —”

  “I do dislike being kept waiting. Just as much as the Queen does. One can see her point.” Mrs Heffer finished her sandwich and began munching one of the prunes covered with bacon which, like Dr Pumphrey, she much enjoyed. “If the man doesn’t turn up very soon now, I shan’t wait. I shall assume what frankly I’ve believed all along, and that is, that he never intended to turn up at all, that the whole thing was simply a try-on, though don’t ask me what the purpose of that might be. Just like the Germans I suppose, always making trouble of one sort or another.” Mrs Heffer paused. “On the other hand, there’s Mr Sedge. We mustn’t forget that.”

  “Er … ?”

  Mrs Heffer explained patiently. “Mr Sedge. In the coach. Anyway, I’m certain the face was Mr Sedge. In which case, don’t you see, Roly, the coach is involved in this wretched business and very likely the German was in it. And now perhaps Mr Sedge has somehow or other managed to turn the tables on that German. I do think that’s very likely, especially as the coach seems to have vanished.”

  Rowland Mayes puzzled over Mrs Heffer’s last remark, failing to see any connection between what Hedge might (or more probably might not) have done and the disappearance of the coach. He was still racking his brains in case Mrs Heffer had inadvertently stumbled upon some vital clue when the Prime Minister spoke again and, looking at her watch, announced that she would give the German gangster five more minutes and would then start her speech.

  *

  Brother Werribee had covered the ground in record time, taking risks with overtaking and leaving fuming motorists in his wake. Paying the Fountains car park custodian, he drove to the left instead of to the right where the car park was. Driving alongside the lake, he went across the ford and continued driving into the Valley of the Seven Bridges, which was mostly very rough. The motor-bicycle caused havoc to handfuls of walkers especially on the narrow bridges. Brother Werribee was forced eventually to abandon his machine; proceeding at a fast lope, he entered the wooded section and made contact with Arry from Ripon and then the guarding skinhead with the earrings and Nazi emblems. Soon thereafter he squatted down by the beginning of the cased fuse trail and from a pocket brought out his miniature radio transceiver.

  Then he waited.

  *

 
Just as Mrs Heffer was about to begin speaking, the introductory speech having been made by the chairman of the local Conservative Association and all the other preliminaries having been got out of the way, a loudly booming voice cut across the Ribblehead viaduct and the marquee, calling Mrs Heffer by name.

  “What on earth is going on?” Mrs Heffer demanded. “Roly!”

  “Yes, Prime Minister. A German accent —”

  “German?” Mrs Heffer’s eyebrows went up. “The German, do you suppose? If so, how cowardly! Is this supposed to be the parley?”

  “Perhaps it is, Prime Minister.”

  Mrs Heffer opened her mouth and spoke but the broadcast was very loud and her words remained unheard. The assembled worthies gaped in astonishment and alarm as the booming voice announced that it was that of the man known and feared as The Long Knife and that he and his companions now held the whole assembly at his whim, either to let go free or to destroy. Flight, the voice said would be utterly futile: he held command over the arsenal which spread widely in all directions, as they all knew. The Prime Minister was already aware of the demands; there was no need to repeat them now. And the voice did not propose to deliver itself into the hands of the authorities by making a personal appearance at this stage.

  “Coward!” Mrs Heffer said loudly, and shook a fist in the direction from which the broadcast appeared to be coming.

  The voice continued. “The British Prime Minister is to approach the road running to Horton-in-Ribblesdale and move along it until she is met. She is to come under a flag of truce and she is to be alone. Totally alone. If any other move is made along the road, there will come the explosion. Also if she does not come at all, there will be the explosion. That is all.” There was a loud click, then silence.

  The whole assembly stood like statues, horrified, disbelieving that they could possibly have heard what undoubtedly they had heard. There was total silence, just for perhaps a quarter of a minute, then pandemonium broke out, pandemonium in which no single voice could be distinguished. Then Mrs Heffer was seen to be waving her arms wildly in the air and trying to shout. Rowland Mayes seized the microphone and thrust it at her. Her voice, urging calm, began to cut through the panic.

  “There is no cause for alarm,” she was shouting. “These wicked men may be cowards, but I am not. I shall do as they demand and walk along the road. I ask all of you to give me your backing by remaining calm and showing these wretched Germans what we British mean by stiff upper lips.”

  In the distant grounds of Fountains Abbey a signal was received on the radio transceiver, three long dashes and two short dots. Crouched by the radio and the fuse trail, Brother Werribee struck a match and lit the end of the fuse trail. Sputtering along inside its casing, the spark would, as per briefing, reach Langstrothdale Chase in forty-five minutes precisely, by which time (according to the authorised schedule) the coach with its monks aboard would long have departed the scene, heading fast for Ingleton and then across into the greater safety of Lancashire.

  As Brother Werribee began his own withdrawal, with Arry from Ripon and the skinhead, to rendezvous later in Lancashire, he was not to know that Brother Infirmarer had caused the most colossal cock-up beneath Langstrothdale Chase.

  *

  The Home Secretary had provided the flag of truce — his white lawn handkerchief. One of the chairborne generals had provided the stick: his cane. With the makeshift flag of truce, which of itself went right against the Prime Minister’s sternest principles, Mrs Heffer advanced bravely along the road to Horton-in-Ribblesdale, her shoes, though sensible, not entirely suitable for rough walking and thus giving her a number of blisters before she had gone more than half a mile.

  She plodded on. There was no Long Knife, no anybody. Of course, such a coward, such a lily-livered desperado, would not make his appearance whilst she was still within sight of her supporters and her police. That, Mrs Heffer naturally expected. But it began to seem to her that she was going a very long way and when she looked back there was no sign of anyone behind so she must herself surely be out of sight.

  Perhaps the German had panicked. Perhaps he had given up, having realised how iron was her determination to resist, to thwart for ever his grandiose, ridiculous schemes to take over — had he not said? — Great Britain and all it stood for.

  Mrs Heffer was the stalwart upholder of British sovereignty, the last disciple, as she saw herself constantly, of Winston Churchill. She crunched, rather painfully now, along the road, which in a number of places needed resurfacing. The day seemed to grow hotter and hotter, the sun coming down like a lance to penetrate her sensible coat and skirt, which she now half regretted having decided to wear. Votes were all very well, but discomfort on this scale was close to prickly heat. However, she would not remove her coat now. She must conduct the parley dressed as a lady and a Prime Minister should be dressed.

  On and on: no-one.

  Should she turn back, show her utter disdain for cowardice? Might that not be more dignified? But of course that threat remained. She had not only herself to consider. There were the worthies, and the farmers and their wives, and all the rest. They would be trusting her to act manfully, so she went on, her temper deteriorating fast.

  Then the manifestation came. A figure appeared apparently from nowhere, a figure that peered cautiously from behind a rock, an unkempt figure that, after the cautious look, came out from cover and began running along the road towards her.

  Mrs Heffer stopped. The figure panted up.

  Mrs Heffer stared for a moment. “Mr Sedge!” she said. “How very brave, how very gallant of you … do I take it you have managed to overcome these vile men and —”

  Hedge had not stopped in his headlong rush. His eyes were wild. Since he was on the move, Mrs Heffer had to swivel round to keep in conversational contact. Hedge shouted, “Run, Prime Minister, run for your life!”

  Hedge pounded along the road. Mrs Heffer frowned. Well, of course, he had passed a warning. And quite obviously he must have done something very brave whilst in the hands of the desperadoes. Mrs Heffer had certainly not forgotten that face, pressed so hard and flat against the window of the coach. Yes — very brave. But there were dignities and niceties to be preserved in all situations. Mrs Heffer walked back towards the Ribblehead viaduct, not especially hurrying.

  *

  It had been, Hedge said, Brother Infirmarer. He had tripped over the radio transmitter, thus activating the already set signal that would cause Brother Werribee to ignite the fuse trail. The whole area would go up quite soon. As the word spread, the assembly began to disperse, or tried to, in their cars. This led only to total confusion and a log-jam of cars. The police presence being composed largely of senior officers who hadn’t sorted out a traffic jam for very many years, matters were made worse. Very few had managed to get away when there was a distant bang. It was not a very big one but it set the seal on panic. Many of the hemmed-in people fell to their knees in prayer, others streamed on foot to the far side of the viaduct.

  Hedge said, “That will probably be Shard.”

  “Shard, Mr Sedge?”

  “My man Shard, Prime Minister,” Hedge said. “A policeman, in captivity with me. He and I … well, Shard and I were left behind when Reverend Father and the others knew they had to get out fast. After Brother Infirmarer tripped, you see. When they’d gone I untied Shard. I imagine Reverend Father thought he and I … there was so much panic, you see. Anyway, there we were, left behind. And Shard believed he might be able to — er — inhibit the explosion by, as I rather gathered, setting off a smaller explosion that would … well, do something or other which I confess I didn’t really follow.”

  “And Shard remained behind, did he, Hedge?” This was Rowland Mayes.

  “Yes, Foreign Secretary.”

  “While you ran away.”

  Hedge flushed. “I thought only of the Prime Minister, Foreign Secretary. A warning, you know.”

  Rowland Mayes looked dubious but was at on
ce sat upon by Mrs Heffer. “Mr Sedge has been simply splendid, Foreign Secretary. Simply splendid in doing his part to — to finish off these vile men’s plans. We should all be very, very grateful to him. The whole country should be. I shall say as much to the Queen as soon as possible. I feel quite sure she will agree.” Soon after this, Shard was seen coming along the road; a patrol car, despatched by the Home Secretary, drove out to pick him up. Laconically he reported that the danger was past, the major explosion averted by the smaller, controlled one. He was black from head to foot, and hair and eyebrow’s were singed. He looked all in. He knew he had been outmanoeuvred by the German and the brethren all the way through. Until the last, that was. So he didn’t unduly begrudge the praise that was being poured on Hedge who’d done nothing other than untie his hands. Hedge was preening now but he had his problems coming up. Shard, questioned by Mrs Heffer, was told that she was going to mention Mr Sedge’s name at Buckingham Palace. But Hedge still had to explain away Cousin Wally. He probably would; Hedge was very adept at that sort of thing, had get-out-from-under very nicely taped. Mrs Heffer was well into her stride in the meantime: she led the singing of For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow, and then called for three cheers for Mr Sedge. The farmers cheered their heads off; what had taken place that day had played right into the hands of the protesters and all were convinced that, even though the actual protest had now been side-tracked, Mrs Heffer would have to take due note and the whole dump would be shifted to Scotland where it wouldn’t matter, or anyway wouldn’t matter to Yorkshire. Just before the Prime Ministerial party was about to embark aboard the motorcade for York and thence the train for London — minus Mrs Heffer with Hedge and others for whose urgent transport helicopters were being flown in — and after a posse of police cars had scorched along the road to Horton-in-Ribblesdale on a coach hunt — Brother Peter was brought in by a patrol car from Catterick. Brother Peter, still very confused on account of one thing and another, had taken quite a while to bring to the point but at last the constable had got there; as a result of which another fleet of police vehicles had started closing in on the car park custodian at Fountains Abbey.