Colonel Butler's Wolf

by Anthony Price

  Handforth-Jones looked hard at Audley for a moment without speaking, presumably to satisfy himself that a silly question had not elicited a silly answer. But Audley’s face was set too firm for that.

  Butler hefted the shotgun in his grip.

  “High Crags is the likeliest,” he grunted. “He’ll have a clearer shot from the right, and the ground’s that bit more broken. I’ll take that one.”

  “No.” Audley shook his head. “There’s too much ground to cover. The only way to stop Alek now is to stop those young idiots from meeting Negreiros. Which means stopping Negreiros from getting here.”

  “He’ll be on the road by now,” said Handforth-Jones.

  “Which way will he be coming?”

  Handforth-Jones shrugged. “It all depends whether he comes up the M1 or the”M6. I don’t know where he’s coming from. More likely the M1, I suppose, then turning off through Durham and Corbridge.”

  Audley nodded. “That’d mean he’ll come from the east. I’ll take my car down the road and try and head him off. Butler, you take the west—the Carlisle side. And just don’t let him get in range of these crags.”

  “No.”

  Audley frowned at him.

  “I was meant to be here, was I?” Butler spoke harshly. “Meant to be in the way of the demo?”

  “Out of the house but in the way. You weren’t meant to miss the fun, I’d guess, Jack. I reckon we were all meant to be here. They planned it this way.”

  “Aye, that’s what I thought.” It vexed him strangely to think that Dr Gracey’s hospitality and culinary pride should have been twisted by the enemy to that end. He nodded towards the archaeologist. “Dr Handforth-Jones can try the Carlisle road. I’ll see what I can do to stop the demonstration getting here.”

  “To stop it? How?”

  Butler addressed Handforth-Jones. “They’ll take the path through Boghole Gap, won’t they?”

  “They’re sure to, yes. It’s a hell of a way round by the road.”

  “Do you think you can stop them?” Audley asked in surprise.

  “If they use the Gap, I can have a damn good try,” said Butler, still eyeing Handforth-Jones. “That is, if I can have those three men of yours.”

  “Those three—?” Handforth-Jones’s eyebrows lifted. Then he looked at the three labourers calculatingly. “Well, maybe they might at that, if the money was right … Arthur.”

  The smallest and most shifty-looking of the three instantly dropped his spade and jog-trotted towards them.

  “Arthur is the negotiator,” said Handforth-Jones quickly. “They’re Ulstermen. They say they’re ‘resting’ between motorway engagements. But I know there’s been bad blood between the English and the Irish on several jobs since the trouble got worse in Ireland. And from what Arthur let slip I rather suspect they left there in a hurry too.”

  His voice tailed off as Arthur came to a halt in front of him. But the quick, darting eyes flicked over Audley and Butler before settling on the archaeologist, testing for gold, thought Butler—or copper.

  “Sorr?”

  Londonderry Irish.

  “Like to earn a quick fiver, Arthur?”

  “Each,” Butler snapped. Whatever the rates archeology paid, ex-motorway workers would not be bought for a mere pound or two.

  “Doin’ what?” Arthur concentrated on Butler now.

  “Most likely standing still for half an hour. But there could be a punch-up in it.”

  Arthur’s expression blanked over.

  “But there could be a punch-up,” he repeated, as though adding an item to a bill. “An’ if there was a punch-up would the police be in on it, sorr?”

  “No police.”

  “Argh, but them fellas have a way uv—“

  “I said no police,” Butler fixed his fiercest military eye on the little man.

  Londonderry Irish. Dirty in the trenches, his father used to say, the Papists more so than the Prods. And not as steady when things looked blackest as the English North Country regiments. But real scrappers when it came to the attack, none better. Because they liked it.

  Arthur cocked his head on one side and screwed up his seamed little face in preparation for the bargaining.

  “Well, sorr—“

  “I’ve no time to waste. Five pounds each for maybe half an hour’s work and no questions. Take it or leave it.”

  The Irishman risked a glance at Handforth-Jones, but received no help. The trick was somehow to tip the balance, but Butler’s frugal soul revolted against tipping it with more money. Then it came to him, the despicable insight.

  “Man, they’re only students I want you to stand up to, not Provisionals or B Specials.”

  “Students?” Arthur sprayed the sibilants through his teeth in disdain. “Why did ye not say so before, sorr! Fi’ pound apiece it is, then. I’ll just go tell me friends.” He started down the hillside. “Hah! Students is it … Hah !”

  He stumped away, still playing the stage Irishman for his paymaster’s benefit, and Butler turned just in time to catch Audley and Handforth-Jones exchanging glances.

  “The spirit of St Scholastica’s Day,” murmured the archaeologist cryptically.

  “Alive and kicking after six hundred years,” agreed Audley. “So much for ‘Workers of the hand and the mind unite’. But can you hold the pass with those three, Jack?”

  “If I was meant to be here, then I’m pretty sure I shall have reinforcements,” said Butler dryly.

  XVII

  AS THEY CAME within sight of the milecastle, Butler thought for one horrible moment they were too late. But in the next instant he recognised the dark, tousled hair.

  “Sorr—“ Arthur hissed urgently beside him.

  “It’s all right. He’s one of mine.”

  “Aargh—that’s grand!” Arthur slapped the pick-handle into his open palm joyfully. “D’ya hear that, boys—‘tis one of the Colonel’s fellas!”

  Richardson waved, leapt from the Wall to the ground and ran towards them.

  “Phew! I’m out of training, and that’s a fact.” He grinned breathlessly. “It’s this sedentary life of scholarship I’ve been leading.”

  “Report!” snapped Butler. “You’re supposed to be looking after McLachlan.”

  “He’s just coming—phew—on the other side of the Wall,” panted Richardson. “And he’s not the only one—they’ll all be here soon.”

  “He’s with them, you mean.”

  Richardson caught his breath. “Hell, no. It was Dan who blew the gaff on the others—he’s with Polly and Mike Klobucki just back there. I ran ahead hoping to catch David— we’ve got to get word to him. It’s this thing of Handforth-Jones’s—the bloody Portuguese—“

  “We know. When are they coming?”

  “You know!” Richardson gaped at him. “How the devil do you know?”

  “Never mind that. When are they coming? How far are they behind you?”

  Richardson shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. Dan said they were just putting the resolution to the meeting when he walked out. But it can’t be long because there wasn’t going to be any disagreement, Dan said. Terry Richmond and a chap called Greenslade from King’s had got ‘em properly steamed up.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I tried to ring out, but the phone’s dead.”

  “What about Dr Gracey?”

  “There was a call from Cumbria this morning early—a fire in the admin block—“ Richardson grinned wolfishly. “The bastards got him off the premises before they tried anything, and Epton won’t stop ‘em so long as they promise to be nonviolent. Christ—non-violent!”

  Butler stared at Richardson. So easily—so ingeniously—was the thing done. A false call, and then a little well-placed sabotage. After that the time factor would take care of everything.

  “I thought of taking my car, but it was right in front of the room where they’re holding the meeting,” went on Richardson. He spread his hands, “and even then
if the lodge gates were locked—and if the car started—Dan and I thought it would be better to get up here to you.”

  “He doesn’t know about Audley?”

  “No, of course he doesn’t. But he reckoned you might know what to do. And we caught up with Polly and Mike on the way.” Richardson paused. “What are we going to do?”

  Butler thought for a moment. “Are you armed?”

  Richardson looked at him, shame-faced, knowing well how Butler felt about firearms.

  “Well, ever since David said—“

  “Are you armed, man?”

  “I’ve got a little automatic.” Richardson admitted. “A Beretta.”

  A whore’s gun, thought Butler contemptuously. But it made the next order easier.

  He nodded towards Low Crags. “Have a quick scout up there—no more than ten minutes. Alek might be up there, somewhere where he has a line of fire on Ortolanacum. Don’t try to flush him if he’s there—just come back and tell me.”

  Richardson started to say something, and then stopped before the first word had formed. Then he nodded and started up the hillside on the track beside the Wall.

  For the very first time Butler’s heart lifted to the young man. When the crunch came he had acted quickly and now he had proved that he could obey a dirty order without argument. He had passed the test.

  “Sorr!” Arthur called to him from his vantage point on the hillside to the right of the milecastle. “There’s some more of ‘em comin’—just the three, an’ I think one of ‘em’s a female.”

  Butler climbed up beside him.

  “ ‘Tis not the hair—some of ‘em have it to their shoulders— ‘tis the hips, see,” Arthur confided. “An’ there—see—she’s got a fine pair uv tits too—that’s a girl an’ no mistake!”

  Butler followed the stained finger. McLachlan would fight, that was sure beyond a doubt. But whether the American would, and whether Polly would, with her father on the other side in spirit if not in body, was another thing.

  “See here,” he growled to the Irishman, pointing down to the gap beneath them. “We’re not waiting on the Wall for them to come—not these three, they’re friends—we’re going to move in front—“

  That was how the Wall had been designed, though never for anything like this …

  “On the causeway there, by the ditch. Three of us on the causeway, and one at each end of the ditch by the cliff.—“

  “Heh-heh-heh!” The little man beside him cackled. “Push ‘em into the water—that’ll damp ‘em down!”

  “That’s exactly what I don’t want you to do,” snapped Butler. “Once they go in the water, they’ve got nothing to lose crossing the ditch, and we can’t hold them. I’m depending that they won’t want to go into it—at least not for a time, anyway.”

  “Ah, I see what ye’re drivin’ at, sorr. ‘Tis a terrible muddy ditch. I wouldn’t like to go in it for the Holy Father himself!” Arthur nodded wisely. “So we pushes ‘em back, an’ we cracks ‘em on the shins.”

  “I don’t want any injuries.”

  “No injuries, sorr. We pushes ‘em back gentle, like the little lost lambs they are.”

  There was a light in the man’s eyes that belied the innocence in his voice. It was clear that he could not be relied on for any delicacy in action, and it was unlikely that his comrades would be any better. The plain fact was that Arthur could smell a fight, and if it was within his power to provoke, one, a fight there would be.

  Shaking his head irritably, Butler scrambled across the Wall, leaving the Irishman in the look-out post, and went forward doubtfully to meet his reinforcements.

  “Have you seen Peter Richardson?” McLachlan called as they approached each other. “Has he told you what’s happening?”

  “Aye. He’s scouting up on Low Crags. You were at the meeting?”

  “To start with. But it was pretty much cut-and-dried— Terry’s even got the banners ready. I’m sorry, sir—I ought to have known. But it just never occurred to me.”

  “You knew about the Portuguese coming to Ortolanacum?”

  McLachlan grimaced. “Well, Dr Handforth-Jones was talking about his Lusitanians at dinner a couple of nights ago—“

  “Oh, we’ve known about it for ages,” interrupted Polly. “But what are we going to do? I mean, Peter got very steamed up, but I can’t see that they’ll do any harm really. Terry’s militant, but strictly non-violent—Daddy would have stopped them otherwise.”

  Butler turned to Klobucki. “And where do you stand in this, young man?”

  Klobucki stared at him shrewdly. “I was going to ask you the same thing, sir. I’m getting the feeling that you aren’t quite the simple soldier I took you for last evening. I think I’d sure like to know where you stand before I go any further.”

  He jerked his head towards the Wall. “And I guess I’d like to know who your buddies are.”

  Butler met the young American’s stare squarely. No lies now—or as few as were necessary: they deserved as much, and like it or not he needed whatever help he could get to hold Boghole Gap.

  “It doesn’t matter who I am,” he began slowly. “But you’re wrong about the harm they can do, Polly. If they get to Ortolanacum somebody else may die.”

  “Die?” Klobucki looked quickly at Polly. “Who—what the hell is this?”

  “Neil Smith died—“

  “Neil—?” Klobucki’s voice squeaked.

  “Now a man called Negreiros may die.” Butler overrode the squeak. “If your friends get to Ortolanacum and Negreiros gets there too, there’s a Russian sniper who could make it a front page meeting.”

  “Jeeze!” The American whispered. “A Russian—jeezels— are you sure, Colonel?”

  “No, I’m not sure. But I’m damned if I’m going to wait and see. We’re trying to stop Negreiros—and in the meantime I’m going to hold this gap for as long as I can. If you’ll help me then, I can use your help.”

  “Count me in, Colonel sir!” McLachlan turned to Klobucki. “Come on, Mike—Negreiros may be a 21-carat bastard, but the Commies are taking old Terry for a ride this time. Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

  He turned on Polly. “And you’ve got a stake in it too, Polly my girl! Because if we don’t turn ‘em back, your Daddy’ll be in dead trouble, and it won’t do a damn bit of good for him to say he thought it was a peaceful demo.”

  “Oh, shut up, Dan—it isn’t a joke,” Polly spat. Then she looked at Butler fiercely. “Is it true?”

  “About your father?” There was a good deal of truth in McLachlan’s conclusion, as usual. For a quickly mounted bit of wickedness, this smokescreen operation might well do a fair bit of damage to quite a number of reputations.

  But Polly shook her head. “I mean about Neil dying for the same reason?”

  Butler gazed at her steadily, searching for something that wasn’t wholly dishonourable. But in this web the dishonourable truth and the decent and necessary deceits were now so mixed that all options were equally odious.

  “My dear—“ he began heavily “—it is because of Neil that all this has happened, that I promise you.”

  She gripped the big Ferguson 12-bore convulsively.

  “All-right, then—I’ll stick with you, Colonel.”

  “Bravo!”cried Dan.

  “Can it, Dan—put the lid on it!” Klobucki hissed.

  “But I’m not joking, Mike,” McLachlan protested vehemently. “Polly’s only running true to form. The Eptons always used to hold this gap back in the old days when the Scots raided England. The question is, where do you stand now—with the fuzz or against them?”

  “It isn’t your fight, Mike,” said Polly. “It’s not fair to involve you. And Terry’s a friend of yours, anyway.”

  “Maybe so, Polly-Anna, maybe so … “ Klobucki shook his head to himself. “But then, I don’t want to see Terry taken for a ride. And if the Colonel’s on the level it sure looks like one time when the fuzz could do with some citizen help�
��“

  “Here comes Peter Richardson,” McLachlan interrupted him.

  Richardson was dropping skilfully down the steep slope of Low Crags from level to level, like a Gurkha rifleman. He paused for a moment on a smooth outcrop of rock, shook his head at Butler, and then continued down. So Low Crags were clean—for the moment.

  “Okay, Colonel,” Klobucki said firmly. “And just how do you figure on stopping them?”

  Butler drew a deep breath. Then, as the incongruity of it hit him, he smiled to himself despite his misgivings. In the ancient past, when the tumble of stones behind him had been the greatest military work in Europe, there had been perhaps a platoon here, and a whole regiment within shouting distance.

  And now he had one man, two youths and three shiftless layabouts and a girl to hold the Gap which had once belonged to Hadrian’s Own Lusitanians.

  “You on the causeway with me, Richardson. And you—“ he pointed to the largest of the Irishmen “—with us. And Mr Klobucki behind us in reserve. Then one of you covering the ditch on each side.”

  “And I want you, Miss Epton, up on the crest of Low Crags—you’ll be out of our sight, but it doesn’t matter. I want you to keep an eye for a stranger—about my size, but grey-haired. Round face, gold-rimmed spectacles. If you spot anyone, then head back here as fast as you can. Otherwise stay there until I come for you.”

  “And I want you on High Crags, McLachlan. Same job— if you spot anyone then come back and tell me.”

  Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, son of Hrethel.

  Well, that remained to be seen!

  XVIII

  “THIS IS WHEN one of us should say, ‘It’s quiet, Sergeant’.”

  Butler frowned at the American. “I beg your pardon?”

  “In the movies,” Klobucki explained patiently, “the young trooper always says ‘It’s quiet, Sergeant’, and the sergeant says ‘Too quiet, son’—and then the whole Apache nation comes over the ridge at them. It happens all the time.”

  “I see,” murmured Butler abstractedly, watching McLachlan disappear over the brow of the first false crest of High Crags. The wind rushed along the cliffs, driving the jackdaws soaring before it. But there was the faintest touch of rain in it now, like a spider’s web brushing against his face.