Blott On The Landscape (29 page)

Dundridge thought wistfully of Mr Edwards. He turned to Hoskins.

“I think,” said Hoskins, “that we ought to contact the Ministry in London. This thing’s too big for us.”

At the Hall Lady Maud heard the shot and picked up a pair of binoculars. Through them she could see Blott on the roof with the shotgun. She telephoned the Lodge.

“They’re not shooting at you, are they?” she asked hopefully.

“No,” said Blott, “I was just shooting a pigeon. They’re still talking.”

“Remember what I said about violence,” Lady Maud told him. “We must keep public sympathy on our side. I am going to get in touch with the
BBC
and
ITV
and all the national newspapers. I think we can make a big song and dance about this business.”

Blott put down the phone. Song and dance. The English language was most expressive. Song and dance.

At his Mobile HQ Dundridge was on the phone to London.

“Are you seriously trying to tell me that Lady Lynchwood’s gardener has cemented himself into an ornamental arch?” said Mr Rees incredulously. “It doesn’t sound possible.”

“The arch in question happens to be eighty feet high,” Dundridge explained. “It has rooms inside. He’s filled all the bottom ones with concrete. There’s barbed-wire on the roof and short of blowing the place up there’s no way of getting him out.”

“I should try the local fire brigade,” Mr Rees suggested. “They use them to get cats out of trees.”

“I have tried the fire brigade,” said Dundridge.

“Well, what do they say?”

“They say their business is putting out fires, not storming fortresses.”

Mr Rees considered the problem. “I imagine he’ll have to come out sometime,” he said finally.

“Why?”

“Well, to eat for one thing.”

“Eat?” shouted Dundridge. “Eat? He doesn’t have to come out to eat. I’ve got a list here of the things he ordered from the local supermarket. Four hundred tins of baked beans, seven hundred cans of corned beef, one hundred and fifty tins of frankfurters. Need I go on?”

“No,” said Mr Rees hastily, “the fellow must have a constitution like an ox. You would have thought he would have chosen something a little more appetizing.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say?” said Dundridge.

“Well I must admit that it does sound as if he intends to make a long stay of it,” Mr Rees agreed.

“And what are we going to do? Cancel the motorway for a couple of years while he munches his way through that little lot?”

Mr Rees tried to think. “Can’t you talk him down?” he asked. “That’s what they usually do with people threatening to commit suicide.”

“But he isn’t threatening suicide,” Dundridge pointed out.

“It amounts to the same thing,” said Mr Rees. “A diet of corned beef, baked beans and frankfurters in the quantities you’ve mentioned would certainly kill me. Still, I see what you mean. A man who can even contemplate living off that muck obviously means business. Have you any ideas on the subject?”

“As a matter of fact I have,” said Dundridge.

“Not another ball and crane job I hope,” said Mr Rees anxiously. “We can’t have another little episode of that sort so shortly after the last one.”

“I was thinking of using the army,” said Dundridge.

“The army? My dear fellow, this is a free country. We can’t possibly ask the army to blast a perfectly innocent Englishman out of his own home with tanks and artillery.”

“To be precise,” said Dundridge, “he doesn’t happen to be an Englishman and I wasn’t thinking of blasting him out with tanks and artillery.”

“I should think not. The public would never stand for it.” Mr Rees said. “But if he’s not an Englishman what is he?”

“An Italian.”

“An Italian? Are you sure? It doesn’t sound like them to go in for this sort of thing,” said Mr Rees.

“He’s naturalized,” said Dundridge.

“That explains it,” said Mr Rees. “In that case I can’t see any objection to using the army. They’re used to dealing with foreigners. What precisely did you have in mind?”

Dundridge explained his plan.

“Well I’ll see what I can do,” said Mr Rees. “I’ll call you back when I’ve had a word with the Minister.”

In Whitehall the wires buzzed. Mr Rees spoke to the Minister of the Environment and the Minister spoke to Defence. By five o’clock Army Command had agreed to supply a team of commandos trained in rock climbing on the explicit understanding that they were to be used simply in a police support role and would not use firearms. As the Minister of the Environment explained, the essence of the operation was to occupy the Lodge and hold Blott until the police could evict him in a lawful fashion. “The great thing is that the media haven’t got on to the story yet. If we can get him out of there before the newsmen start nosing around we can hush the whole thing up. The essence of the thing must be speed.”

It was a point that Dundridge made to the commandos when they arrived for briefing that night at his Mobile HQ. “I have here a number of photographs taken this afternoon of the target,” he said handing them round. “As you can see it is amply provided with handholds and there are two means of access. The two circular windows on either side and the hatch in the roof. I should have thought the best method of attack would be a diversionary move to the rear and a frontal assault -“

“I think you can leave the tactical details of the exercise to us,” said the Major in charge who didn’t like being told his business by a civvy.

“I was only trying to help,” said Dundridge.

“Now then,” said the Major. “We’ll rendezvous at the Gibbet at twenty-four hundred hours and proceed on foot …” Dundridge left them to it and went into the other office.

“Well, for once we’re getting things done,” he told Hoskins. “That old bitch isn’t going to know what’s hit her.”

Hoskins nodded doubtfully. He had been in the army himself and he didn’t have Dundridge’s faith in the efficiency of the military machine.

Blott spent the evening reading Sir Arthur Bryant but his mind was not on the past. He was considering the immediate future. They would either act quickly or try to wear him down psychologically by sending a succession of well-meaning people to talk to him. Blott had seen the sort of visitor he could expect on the television. Social workers, psychiatrists, priests and policemen, all of them imbued with an invincible faith in the possibility of compromise. They would argue and cajole (Blott looked the word up in his dictionary to see if it meant what he thought and found he was right) and do their best to make him see the error of his ways and they would fail, fail hopelessly because their assumptions were all wrong. They would assume he was an Italian whereas he wasn’t. They would think he was acting on instructions or that he was simply being loyal, whereas he was in love. They would think a compromise was possible … With a motorway? Blott smiled to himself at the stupidity of the idea. The motorway would either go through the Park and Handyman Hall or it wouldn’t. Nothing they could tell him would alter that fact. But above all the people who came to talk to him would be city-dwellers for whom talk was currency and words were coins. An Englishman’s word is his bond, Blott thought, but then he had never had much time for stocks and shares. “Word merchants” old Lord Handyman had called such people, with contempt in his voice, and Blott agreed with him. Well they could talk themselves blue in the face but they wouldn’t shift him. Everything that he cared for and loved and was lay there in the Park and the Garden and the Hall. Handyman Hall. And Blott was the handyman. He would die rather than give up the right to be needed. He undressed and climbed into bed and lay listening to the river tumbling by and the wind in the trees. Through his window he could see the light on in Lady Maud’s bedroom. Blott watched it until it went out and then he fell asleep.

He was woken at one o’clock by a noise outside. It was a very slight noise but it awoke in him some instinct, an early-warning system that told him that there were people outside. He got out of bed and went to the window and peered into the darkness below. There was someone at the foot of the left-hand column. Blott went across the room to the other window. There was someone in the Park too. They must have climbed the fence to get in. Blott listened and presently he heard someone moving below. They were climbing up the side of the Lodge. Climbing? In the dark? Interesting.

He crossed to a cupboard and took out the Leica and the flash gun and went back to the window and leant out. The next moment the entire side of the Lodge was a brilliant white. There was a cry and a thud. Blott went to the other window and took another photograph. This time whoever it was who was clinging to the side of the arch shut his eyes and clung on. Blott put the camera down. Something stronger was needed. What would make climbing difficult? Something greasy. He went into his kitchen and came out with a gallon can of cooking oil and climbed the ladder in the corner of the room to the hatch in the roof. Then he crawled to the edge and began pouring the oil down the wall. There was a curse from below, the sound of slithering and another thud followed by a cry. Blott emptied the rest of the can down the back wall and went down the ladder into his room and shone a torch out of the window. There was no one on the side of the arch now. At the foot a number of men in army uniforms stared up at him angrily. They had blackened faces and one of them was lying on the ground.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Blott asked.

“Wait till we get hold of you, you bastard,” shouted the Major. “You’ve broken his leg.”

“Not me,” said Blott, “I never touched him. He broke it himself. I didn’t ask him to climb up my wall in the middle of the night.”

He was interrupted by a sound from the other side of the Lodge. The sods were coming up there too. He went into the kitchen and fetched two cans of cooking oil and repeated the process. By the time he had finished the sides of the Lodge were streaked with oil and two more climbers had fallen.

Down below there was a muttered conference.

“We’ll use the grappling irons,” said the Major.

Blott peered out of the window and shone his torch on them. There was an explosion and a three-pronged hook shot past him on to the roof and stuck in the barbed-wire. It was followed by another. Blott raced into the kitchen and grabbed a knife. A moment later he was on the roof and had cut through one rope. He crawled under the wire and cut another. There was another thud and a yell. Blott peered over.

“Anyone else coming up?” he asked. But the army was already in retreat. As they carried their wounded back across the suspension bridge and up the road Blott watched them wistfully. He rather regretted their going. A full-scale battle would have been marvellous publicity. A full-scale battle? Blott went to the cupboard where he kept his armoury. He would have to act quickly. Then he climbed up on the roof and let down the rope ladder. Ten minutes later he was standing on the suspension bridge with the Bren gun.

As the commandos trudged back up the road towards their transport at the Gibbet they were startled to hear the sound of automatic fire behind them. It lasted for several seconds and was repeated again and again. They stood still and listened. It stopped. A few moments later there was a much larger thump and it was followed by a second. Blott had tried out the
PIAT
and it still worked.

At the Hall Lady Maud sat up in bed and struggled to find the light switch. She was used to the occasional shot in the night but this was something entirely different. A positive bombardment. She reached for the phone and rang the Lodge. There was no reply.

“Oh my God,” she moaned, “they’ve killed him.” She got out of bed and dressed hurriedly. The firing had stopped now. She phoned the Lodge again and still there was no reply. She put the phone down and called the Chief Constable.

“They’ve murdered him,” she shouted, “they’ve attacked the Lodge and killed him!”

“Killed who?” asked the Chief Constable.

“Blott,” yelled Lady Maud.

“No?” said the Chief Constable.

“I tell you they have. They’ve been using machine-guns and something much bigger.”

“Oh my goodness gracious me,” said the Chief Constable. “Are you sure? I mean couldn’t there be some mistake?”

“Percival Henry,” screamed Lady Maud, “you know me well enough to know that when I say something I mean it. Remember what happened to Bertie Bullett-Finch.”

The Chief Constable remembered all too well. Midnight assassinations were becoming a commonplace occurrence in South Worfordshire and besides Lady Maud’s tone had the ring of sincere hysteria about it. And Lady Maud, whatever else she might be was not a woman who got hysterical for nothing.

“I’ll get every available patrol car there as soon as possible,” he promised.

“And an ambulance too,” screamed Lady Maud.

Within minutes every police car in South Worfordshire was converging on the Gorge. At the Gibbet twelve men of the 41st Marine Commando, two of them with broken legs, were detained for questioning as they were about to leave in their transport. They were driven to Worford Police Station loudly protesting that they had been acting under the orders of the Area Commander and that the police had no legal authority to hold them.

“We’ll see about that in the morning,” said the Inspector as they were herded into their cells.

At the Lodge Blott climbed up his rope ladder and hauled it up behind him. He was delighted with his experiment. All the weapons had worked splendidly and, while it was impossible in the darkness to tell what damage they had done to the Lodge, the sound of splintering stonework had suggested that there was plenty of evidence to show that the army had carried out its assault with undue force and quite unwarranted violence. It was only when he was back in his room that he could see how effective the Projectiles Infantry Anti-Tank had been. They had blown two substantial holes in the frieze and the room was littered with bits of stone. Both windows had been blown out by the blast and there were holes in the ceiling. He was just wondering what to do next when he heard footsteps running down the drive. Blott switched off his torch and went to the window. It was Lady Maud.