The Theft of Magna Carta (18 page)

And behind Batten the cathedral stood as solid and as stable now as in all its seven hundred years; within its walls was explosive enough to cause so much damage that it would never be the same; might become a dark and smoking shell.

 

 

Batten's voice faded into a gasping intake of breath, then he began to breathe shallowly, as if he could not get the air into his lungs. The first words which broke the silence were from Kempton, who whispered: “Can't someone give him a drink?” Two policemen moved forward. A man behind the tall dean said quietly: “I'll take him to my house.”

Roger was aware of this, aware that Batten could not walk without support and that the speaker and a policeman went with him and he was aware of the tension in the men all about him.

The tall dean asked in a bewildered way: “Can he really mean it?”

“I think we ought to assume that he does,” Roger said.

“What a dreadful dilemma, Dean Howe,” another cleric almost sobbed.

“Do you think there's a dilemma, sir?” Roger asked Sir Richard Way.

Way was looking across at the mass of the cathedral; since Batten had first appeared, he hadn't spoken. Would he always be a shadowy figure, influencing rather than guiding his men? Now he looked at Roger, and his ascetic face was caught in a light from one of the nearby lamps; he was more like a prelate than any of the clerics here.

“No,” he answered. “We must let them go, of course.”

A policeman, out of sight, muttered: “But we can't!”

A cleric, out of sight, said clearly: “Thank God, thank God!”

“Don't you agree, Superintendent?” asked Way in that thin and disapproving voice.

“Yes,” Roger said briskly. “If I were senior officer here I would certainly let them get out of the cathedral.”

“But they might get away with Magna Carta,” a man said in a frightened voice.

“If we keep them in there they'll not only destroy the manuscript but almost certainly do untold damage to the building,” Roger argued in an almost mechanical voice. “We simply haven't any choice. We must get them out of there peacefully.”

“You mean, promise them safe passage and then pounce?”

“Five minutes must have passed already,” Isherwood said gruffly. “We can't keep arguing much longer.”

“I don't see how we can pounce if they have the manuscript,” Roger replied to the chief constable. “They have to be allowed to get clear from the cathedral, at least. Afterward if we can pounce without risking damage to the manuscript—”

“Will you go and talk to them?”

“Yes.”

The chief constable nodded.

“May I have Mr. Isherwood with me?” Roger asked.

“Yes. Of course.”

“And if we have a floodlight turned on us they'll see there are only the two of us,” Roger pointed out.

“I'll fix that, sir,” a man by one of the cars said. “No problem.”

“Then let's go.”

Roger stepped between the white posts and for a moment seemed to be in complete darkness, for the branches of tall trees and the dark shape of a house intensified the shadows at this entrance. Before they had gone fifty yards, however, a light shone out from a car roof. At first only Isherwood was caught in the beam, which cast a strangely elongated shadow which soon included Roger's as they walked into the darkness. Roger had his amplifier in his left hand.

Lights showed at a dozen windows around the close.

Here and there the figures of men showed on the rooftops.

The footsteps of the two policemen sounded clearly on the macadam surface of the path. The brightness of the light behind them began to fade and the cathedral itself showed up more clearly, its grey stone reflecting some of the light. An airplane droned overhead, and seemed very loud. The two men marched in step, sleeves brushing now and again. They were already halfway to the doorway, and neither had spoken.

At last, Isherwood said: “They couldn't have slipped out, could they?”

“They'll talk to us before they take any chance,” Roger replied confidently. “We'll stop just outside the porch.”

“Right.”

Their footsteps made a rhythm. Left-right, left-right, left-right.

“When the bloody hell—” began Isherwood.

“
That's far enough
,” a man called.

He was just beyond the porch. They could just see the outline of his face against the darkness of the wooden door and wooden panels at the far end. Both stopped as if commanded on the parade ground. Roger fought down an impulse to make a lunge toward the doorway.

“All right,” he called. “We're here to talk.”

“You're due to do what you're told if you want to save any of your precious junk,” Ledbetter said. “Is that West?”

“Yes, I'm West. Chief Inspector Isherwood is with me.”

“I don't care who's with you. West, I want clear passage, understand? If I don't get it—” The man was coming forward and a door creaked behind him and, ghostlike, another man appeared. “I'll press
this
little thing and the place will go up.”

He held up a transistor control.

Roger had no doubt at all what it was; and no doubt at all that the man meant exactly what he said.

“I've got enough incendiary explosive to blow this rabbit hutch into little pieces,” he said. “I just have to press a switch and there won't be any Magna Carta no mo'.” Mockery was plain in his voice. “And when I press that switch it will set off an explosion beneath the high altar, so there won't be no altar no mo' either.”

Isherwood growled: “You sacrilegious swine.”

“Was that the poor chief inspector?” mocked Ledbetter. “Let me tell you something, Chief Inspector. This piece of old vellum means just one thing to me: money. A lot of money. But it won't get me a penny if I can't deliver it to my boss. As a piece of history, to me it's a load of old junk. Don't talk to me about sacrilege. I don't go for religious hocus pocus. Plain bloody superstition, that's all that is. Don't get me wrong. This goes with me or it goes up in smoke. And this is an electronic switch. I can press it now or a mile away – the result will be the same inside or outside the cathedral. Now make up your mind. What's it to be?”

Roger asked: “Where is Linda Prell?”

“You'll find out when I'm clear away.”

“No,” Roger said. “I won't trade her.”

“You've flicking well got to!” Ledbetter rasped.

“No,” Roger said patiently, “I haven't got to. I don't have to let you go, I don't have to save the cathedral or Magna Carta. What I ought to do is jump you now; I might, yet. Where's Linda Prell?”

There was a short pause and a rustle of movement before the other man appeared at Ledbetter's side and said in a loud whisper: “Tell him. That bitch doesn't count any more.”

Ledbetter said: “She's in a cave at a place called Haze bury Ring.”

“Near Bodenham!” exclaimed Isherwood.

“So what?” Ledbetter sneered. “West, I tell you—”

Roger put the walkie-talkie to his lips and spoke very clearly. His voice did not travel far from this spot, but it would reach every receiver and amplifier in the police cars and in the pockets of uniformed policemen. Another aircraft flew overhead and in the distance there was the louder noise of a small helicopter.

“This is Superintendent West calling Chief Constable Sir Richard Way and all officers surrounding the cathedral and other points assigned earlier this evening. The thieves with the copy of Magna Carta have an electronic device by which they can destroy the manuscript and do serious damage to the cathedral. They are about to leave the cathedral by the north door, and will proceed toward St. Anne's Gate, the postern of which is open. They must be allowed free passage to their car, and they must not be followed.”

“
There's my boy!
” breathed Ledbetter.

“The car's a Ford Capri, metallic blue in colour, just outside that gate,” breathed the younger man with him.

“Their car is a metallic blue Ford Capri,” Roger repeated. He drew in a deep breath. “The two men are about to move out of the porch of the entrance. Any false step by any member of the force may lead to the destruction of—”

A woman, not far off, screamed: “Don't let them take it!”

A man cried: “Stop her!”

A searchlight swivelled from the top of a car towards a woman who was running from the wall where police cars were lined up. Two men ran in pursuit, others began to follow.

“
Don't let them, don't let them!
”

Roger said to Ledbetter: “I can answer for the police; I can't answer for the public. You'd better get moving.”

Slowly, Ledbetter came out of the shadows of the porch into the pale searchlight beam. His accomplice moved with him. They looked at the running woman and the stream of men after her, almost catching up, then started toward the path which ran diagonally across the grass toward the St. Anne's Gate. Ledbetter muttered what sounded like “they'd better let us go” and quickened his pace. Roger heard a curious little grating sound from Isherwood and saw the man's jaws working; he was grinding his teeth. Roger gripped his arm and said: “Come on.” He turned and strode toward the west gate. The woman was standing in a circle of men, still wailing her heart's protest, hysterical in distress.

Isherwood caught up with Roger.

“What's on your mind? The damage is done.”

“Not yet,” Roger said. “Not yet.” He broke into a run and reached the police cars. “I want a local driver,” he called. “Quick!”

A man standing by an empty car said: “Here, sir.”

“Get out by that other gate, get us beyond Bodenham fast,” Roger said. “Do you know Newall Lodge?”

“I do!” growled Isherwood, getting in.

“Yes, sir!” The local policeman was sliding behind the steering wheel.

“Take us to a point where we can approach it from the other direction,” Roger ordered. “The Bournemouth road, isn't it?” He squeezed into a corner of the small car. “Jack, I've just realised what I saw on the lawn of Withers' house – marks made by a helicopter on landing. He blamed a grass-cutting machine, he was so anxious to explain them away, but they were caused by landing bars.”

“My God!” breathed Isherwood.

“Add that to the chalk on his drive and there's not much doubt that a car which had been on that chalk came here. There's no chalk anywhere near here, but there was plenty at Basingstoke. And if I remember, there's a thick copse at the back of his lawn surrounded by a four- or five- foot fence.”

“There is,” Isherwood growled.

“Tall enough to hide a small helicopter if the blade was removed,” Roger said. “Is there a radio here, driver?”

“Yes, sir!” The man unhooked one from the dashboard and handed it over the back seat. Roger took it and switched on. “This is Superintendent West calling all officers in or near Bodenham. Proceed from Bodenham to Hazebury Ring and search for a cave in which Police Officer Prell is reported to be captive. Repeat. This is—” He repeated the message, and immediately replies came: “Message received,” from half a dozen different points.

Roger leaned forward and put the telephone back, as Isherwood growled: “I don't get it.”

“If they're going to Newall Lodge you can be sure they have a receiving set with our wavelength,” Roger said. “So now they'll know that the cordon's on its way.” They were through the gate and on a roundabout; some distance along one road which fed the roundabout was St. Anne's Gate, and Ledbetter must have reached the gate by now. He peered out of his window, Isherwood out of the back; no car was approaching, no one appeared beneath the yellow street lights. The driver was hurtling the car forward, turned left, went furiously along a winding road and then onto a dual carriageway which Roger had forgotten. On the left was the narrow road leading to the lodge. A light glowed at the end of the drive, another near the house itself. Lights were on at the top of the house. The car flashed past the other end of the road, which debouched into the dual carriageway, and the driver began to slow down.

“Want me to drive close, sir?”

“No. Park here and we'll walk. Don't slam doors.”

“Right,” the driver said. He pulled off the road just beyond the dual carriageway and, before the engine stopped, the doors were opening. “This way,” the driver said. “There's a path leading to a cottage and a narrow one to the fence and the front of the house.” He led the way as if he were a born poacher. Two or three cars passed, throwing their headlights eerily through wooded land and hedges and reflecting from the windows of Newall Lodge.

“Look!” the driver whispered, and spread his arms to stop the other two.

They could see beyond the tennis court and the fence to the house itself. There, quite unmistakable, were the skeletal outlines of a small helicopter. It was being pushed onto the lawn itself, and they could just make out a wheeled base on which it stood. The stars gave constant light, the headlamps brighter moments. Two men were pushing the machine, but neither was visible enough to be identifiable.

“Closer,” breathed Roger.

“What are you planning to do?” demanded Isherwood, hoarsely.

“By the time Ledbetter gets here he'll be too far from the cathedral to do any damage there, and everyone here will think they're safe. They'll want to be as careful with Magna Carta as we would be. So we simply close in.”

“All
three
of us,” Isherwood said sardonically. “They'll be armed.”

“Jack,” Roger said, “all we have to do is keep that manuscript safe. I'd have sent for military helicopters if I hadn't felt sure the thieves had our wavelength. I think we three can pull it off. They won't be expecting us here. One of us needs to grab that package and run hell for leather for cover – there's plenty of cover about.” He waved to the small thickets of trees and bushes. “The moment we've got it we can call for help. We won't be on our own for long.” When Isherwood didn't answer, Roger went on: “Will you go for the manuscript, or shall I?”