The Theft of Magna Carta (19 page)

“I will,” Isherwood muttered.

“Sir,” the driver said, “I've got a better idea—I think.”

“Let's have it.” Roger spun round on him. “What is it?”

“There are ten or so flats in the stables, mostly occupied by youngish people. And I know for a fact that some of them have shotguns and rifles – lot of pigeon-shooting around here. I could nip round and rouse them. Linda Prell's brother-in-law would jump at the chance.”

“
Get moving!
” Roger urged.

The driver went off with skilful quiet; there was hardly a rustle of movement. The two men had the helicopter in position on a stretch of grass about a hundred yards from the house itself. It stood on a flat trolley-like platform which had small wheels. As his eyes grew more accustomed to the dark, Roger saw one of the men climb up into the bulbous cockpit of the machine; the other stayed on the land.

Lights began to play among the trees. Roger and Isherwood turned toward the dual carriageway leading from Salisbury, whence the headlights came. An indicator began to flicker and the car swung toward the village, coming very fast. The headlights swayed. The engine began to hum. The car turned into the driveway of Newall Lodge until its lights shone on the red brick of the house and reflected on all the windows – and for a split-second shone onto the silvery head of John Withers. Next moment the light was switched off and when the car itself appeared only its parking lights showed. The tyres grated on the gravel and took a path which ran right around the big lawn, and seemed to head straight for Roger and Isherwood.

The car stopped, cutting the helicopter off from the crouching policemen. Doors opened, and three, not two, men sprang out; Stephenson was here and could only have been picked up on the road between here and Salisbury. He must have driven like a demon. For a moment Ledbetter and he were within twenty yards of Roger.

Ledbetter carried the square package.

He turned toward the men on the grass, holding his prize high. He had both hands on it, so could not be holding the detonator switch. He rounded the car, calling in a quiet voice which nevertheless carried back to Roger as well as forward to Withers and the other man, who climbed down from the machine.

“Here it is,” he gloated. “The one and only.” He paused. “Now hand over the money.”

“And hand it over fast,” the younger man said roughly. “If you don't—”

“He'll hand over the money,” Stephenson said. “I know too much about him for him to double-cross me.”

A car came whining along the highway, drowning his words. Roger strained his ears but heard only snatches of the voices. He did not hear the menace in the young man's voice.

“. . . Don't hand it over, your bloody house and everything in it will go up in smoke. You think I trusted you? Not on your life!
”

Nor did Roger hear Withers say:
“I know. I found where you wired it – to the central-heating time switch
.”

Roger heard the youth laugh.
Laugh.

Withers said so that Roger could hear: “I know how much you know, Neil, and I'm beginning to find out how much you talk.”

Next moment there was a sharp crack of sound: a shot. It seemed to echo and re-echo, like a sigh.
Ack-ack-ack-aack-aaack.
Another followed, just as sharp, following a gasp from closer to the car. Ledbetter's head and shoulders disappeared beneath the car.

The young man began to cry: “Don't shoot. Don't—”

“Ack!
”

Ack-ack-ack-aack-aaack-aaaack,
the second shot sighed as the young man fell out of sight.

“You can't—” began Stephenson, but a third shot cracked and slowly its echoes gradually faded into silence. Stephenson did not even cry out.

 

 

Isherwood said something under his breath: it sounded like: “He's killed all three.” The silence was broken by the man from the helicopter, who said clearly: “They might be foxing.” The two men by the helicopter moved forward, and then also vanished from sight, obviously bending over Ledbetter and his accomplices. An owl called. A dog barked.

Roger and Isherwood began to crawl forward, fearful of making too much sound. A car came humming along the dual carriageway, drowning their movements so that they could hurry, but they kept behind the car for cover. They broke through the bushes and were onto grass when Withers said: “So we've got it.”

“Now I've got to get away with it,” the other man said in a voice Roger could not possibly mistake.

It was Caldicott's.
Caldicott's.

“Yes,” Withers said. It was difficult to understand the tone in his voice as he went on: “We can wait ten minutes.”

“We can't wait two!”

“Frank,” said Withers, “I want to see it.”

“You can see it in New York,” Caldicott rasped. “Don't play the fool now. I've had enough trouble shaking off the police. I don't want any more. Give it to me.”

Caldicott.

He must have come straight here from Lord's, and had managed to leave London without anyone suspecting where he was heading. Caldicott with his broad smile and rubbery lips and rugged bloodhound face. Roger could picture him sitting in the kitchen only that morning.

“John,” Caldicott urged. “Minutes might count.”

“You heard West call his dogs off.”

“I wouldn't trust West not to pull a fast one.”

“The cars moved away, and the police scattered,” Withers said reassuringly. “There's no danger, Frank. I only want—”

He broke off.

Roger reached the car at one end and Isherwood the other. So far they had been hidden by the car and neither man could have been seen. This was the moment of acute danger. Roger saw the two men facing each other, with the bodies of the other three only a few feet away. Neither Withers nor Caldicott was facing the car, but were broadside-on. Withers had the packet in his arms. In fact he was hugging it to him under his left arm and keeping it in position with his right; there was enough light to show the gun in his right hand. It was even light enough to see the way the eyes of each man glinted.

There was more.

A man appeared on the far side of the house, clear against the sky. Another appeared from a tree on the far side of the grass. Both held guns; they were not near enough to be identified as rifles but each was held as a soldier would hold one, and each man was crouching, and moving slowly. A third appeared in silhouette against a bush smothered in white blossom.

“For God's sake!” Caldicott rasped. “We've risked our necks for this! Let me have it,
now
.”

That was the moment when Roger sprang forward. On the same instant, Isherwood leaped, and from the men on the far side of the grounds there came two rifle shots, while the men from Stables House came racing. Withers and Caldicott seemed to spring apart, Withers still hugging the package and flinging his gun arm forward. If he fired at point-black range how could he miss?

Roger flung himself forward.

Withers fired.
Ack-ack-ack-ack.

The bullet cut through the padding of Roger's shoulder and grazed the skin, but the pain was so slight he hardly noticed it. Arms outstretched to their limit, he clutched at Withers' ankles, missed with his right, gripped with his left, and pulled. Withers went staggering. Roger could only see his feet and legs, knew he was falling, feared for the package. Withers made a crabwise movement to try to save himself, and failed, but the package fell on him instead of him falling on the package. Two men, including the driver of the police car, reached Withers and the policeman bundled onto him and then knelt astride, forcing his gun hand open. The gun dropped.

Roger rolled over and got to his knees as a man touched him and asked: “Are you all right, sir? Are you all right?”

“Fine,” grunted Roger. “Fine.” He saw Isherwood standing with that precious package, clutching it to him with both arms but as gently as he would hold a baby. More men came running; some women, too. Caldicott was standing between two men without attempting to escape; and there was a sharp click as the driver handcuffed Withers to him. Caldicott called out in a muffled voice: “Well, I didn't know he was going to shoot the others. I just didn't know. You can't charge me with murder.”

“You didn't object, either,” Roger said coldly. “Jack,” he said to Isherwood, “we must report this at once.”

“I've reported, sir,” the driver of the police car said, shrill-voiced. “I used my walkie-talkie. They should be out here in a few moments.”

While some of the men and women from the flats were asking what was going on, while Withers and Caldicott were being taken to Newall Lodge, both handcuffed to police officers, cars began to stream from Salisbury along the dual carriageway, headlights thrusting great beams; and one after the other swung into the drive of Newall Lodge. In the first car came the chief constable and tall Dean Howe. Others spilled out of their cars, among them Childs and his photographer. Isherwood held the precious package towards the dean, who stretched out both arms for it. The longhaired photographer's camera did not seem to stop flashing. Withers made no attempt to turn his face away, but Caldicott turned his this way and that to avoid the camera.

Withers said harshly: “You'll regret this night's work, West. Don't you ever forget it.”

Roger made no comment, in fact hardly noticed the threat. There was much to do and more to think about and his head was near splitting.

Out of the confusion grew a kind of order.

Roger charged Withers with murder and Caldicott with receiving goods knowing them to be stolen. Even as he used the words he wondered how trite one could sound. Both men were taken off in police cars. An elderly man and woman, house servants at the lodge, were scared but helpful. They took Roger and Isherwood, Kempton and another Salisbury man over the house. Every wall was covered with pictures – the house itself was a treasure chest.

Roger went into a cloakroom and dowsed his face in cold water; it helped his head a little. He even turned on the hot-water tap to wash his hands. The central-heating boiler in the cellar was almost directly beneath the spot where he stood.

“We can't really go through the contents here tonight,” Roger said when he went out, “and I'm too tired to do anything else properly. Can we put the house under close guard, sir, and get cracking in the morning?”

“Yes,” the chief constable said. “You've done a lot more than your share.”

“Share,” the dean choked. “Share! I don't know how anyone will ever be able to thank you, Mr. West. I really don't know.”

He both sounded and looked like a man from whom a great burden had been lifted.

“Shall I drive you?” Kempton asked Roger.

“One of us ought to stay here,” Roger said. “I'm not even sure I'm right to leave anything until morning.”

He was standing in the hall of Newall Lodge, with the whole dark night beyond him when he saw lights, not one or two but a dozen at least on the hill opposite the house, a mile or more away. That was the moment when he remembered Linda Prell; when he realised that he had completely forgotten her since he had left the cathedral. The others turned and stared and it seemed that all had forgotten, too, and there was silence everywhere.

The radio telephone of a car crackled. A man leaned inside and snatched up the receiver. Squawks and squeaks came through and then the man raised his voice and shouted: “They've found her. She's safe! They want an ambulance, but she's safe!”

 

“Alan,” Roger West said to Kempton, “I'd like to go and tell Batten.” He glanced at Isherwood. “If you don't mind.”

“Of course not,” Isherwood said. “I know what house he's in at the close. I'll come with you.”

“I wish you'd stay here,” Roger said. “This house needs a careful watch and someone ought to go through it from attic to basement. Ledbetter talked about a bomb attached to the central-heating plant, and it had better be checked.”

Isherwood seemed eager for the chance.

“I'll get cracking right away,” he said. Then added hurriedly to Kempton: “With you, Alan! And I'll get someone to drive you into town, Handsome. My God, what a night. But thank God we've saved it.”

 

Batten, sitting in an easy chair, saw Roger come into the room, and began to struggle to his feet. Roger waved him down. It was a small room with several armchairs and a baby grand piano adorned with family portraits, including one of the man who had brought Batten here. The anxiety on Batten's face seemed to have aged him many years, but it began to ease when he saw Roger's expression.

“She's safe,” Roger told him immediately. “So is the manuscript, Tom, and we've got the two ringleaders.” He moved across to Batten's side and touched his arm; that movement was the first to cause a slight pain in his shoulder, bringing the first realisation that he had been hurt. “The rest will sort itself out.”

“I know,” Batten said. “Gosh, I'm thankful!”

“Did you hear anything from either of the men which we ought to know?” asked Roger.

“No, sir, I can't say I did. But I'll tell you one thing, though. That young chap, he was a whiz at explosives and remote control. He fixed up the gadget in the library and behind the altar in no time. And take it from me, sir, they would have burned the cathedral and the Magna Carta without any compunction.”

“I'm quite sure you're right,” Roger said.

The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a sound of a car drawing up outside. Batten stared past Roger toward the window. The light shone from the room to show a car door opening and a big, heavy woman climbing out awkwardly. It flashed across Roger's mind that this was Batten's wife, and the expression on Batten's face told him his guess was right.

A woman at the outside door spoke in a broad Wiltshire accent.

“Is my Tom all right, then? Doctor, will you tell me – is my Tom all right?”

“He's fine, Mrs. Batten,” said the man who had brought Batten here. “He needs rest, a good night's sleep will make all the difference to him.”

“Is he all right?” the woman asked, as if she had not heard a word. “That's all I want to know.”

She went into the room as Roger went out. She had a big, broad, weathered face and beautiful blue eyes and an enormous bosom, and he had never seen any human being broader across the hips. She disappeared, making a gusty sound, and then cried out as if in exultation.

“Tom! Oh Tom, they told me you'd been hurt. Tom, love, don't worry, I'll look after you. Don't ‘ee worry about a thing.”

 

It was after three o'clock that morning before Roger got into bed.

He was physically tired out, and wondered if Batten could be any more exhausted than he. He was elated because of the triumph and still shocked by the cold-blooded way in which Withers had killed the three men who had worked with and for him. He was anxious for news about Stephenson's “wife,” and was anxious to sleep for a few hours and then go and search Newall Lodge, but most of all he was anxious to talk to Linda Prell, to find out what she had overheard.

The plot to steal the copy of Magna Carta, presumably.

Or could it have been something else? Was there still more to this affair?