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‘That’s my head,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s the head I gave you. That’s what I feel like, that’s how it feels.’

‘Miles, you can’t go on like this.’

‘Don’t tell her, please—’

‘Look at me!’

The boy’s eyes lifted and stared without blinking into the headmaster’s.

‘Oh, Miles – I don’t know what to do. If you’re lying . . .’ The headmaster paused and then his voice shook with new passion. ‘If you’re lying and
deceiving, then you’ll do something like this again, I know you will. And someone will die – possibly you. If you’re lying, then you need help, urgently. Where can you get that
help? We are not equipped to help you here. We haven’t the expertise. Tell me what I should do!’

‘If I were you,’ said Miles, ‘I wouldn’t know what to do.’

‘So what would you do?’

‘I’d expel me.’

The headmaster sat still and silent. After some time, he picked up a piece of china. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s a very good answer.’ He sat back in his chair and the
silence went on. Suddenly, he stood up. ‘And that’s why I can’t. I cannot expel you, you’re too precious.’

He strode across the room, to the door. ‘You’re going to make your peace with Caspar and his grandmother. You are going to put things right. You are going to change. You are going to
amaze yourself.’ He pointed at the boy. ‘That is my promise to you.’

D.C.C. Cuthbertson had no sympathy for Father O’Hanrahan. He despised weakness and stupidity, and it was with great difficulty that he concealed his fury at the
man’s recklessness. He heard all the news by telephone and gave him a few days to recover. Then – his own sense of greed now fully aroused – he called a council of war.

First he picked up his brother, Gary Cuthbertson. They drove to a small country pub, six miles outside Ribblestrop.

Father O’Hanrahan arrived a little later, his fingers still covered in plasters from clawing at stone. His hands were shaking visibly and he wore a bright white bandage around his
head.

‘I can hardly drive a car,’ he said. ‘Why do we have to meet miles from anywhere?’

‘Because secrecy is now more important that ever.’

‘This whole thing is turning into a nightmare!’

‘And whose fault is that?’ replied the policeman.

‘Excuse me!’ exclaimed Father O’Hanrahan. ‘Who was it who confirmed the existence of the sword? Who put their own life at risk, eh? So I don’t need any smart-alec
criticisms—’

‘You have also alerted the Brethren to your own personal interest.’

‘Ach, they’re a bunch of old women!’

‘And made a fool of yourself telling one and all that Lady Vyner was dead.’

‘Which I thought was the case! How was I to know he was talking about a wretched football game? The man looked traumatised. I put two and two together—’

‘And made a very wrong number.’

‘Alright, I jumped to conclusions . . .’

‘You go charging in, getting yourself lost. And what’s wrong with your head?’

‘What?’

‘What happened to your head?’

The old man took a long pull on his whisky.

‘I got hit by a piece of flying china.’

‘Flying china?’

‘That is the kind of school I am working in!’ cried the old man. ‘I’m on my way to see the headmaster, to see if I can help. I stop for a nip of something strong and
someone tips crockery out of the window. The place is a madhouse – all I want is to get out of it, the sooner the better.’

The policeman sighed. ‘Your job was so simple. All you had to do was see what the Brethren had to say, not lose yourself in the tunnels. I could have told you that you stood no chance of
finding the chamber. I’ve been looking for months, before the entrances were blocked. We tried maps, we went down with metal-detectors—’

‘And this pump-room –?’

‘We only just found out about it! So we have to go slower than ever – but you’re still our man with access. We still need you in there, more now than ever before. You found out
that the sword is safe – that is a big step forward.’

‘It’s in there, alright!’

‘Shhh! Keep your voice down.’

The policeman looked around him, but the pub was empty. ‘You’ve identified the location. We treat that as one hundred per cent positive: we are on the right track, so that’s
good.’

‘Can I say something?’ said Gary, leaning in. ‘I say it’s time for the next move. If this old boy’s made everyone suspicious, then we ought to move fast. Now I
suggest a speedboat is the priority. For that we’re going to need—’

‘What?’ said O’Hanrahan. ‘What do we need a speedboat for?’

‘Hold on, hold on – both of you,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘We’re all jumping the gun and putting carts before horses. First thing, Father, is this: how suspicious are the
children?’

‘Of me?’

‘Of anything.’

‘I don’t think they’re suspicious of me at all. They think I’m some kind of clown – they probably want me for their damned circus . . .’

‘Then we still go softly. Alright, Gary?’

‘Fine. No problem. But Darren’s in, I can tell you that. Confirmed today.’

‘Good.’

‘Who’s Darren?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

Gary supped his beer. ‘Darren,’ he said, ‘is a rather disappointed lad who’s been preparing for a football contract. And then in came Ribblestrop Towers, and took it from
under his nose. He hates those kids more than I do, so he’ll drive the speedboat.’

‘We’re a team of four,’ said the policeman. ‘But we’re still not going to rush into anything. The Brethren saw the sword – that’s what they said.
Therefore, we can assume it’s sitting there, waiting for us.’

Father O’Hanrahan nodded.

‘I’ve got a man in London, ready to receive it. Three million, in cash. There’ll be a down payment of a half-million. The rest as soon as the authenticity is proved, and I
don’t think that will be difficult.’

‘What’s he going to do with it?’

‘What does that matter?’

‘I’m thinking if he’s going to sell it on, it won’t be long before it’s recognised for what it is . . .’

‘He’s buying it for a private collection. Middle East, that’s all I know.’

‘Alright. Good.’

Gary Cuthbertson unrolled the pipework blueprint, setting down the beer glasses to keep it flat. ‘Getting the sword out,’ he said, ‘will be easy – once we’ve got
it. We need a boat waiting here.’ He put a fat finger close to the Neptune statue.

‘We don’t know where it is!’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

‘Shh! We
do
know where it is. It’s in Tomaz’s house.’

‘
Yes, I know that
,’ hissed the old man, his eyes closed in frustration. ‘But we don’t know how to get there. I spent two days trying and you wander in circles! All
we’ve got is what you gave me: this blessed map of the blessed pipes. And that’s no good to anyone.’

‘No,’ said the policeman. ‘You’re wrong. If you’d taken this drawing with you, you could have found your way to the pump-room, and you could have got out much
quicker than you did. Where is it, by the way – the copy I gave you?’

‘In my room, where else would it be?’

‘Locked away?’

‘It’s secure, if that’s what you mean. I’m not a complete idiot. But I still don’t see what a load of pipes and pumps have to do with anything. The sword is
somewhere in a place we can’t get to.’

‘The pump-room’s important,’ said Gary, patiently, ‘because it’s our best way out. This is what I’ve been saying all along. There’s a way up from the
pump-room through what’s called a dry dock, just here.’ He poked at a jumble of lines and boxes. ‘You get out in a little rowing boat, rising with the water level right up to the
lake. We row a few metres and transfer to a speedboat. That’s where Darren comes in.’

‘Our man from London’s waiting on the far side of the lake: the handover takes half a minute. So what we’ve got to do, if you’ll let me finish . . .’

Father O’Hanrahan sat with open mouth.

‘What
you
have to do, I should say, is find out from little Tomaz how to get into that home of his. You said you could hear them having some kind of party?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you must have been close. We play it soft and slow – see what he’ll give you . . . any clue at all. Meanwhile, Gary is researching the potholing and caving side of
things, in case we have to go down that way. Have you got anything yet?’

‘Not yet,’ said Gary. ‘I’ve sent letters to the main clubs. There’s a man called Spedding, used to be in charge of mountain rescue – I’m visiting him
tomorrow night. The thing is, the Ribblestrop estate is private property, but the Ministry of Defence took some of it. So the routes haven’t been listed officially. And we can’t go
exploring at random; it would take forever.’

‘I’ve got a couple of contacts who might help out.’

‘Listen,’ said Father O’Hanrahan. ‘I had better tell you something. I’d better come clean about something right now.’

‘What?’ said both men, together.

The old man took a long pull on his whisky. ‘You’re asking me to talk to the little long-haired boy, young Tomaz.’

‘Yes.’

‘In my role as chaplain.’

‘Yes,’ said the policeman. ‘You were going to make it a priority, remember? To have one-to-one, soul-baring sessions with each of them.’

‘And I did make a start. But to be honest . . . they didn’t go too well.’

There was a silence.

‘What’s been the problem?’ said Gary.

‘There’ve been several problems. One is that they keep changing the blessed timetable, so the children hardly ever show up. The other problem is when they do show up, they
don’t seem to take me very seriously. I told you before, I can’t talk to children!’

The policeman sighed. ‘That was your job. You said you would win their trust.’

‘
You
try doing it! Half of them are psychopaths! They spend their time playing with tigers – the rest of the time they’re running wild.’

‘So try again.’

‘Who’s going to bare their soul to me, looking like this?’

‘Look,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘What if I was with you?’

‘You? How?’

‘There is a way—’

‘You said you couldn’t come near the place.’

‘Not in person, no. But what if I was on the end of a wire? Would that make you feel any better?’

Father O’Hanrahan thought about it. ‘So you’d be listening in? Guiding me?’

‘Yes. I can fix you up with a surveillance radio. Earpiece, microphone. I could feed you a few ideas if you get stuck. Keep you calm if you got a bit flustered.’

The old man nodded.

‘Would that help you?’

‘I think it might be a good idea,’ he said.

‘In the end,’ said Cuthbertson, ‘you’re looking for a simple clue. You must never forget: you’re dealing with kids. Kids respond to discipline.’

Father O’Hanrahan let several days pass.

He was aching and bruised, so he let the days go by, spending most of his time in his room. When he did venture out, he made a point of smiling regularly and being particularly nice to those he
met, even Doonan. He constantly reminded himself that there was no hurry. The school was getting back to normal after the shooting of Lady Vyner. She had checked out of the hospital and was back in
the south tower. Her first act had been to evict her grandson, who was now sleeping in a small bed next to Sanchez. Miles had asked if he could move out, temporarily, and was sleeping in a
store-cupboard used by Professor Worthington. She was keeping a close eye on him.

The old man studied the new timetables as they were produced and tried to get into the swing of the school day. Circus-skills, gymnastics, science, football, and art – they seemed to run
from one thing to another almost at random. The initials R.E. occasionally appeared, but nobody ever showed up.

One Friday he did manage to teach a class, but that was almost by accident. He came upon the three youngest orphans who had laid out their abacus and ledgers under a staircase. Father
O’Hanrahan found a stool and joined them. He talked at length about bread and wine and the importance of the incarnation. The boys thanked him politely when they left, and he felt as if
he’d made a breakthrough.

At mealtimes, he watched Tomaz.

Now that he knew that Tomaz was chief cook, he started to compliment the food.

One lunchtime he took a chance: he took hold of the boy’s sleeve and asked about the recipes he used. He even asked how Tomaz had mastered them and managed nearly a minute’s worth of
normal conversation.

The boy was polite and self-contained. He was small and quick. He didn’t have the horrible confidence that some of them had, and didn’t find eye-contact easy. Father O’Hanrahan
began to wonder why he’d ever felt nervous. The boy was thin: if it came to it, he thought, he could get the child in a headlock and squeeze. On the other hand, that would simply cut off the
air-supply, which would be foolish. A few sharp slaps would be better. A twisted arm . . .

Alternatively, he could administer the currency of his own boyhood – a sound thrashing with a belt. Hands first, then the backside – he could remember even the toughest boys sobbing
like babies after a strapping. It was a last resort, but the idea was comforting. He would talk the talk, but if it came to it, well . . . he wore a thick leather belt that would do the job
beautifully.

He would have the map in his satchel and a pen. All Tomaz had to do was mark his home with a cross.

Encouraged, he created a new interview schedule and posted it on the notice-board. He decided not to use his classroom, which was drafty and doorless. He chose the stationery cupboard, at the
back, which had one small window and was about the size of a church confessional.

He blacked out the window and put a small table and two chairs inside. Inspired, he found some candles. Inspired further, he fetched his cassette recorder and put on one of his relaxation tapes.
When he closed the door, the room took on a calm, almost magical ambience. He unpacked his surveillance kit and put it on as he’d been shown – earpiece and microphone. Then he prepared
for his first customer. Wisely, he had chosen Sanchez, who he knew would keep the appointment.