Return to Ribblestrop (9 page)

‘Why?’

‘When she dies, all the leases automatically come to an end – everything would close down and then it would be easy. We’d get the Brethren out and we could take our time . .
.’ He paused. ‘In any case, they’ve got an H.O. And you can’t touch someone with a government H.O. I’ve been told that, in no uncertain terms.’

‘An H.O. is what? A health order?’

‘Hands Off. It’s an official
leave-them-alone-at-all-costs, we-don’t-want-any-more-bad-publicity
. They could turn cannibal and eat each other and we’d have to
stand back – especially me. That’s why we go gently and that’s why you’re so important. How’s the boy?’

Father O’Hanrahan looked blank.

‘Whatsisname, the youngster you brought over? Is he going to help us?’

‘Doonan? He’s an idiot.’

‘Then what did you bring him for? I told you—’

‘They wanted a younger chaplain! It was all a big compromise. Doonan had just failed his exams, the college didn’t want him—’

‘So how’s he doing?’

‘He’s loving it. He’s been there a week and thinks it’s wonderful!’

The policeman struggled to stay calm. ‘So it’s just the two of us, is it? Have you told him anything?’

‘He knows nothing. So yes: it’s just the two of us.’

‘Have you spoken to the Brethren?’

‘Not yet.’

Father O’Hanrahan squirmed with embarrassment and the blood rose in his face.

The two men stared at each other and dislike crackled between them.

‘The Brethren,’ said Father O’Hanrahan, ‘are on a vow of silence. Which doesn’t end till July. The timing could not be worse.’

‘You mean they won’t speak a word? Not even to you?’

‘No.’

‘What about pencil and paper?’

‘A vow of silence is a devout act in which you commit to prayer and meditation. It is undertaken precisely to avoid communication on . . . external matters. To make things worse, they are
very hard to track down – they run like rabbits.’

‘But your disguise! I thought you’d be on the same side!’

‘They see me as an outsider! I visited the chapel on the first morning – despite my . . . injuries! I was
not
made welcome. The crypt has been bricked up, so there’s no
way down. The monks are protective and I’m not even sure they believe my credentials. They closed the door in my face!’ The old man looked around and lowered his voice. ‘They see
themselves as
guardians
, I think. They’ve been tracking this thing for years. They obviously believe they’re close, or why would they stay there?’

‘They’re close all right.’

‘What about Lady Vyner – surely she knows about it?’

‘No. They hardly spoke to each other. She thinks everything was sold – which is what everyone thought.’

‘Well, getting anything up is going to be nigh-on impossible. The kids are everywhere – you turn a corner and they’re poking around. And your people didn’t help, blocking
up every staircase.’

‘They weren’t my people. And there must be many ways down still!’

‘Have you not seen the old air vent, under the monument? Twenty tonnes of rock and a thousand gallons of concrete! That’s a fairly successful way of blocking up a tunnel!’

Again, the two men looked at each other in silence, the D.C.C. chewing his lip. At length, the policeman rose, and fished a key out of his pocket. It was on a chain, stitched into his tunic. He
moved to the safe, fiddled a moment, and swung the door back. Papers, box-files, envelopes – something wrapped in brown paper. And, on the middle shelf, in total contrast, a bottle of red
wine.

Father O’Hanrahan looked at it.

‘I said I had some news,’ said the policeman. ‘I’d better let you have it.’

‘Is it good news?’

‘It’s very, very interesting. Are you still a drinking man, Father?’ The policeman smiled grimly. ‘I remember you enjoying the old communion booze after hours.’

‘I am strictly teetotal. And you do not need to call me
Father
– I was a priest for a very short time.’

‘I still think the title suits you and the disguise is perfect. I was hoping you’d taste this rather special bottle for me and give me your educated opinion as an
ex-alcoholic.’

Cuthbertson took a glass from a shelf. The cork had been loosened, so he flicked it out and poured himself a small measure. Then he set both bottle and glass on his desk, before
O’Hanrahan. ‘Clos de Beze, nineteen hundred and four – produce of Burgundy. In nineteen hundred and four the vineyard reached its peak, I believe. That year, they made less than a
thousand barrels, and half the bottles were laid down. For thirty-eight years. Are you following me, Father? You look confused.’

‘I was a spirits man, I know nothing about fine wines.’

‘If a winemaker knows he’s on to something special, the bottles are
laid down
. Put in the cellar, untouched, and left to mature. The wine gets better and the value rises.
It’s like an investment: once the wine peaks, you bring it up and sell it. Now this particular wine was saved from destruction by a friend of ours . . . the ever-successful Cyril Vyner. He
stole it from the vineyards as the German army moved up through France. It’s been in his cellars ever since.’

Cuthbertson stopped and lifted the glass. He took it to the window and held it up to the light: the soft liquor glowed, ruby red. ‘I don’t drink the stuff, either,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t know a Burgundy from my own backside. But I have to say . . .’ He sipped. ‘This is good stuff. Even I’d go to church if they were serving this. No, listen,
Father – I’m getting to the point, but you need a bit of back-story. This wine would sell for close on a thousand pounds, just this one bottle. There are people out there who’d
pay that kind of money.’

He sipped again and smiled. ‘And there’s a shopkeeper in the Ribblestrop off-licence with a constant supply. Had a bottle a week for the last five months. Where do you think
he’s getting it from?’

‘From the school,’ said Father O’Hanrahan. ‘From the cellars underground.’

‘You’ll make a detective yet.’

‘He’s found a way in. What else has he found?’

‘Ah, you’re right about the first part – but he’s not been down himself. Somebody else is going down for him. Somebody has accessed the Vyner wine cellars, and that
somebody has been bringing this stuff up, bottle by bottle.’

‘Who?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

‘One of the children?’ cried the priest. ‘One of the teachers? If they’ve found the wine, God knows what else they’ve found! We should be moving! Will you not just
tell me what you know and get it over with?’

‘I’ll tell you everything, Father – don’t get excited.’

‘But what if they’ve found . . . what we’re looking for?’

‘Wait! Shh!’

The priest had turned the colour of the wine. He was licking his lips and it was only with enormous self-control that he stayed in his seat. From outside the window rose the sound of traffic
and, in the distance, the laughter of children. He forced himself to relax.

‘This off-licence chap got into a few problems,’ said Cuthbertson. He looked out of the window, distracted by the excited chatter from below. ‘He’s been caught selling
liquor to kids – easy to do, they all look eighteen. But he’s about to lose his shop, because the magistrate says it’s happened once too often. So. He comes to me: can I pull any
strings? And he tells me . . .’

The policeman faltered. Something in the street had caught his eye.

‘What?’ said the priest.

‘He tells me . . . I don’t believe it. About a little boy with long hair . . . This is incredible.’

‘What’s the matter, man?’

‘Talk of the devil and the devil shall appear. I’m looking at him – he’s on the pavement, over the road. A boy called Tomaz.’

Father O’Hanrahan struggled to his feet and moved next to Cuthbertson. Drawing the curtains back further, they peered down onto the narrow high street of Ribblestrop Town – a high
street that hadn’t been widened or bypassed, so that trucks still shouldered their way through, forcing the pedestrians to walk in strict single file. There, on the opposite side of the road,
was a column of black-and-gold blazers, with a cheerful youth in the lead.

‘It’s Doonan!’ hissed the old man. ‘He’s brought them into town. I told you he was enjoying himself and he’s brought the little monsters into town!’

Sure enough, Brother Doonan was leading, the children behind him trying to hold his hands whilst imitating his walk. Captain Routon brought up the rear, steadying a giant of a
boy who seemed nervous to be in the open air. This was Henry, who’d arrived that very morning, crammed into the same uniform as everyone else, but looking like he should be working in a
quarry or a wrestling ring. They moved purposefully along and their birdsong chatter floated up loud and clear.

‘I’ll be damned,’ whispered Cuthbertson. ‘They usually stay in school – this is the first time they’ve been allowed out!’

‘They’re not safe to be in a public place. Especially with Doonan in charge!’

‘I don’t like it. Look, though! I can show you Tomaz. Halfway down, maybe a bit more. There’s a boy with long hair, tied back.’

‘That’s a girl.’

‘Behind the girl! Ooh, I could tell you a few things about her! Look at her.’

‘I met her first of all. Minnie Roads.’

‘Her name is
Millie
and I came so close. If I have another chance, she’ll be dead meat, you understand me?’ His voice had fallen to a low, menacing rumble. He was
holding the curtain, mashing it with his fingers.

Father O’Hanrahan looked at him nervously. ‘She seemed disrespectful to me. She—’

‘I nearly drowned her. I just pray we’ll meet again. Dammit, she’s seen me – step back! This is bad . . .’

The two men drew the curtains across, as swiftly as they could. They put their eyes to the narrow slit that remained. ‘We don’t want her seeing us together, that would be fatal. But
look – can you see behind her?’ He found himself whispering. ‘Behind the one who’s just fallen over – the one with the snowball.’

‘Got him. He’s been cooking my breakfast. I thought he was a servant.’

‘He’s not a servant. That boy’s called Tomaz and I believe—’

‘Tomaz? One of the foreigners?’

‘He was the first orphan they brought over. He ran away, and for a number of weeks everyone thought he’d gone back to wherever he’d come from. What he’d done, I reckon,
was moved down to the tunnels. He’s the one who found the underground bunker, so I believe he’s found the wine cellar.’

‘He’s no more than ten years old!’

‘He’s older than he looks. The shopkeeper says he’s a smooth little operator. That child has been sneaking up after dark with a bottle of fancy wine each week. He’s been
exchanging it for cash and bits and pieces . . . The wine-merchant thinks he was building a den. Said he even tried to follow him home once, but that the lad was too quick. Then a few months ago,
it all stopped.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then all we have to do is talk to him. Bring him in for questioning!’

The children were turning right and Tomaz was about to disappear.

The priest grabbed Cuthbertson’s arm. ‘Go and get him!’ he cried. ‘You’re a policeman, you can do what you want! He’s been dealing in
stolen goods
, you
could arrest him!’

‘And do what?’

‘Put him in that chair! Beat it out of him!’

As he spoke, there was a terrific thump on the window and the sound of a whip cracking across the glass. Cuthbertson jerked back, the curtain ripped from its rail. Father O’Hanrahan yelped
with shock and stumbled over his chair. A large, icy snowball was sliding to the sill. Water droplets oozed between the broken glass, which had a crescent-shaped crack from top to bottom. Both men
gaped.

Half crouched on the opposite pavement, forming another snowball, was the familiar form of Millie Roads. Beside her, Anjoli was punching the air and dancing.

The second snowball came with a handful of small stones and spread watery muck all over the policeman’s desk. He dragged the remaining curtain closed, gasping in fury. Both men stood,
helplessly, waiting for the next assault.

A minute passed and it didn’t come.

‘I told you,’ whispered Cuthbertson. His voice was shaking. ‘I told you, five minutes ago: there’s an H.O. and my feet would not touch the ground! I survived the last . .
.
fiasco
by the skin of my teeth, I am not taking any risks! They can do what they please!’

‘But if a boy’s found a way into the stores . . .’ hissed O’Hanrahan. ‘If he’s got his hands on—’

‘Nothing else has come up! I’ve spoken to every shopkeeper in the town. This is not an emergency yet. We still have time.’

He turned away from the window and moved to the other side of the office. He was trembling.

Father O’Hanrahan leaned against the desk, his head and shoulders sagging.

‘I don’t think the boy knows what he’s sitting on,’ said Cuthbertson. He drank the rest of the wine and poured another large glass. ‘He probably hasn’t found
the full set of chambers – I’d been looking for months and that’s when I had full access to the tunnels. But if we could find how he gets down, I’m sure we’d be
close.’

‘A secret way . . .’ said the priest.

‘It might be a little hole up in the woods. A little foxhole, that only a child could use. If we could find that, then we’d be making progress. This is your job,
O’Hanrahan!’

‘How? They all stick together, that’s one thing I’ve observed. And they don’t like talking to me!’

‘Then you have to get close to them. That’s why you’re here.’

The two men stared at each other.

‘Worm your way into their confidence. Be nice to them.’

Father O’Hanrahan closed his eyes. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’d better be honest. I’ve never been good with children and this lot are impossible. I can pretend to be
a chaplain, but to spend time with the little swine, listening to their disrespectful blather!’

‘There’s so much at stake, man! It’s what you came to do!’

‘I don’t have the patience and they don’t like me!’