The Theft of Magna Carta (16 page)

Batten managed to mutter: “What do you want?”

“You're one of the special Guardians of the Cathedral, aren't you?”

“The cathedral!”

“That's what I said. Are you a Cathedral Guardian, or aren't you?”

“Yes,” muttered Batten. “Yes, I am.”

“Can you get in the cathedral any time you want to?”

“Yes, but—”

“Never mind the buts. Do you have a passkey?”

“Yes, but—”

Just behind Batten there was a rustle of movement, and he gasped and half-turned. He caught a glimpse of a man, saw him clearly enough to see that the face was masked, saw a hand upraised and felt a searing slash across his shoulders, nigh unbearable pain which made him cry out. And he staggered but kept his footing. Blood was racing through his ears, and he began to gasp for breath. Then, he felt cord at his wrists, felt it loop, felt them pulled and tied together behind him.

Over these noises, which he made himself, the speaker said: “I told you no buts. You do as you're told, or that whore Prell will feel a lot more than that whip before she dies.”

Batten gritted his teeth, to keep back the words which wanted to spill out, words of hatred, rage, vengeance. His whole body was aquiver with these emotions and with fear. He waited, half-expecting another blow. Instead, the man – who was Ledbetter – went on.

“Do you have a passkey to the cathedral?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“On—on my chain.”

“Do you have a key to the library?”

“Yes,” Batten muttered. “But—” He broke off, knowing it would be useless to argue. “Yes. But the library's protected by—by an electronic contact system. If you opened the door or even tried to, you'd have the chief security officer out in ten seconds and the police in two minutes.”

After a long silence, Ledbetter said:
IYou
can break the contact, can't you?”

“Like hell I would!” gasped Batten.

“If you don't, Linda Prell will die,” said Ledbetter. “And all the world will know she was a whore and you one of her lovers.” He waited for a few seconds, and then went on: “Can you break the contact?”

“Yes,” muttered Batten. “Yes, I can.”

“That's better,” Ledbetter said. “You've got some sense after all. Keep on being sensible and you'll have fun with Linda again. So you can break the electronic contact with the alarm system and you have a key to the library. Where is it?”

“On my chain,” Batten muttered. “I told you.”

“What do you carry a key for?”

“There—there's always a danger of fire.”

“Fire,” the man echoed. “There's other danger to that whore—”

“Don't keep calling her a whore!” cried Batten.

“What would you rather me call her? Your tart? If you don't do exactly what I tell you, she'll die. I'll take a lot of pleasure in raping her first.”

Batten drew in a searing breath.

“How often do you go to the cathedral at night when you're on duty?” demanded the speaker in the shadows.

“Two—two or three times.”

“Any set time?”

“No.”

“You and how many others?”

“Only—only the chief security officer and a few policemen.”

“Do you work on a rota system or a shift system?”

“Ro—rota,” answered Batten. Speaking hurt his voice and thinking was sheer horror. “We—we take a night each. It only takes half an hour or so to walk through and check everything. It's—it's mostly a fire precaution. We—we fit it in with our jobs. We—”

“Are you all cops?”

“No,” said Batten. “No! Two of us are in the Force, there's a garage security man, two night watchmen, two nurses—anyone who has night shifts and can get half an hour off can join in. All they do is go and make sure everything's all right. It doesn't take long, I tell you. If there looks like any trouble, they call police headquarters.”

“That's good,” said the man in the shadows thinly. “That's
very
good. Who's on duty tonight?”

“I don't know!” gasped Batten. “I really don't know. Someone will go and have a look at the place. They'll look inside the cathedral and go up to the library, where the copy of Magna Carta is. They—”

He broke off, and actually cringed back, although there was no immediate threat from behind him, no horror but his own realisation. When he spoke again his voice was little more than a croak.

“No!
No!
Not that—”

“Don't you make any mistake, just that,” the man said, “and you're going to get it for us.”

Batten stood still; and silent. His heart had stopped thumping and he hardly seemed to be breathing. An owl hooted; there was a cackle of birds, disturbed by fox or cat; then silence again. He did not speak, but words seemed to echo inside his head.

I would rather die than that, he thought.

And then he thought: But would Linda rather die?

He asked in a croaking voice: “How do I know she's alive?”

 

 

The question took the unseen man by surprise. He drew in his breath, audibly. Rustling behind Batten warned him that the other man had moved and might strike again. He braced himself, but no blow came. Only a rasped: “You heard her!”

“How could I be sure it was Linda?”

“You'd know her voice, wouldn't you?”

“I wasn't
sure
.”

The man didn't answer.

Batten wondered what hope there was left; whether he could defy them even without his fears for Linda. Contrarily he wondered whether, even for Linda, he could do what this man wanted. He warned himself that these men could knock him over the head now and take his keys. He couldn't prevent this. It would be easier for them if he did the work, but he couldn't prevent them from doing what they wanted once they had the keys.

The keys felt heavy against his thigh; he kept them on a ring inside his trouser waistband.

He thought, agonised: What would Linda—

And then he knew that whatever Linda would do, whether it meant the difference between life and death for her or for him, he could not help them; he had to stop them.

Minutes were ticking by. He wasn't sure why there had not been a word after he had said: “I wasn't sure.” It was almost as if something had frightened them away. Nonsense! He would have heard them moving.

The man in the shadows said: “If I let you see her, will you do it?”

That was how much he wanted to be guided into the cathedral. Oh God! What would make men plan such a thing as this? The Sarum Magna Carta. The best of those surviving. A piece of England. A piece of history. The foundation of the rights of Englishmen.

He couldn't do it.

Nothing would ever make him do it.

Not even sight of Linda alive.

Could
they let him see her? Here on this dark hillside? It made no sense, nothing made any sense to him.

As that thought came the movement was repeated behind him and a man gripped his bound hands and thrust him forward. He heard the first man moving through the undergrowth and suddenly saw a light – a pale light – as from a lamp. The nearer he got the brighter the light seemed. It was in one of the little, shallow caves that abounded in Hazebury Ring and in all the countryside about here. Children often came and played by day; the more daring came by night. He was pushed close; a hand at his neck thrust his head down and the second man said in a high-pitched voice: “Get in!”

He stumbled to his knees and then edged himself forward over dirt and stones until he saw her, stretched out at the back of the cave.

He
saw
her.

She
was
alive.

She wore only her slip and stockings, nothing else; just slip and stockings. Her face was turned toward him. She was gagged so that she couldn't speak, but her eyes spoke for her. She was in terror.
Terror.
She lay on the uneven ground of the cave and the light fell on her forehead and her great eyes, which pleaded for her.

The man spoke from behind Batten.

“You do what I tell you or we'll just have a little fun and then kill her. All we have to do is fill that hole in. No one will ever find her in a thousand years.”

Please, please, please,
her eyes seemed to say.

And he loved her.

She had often waited for him like this, touched with a kind of shyness which vanished the moment he was beside her.
Linda.
There she was, and she was terrified. He did not doubt that the man would carry out his threat. One thing was certain: he had to promise to do what they wanted; he had to leave her here at least with hope.

He said: “I'll—I'll do it.”

The words seemed to echo:
I'll do-do-do it.

And her eyes seemed to blaze:
Thank you, my love, thank you, my darling.

Then the men behind pulled him away.

 

Linda Prell lay watching him.

From the moment she had been kidnapped she had alternated between quivering fear and stoic resignation. She had been in a stupor of drugged sleep most of the time, but occasionally she had woken, to solitude; had been visited by the youth, and then given a little food, soup and biscuits and water, allowed to relieve herself, and then tied up and drugged again.

She knew that one of the places where she had come round had been a small caravan, pulled by a car which made little noise.

There had been an old shed, stinking of rotten meat and paint.

And there had been this cave.

They had brought her up here after dark, not talking to her but talking to each other. Only now and again did she catch a full sentence but gradually a picture formed in her mind. They wanted Tom to help them steal something from the cathedral.
Something.
What sacred relic could they want? What could be of such value as to make all this worthwhile?

Then the older man had said: “That bloody charter,” and she knew.

At first, she had been shocked beyond feeling. Until then she had hated the thought of Tom conniving at a theft under any kind of pressure, for she knew that it would sear him for the rest of his days. But
the
great treasure: Magna Carta! As a girl at one of the schools nearby she had been brought to see it; at the school she had been taught to reverence it because of its significance as well as its age. To her it was less Magna Carta, the
démarche
of the barons, but more like a bone of the hand of Christ or part of the wood from the cross he had carried. It was not part of ordinary life: it was sacred.

Nothing must make him agree to do this thing: nothing!

And there he was, with that face she had come to like and love, the little piggy of a face, saying in a voice she could hardly hear, it was so hoarse: “I'll do it.”

“No!” she wanted to scream. “No, no, no! Let them kill me, let them do anything with me, but don't help them. Don't help them!” She tried to make him understand by the way she looked at him: “No, no, no!”

Yet it seemed to him that she was saying: “Thank you, my love, thank you, my darling.”

 

Roger watched the mechanical digger turn up another yard of chalky earth; watched men going through the fresh pile with forks and trowels; saw the crowd which was getting bigger and bigger. Every now and again something was found; once, a diamond ring worth several hundred pounds. A pair of dentures wired together; several keys, old silver cups – anything which might be picked up by the dustmen. Calls came over the walkie-talkie, none of them important.

It was approaching midnight and getting chilly, and the crowd was beginning to disperse when a call came for Roger. As he went toward the car a woman from a canteen called: “Like tea or coffee, sir?”

“Tea, please.” Roger took a proffered cup.

“Can you spare a poor newspaperman a cup of coffee, too?” Childs asked.

“Poor newspaperman, be blowed,” the woman retorted. “I'd wrap all you chaps round fish and chips if I had my way. Sugar?”

“Please,” Childs said humbly, and his photographer, taking a cup, said: “No sugar, ta.”

Roger reached the car on which the message was being relayed, got inside, balanced the tea on top of the dashboard, and said: “West speaking.”

“Hullo, Mr. West.” It was Isherwood in his most formal voice, which suggested that he had someone with him. “I thought you ought to hear of this right away. Tom Batten is missing.”

Roger actually gasped:
“
What?
”

“I'm afraid it's true,” said Isherwood. “His wife telephoned us five minutes ago. He said he was going home early, but he hasn't been there. We tried his – I mean Linda Prell's sister – and she said he'd been in; he has a key. But he'd gone before eleven o'clock, when they got back. They'd been out to the girl's parents to try to reassure them. He'd made himself some coffee, and hadn't been gone for long, because the saucepan he'd boiled some milk in was still warm.”

“Anything else?” demanded Roger.

“Not yet,” said Isherwood. “But I've got half a dozen men out in the Bodenham area. They're going to knock on doors to find out if he's been seen. He might have other friends there. And the pubs were closing when he left – someone in any of the nearby villages might have seen him.”

“Can you put every available man on this?” asked Roger.

“Half a mo',” Isherwood said, and his voice sounded fainter: he was talking either to someone else in the office or on another telephone. He was soon back talking to Roger. “Yes, I'll send round for all who are off duty. You'd recommend checking all the local villages, wouldn't you?”

Roger said: “Jack, what about that thing we were talking about?”

“I haven't forgotten it,” Isherwood said. “Why?”

“The cathedral ought to be very carefully watched,” Roger said.

“I hadn't reckoned on there being an attempt so soon.” Isherwood's tone was almost one of complaint. “But—oh, you're right, of course. Would you station the men close or—” He broke off, saying: “Just a moment, please.” His north-country accent was very noticeable tonight, as if he usually made an effort to control it. There was a mumble of voices before his came loud again: “You'd have them kept at a distance, wouldn't you?”

“At places from which they can move quickly if they see anything suspicious,” Roger answered. “A few men near Newall Lodge might be a good idea, too.”

“I can't
make
men!” Isherwood exploded.

“Is the Western Federation chief constable with you?”

“Yes,” answered Isherwood.

“Then ask him if he'll borrow some men from Hampshire, Southampton and Bournemouth if needs be,” Roger said crisply.

“I will put it to him,” Isherwood promised. “How long will you be, sir?”

“Less than an hour,” answered Roger. “Will you keep me posted as I come?”

“Yes, of course.” Isherwood rang off, and Roger put the receiver down slowly and picked up his tea. It was nearly cold. He got out as Bull came up, with Childs and his photographer as close as a shadow. “There's a new development at Salisbury,” he said. “I'm going straight back. May I take Kempton?”

“Of course,” Bull said. “Significant?”

Childs was not now the only newspaperman in sight; others had crowded around and four cameras were poised. Yet Bull should be told, and there seemed no reason for secrecy, so Roger stated clearly: “Tom Batten is missing.”

“Batten,” Childs echoed, and the name seemed to move from lip to lip as the newspapermen crowded round. “Batten—Batten—Batten. How? When? How long ago? When was he last seen? Is he being searched for? How do you know? From where?” The questions flooded in, all to the point even if some were repetitive. “Anything found here? The girl, I mean? Arms? Legs? Trinkets?”

At last, Roger was pointing the car toward the open road, with several press cars strung out behind him and Kempton sitting stolidly by his side, as if telling himself that Roger must have had all the questions he could take for a long time, and he, Kempton, would be the soul of patience.

Roger put his foot down hard and the needle hovered between eighty and ninety.

“Batten's in a bad way,” he said at last.

“Afraid he might kill himself?” asked Kempton.

“It's not inconceivable, but—” Roger broke off, and asked: “Any idea what all this is about, Alan?”

“I wouldn't go as far as that,” Kempton answered.

“How far would you go?” demanded Roger.

“Well,” said Kempton, “if I started with Salisbury and some funny business in fine art, heard that a top American contact man for secret buyers was involved, discovered that whoever was behind it was offering big money, and using someone prepared to abduct a police officer – well, I'd add all that up to something very big. Such as—” He paused and now the tone in his voice was defiant but dogged: “I'd guess Magna Carta.” Then in a sighing voice, he added: “It can't be, can it?”

“It might be,” Roger said. “You've added most of the things up in the same way that I would.”

“But who the devil would—oh, well, if you think it's on the cards it probably is,” Kempton said. “I've shied away from the idea.” He was thoughtful for some seconds, and then asked: “Any idea who it is?”

“Only guesses,” Roger told him. “Now I'm going to concentrate on driving.”

 

Police were sent over the county borders and from the two County Borough forces, and slowly and carefully a cordon was placed around Salisbury Cathedral. Another, smaller one, cordoned off Bodenham village. Roger was told of progress as he drove, the loudspeaker distorted in the on-rushing car.

“North and east cathedral now covered both inside and outside the walls.”

“South side covered from inside only.”

“Main gate and two supplementary gates already locked. Now under close surveillance.”

“No sign of intruders.”

“South side now covered from outside and west wall both inside and outside.”

“Roofs of buildings in the close now being used for surveillance.”

“Bodenham village now completely closed off.”

These messages came one upon the other but there was no report of anyone inside or outside even when Roger reached the city limits, a little before one-fifteen. Now three possibilities haunted him. First, that he was wrong and no raid was planned. Second, that the raid had already taken place. Third, that the raiders might already be in the cathedral and hampered in their getaway.

What would happen if they were?

Would they damage Magna Carta out of malice? Would they even threaten to damage or destroy it if they were not allowed to go free?

He was going through an agonising appraisal of the facts when a call came through from Bath to say that Stephenson had left, by himself, and was driving toward Salisbury.