The Theft of Magna Carta (17 page)

“Let him come,” Roger decided, and hoped it wasn't a wrong decision. Was Stephenson planning to be in at the kill, after all? And
were
the other three inside the cathedral or not?

They were already in the library – Tom Batten and Ledbetter and Ledbetter's young mate, the specialist in electronics, whose name was Bryce.

They had not yet found how to get the copy of Magna Carta away.

They did not know that they were surrounded.

 

 

To Batten, normally, it was the most beautiful sight in the world.

The stars were very bright and the light from the lamps in the city and in the close and at the house surrounding it shone upon the huge grey edifice and seemed to make it translucent; as if the grey of centuries had been lifted off and the original white stone, cut out of quarries only twelve miles away, restored on every wall. It was as if the night breathed life into the stone.

The outline of houses, some as old, some older than the cathedral, made an uneven line against the sky. The trees, some old and tall, some little more than saplings, were still like the trees at Hazebury Ring. One huge cedar stood like a clutch of dragons, each pointed limb a fang.

Batten had come here as a choir boy; he had come here as a worshiper; he had been a member of the Guardians of the Cathedral since he had joined the police force. This was part of him as it was part of England.

It was so still and quiet. Sounds from beyond the walls were muted. Except for the rustling made by the men there was no sound at all.

It was as if the cathedral and the close around it and all the people who lived nearby were sleeping.

Now Ledbetter was on one side of him and Bryce on the other, making faint sounds as they walked from St. Anne's Gate, which was always the last to be locked.

No one else moved, not even lovers, who had long since left the sanctuary of walls and shadows.

Ledbetter's car was parked on the main road near the gate, where it was legal to park even at night. They had left Linda alone in her dread, and a mind picture of her face seemed to show on the spire. Batten could almost hear her breathing, see the pleading in her eyes.

Ledbetter whispered: “You know what to do?”

“Yes.”

“Don't make any mistake,” Ledbetter warned.

Batten didn't answer.

“He'd better not,” Bryce said. “Or that bitch will be broken into pieces.”

“For God's sake—” Batten began.

“Shut up!”

They reached the porch of the north entrance and stood still, looking at the walls which surrounded the lawns, but saw only empty parked cars. No heads, no faces.

“No one's watching,” Ledbetter said. “We've fooled them.”

“They'd better not watch,” Bryce said in his newer, savage voice. “Batten – do you know what will happen if West or anyone else tries to stop us?”

“I know.”

“I've ten little fire bombs and they can all be triggered off by the detonator switch in my hands. Electronics, see. I left one back with the woman.” He slid his hand into Batten's pocket and went on: “Now you've got one close to your belly. Open the door.”

Batten could remember the youth fiddling with electric batteries, but had no idea what he had been doing; it must have been this. If it were true, if he could start fire by remote control, how could he be stopped?

It was very dark inside the porch. Batten normally had a torch, but now had to grope for the keyhole; at last he found it. The door creaked. Ledbetter, carrying a lightweight fireproof container in which to place the document, banged against the stone walls; the metal clanged.

“Quiet!” breathed Bryce.

Even Ledbetter muttered: “Sorry.”

They crept inside, and stood in the eerie stillness; and the chill which struck from walls and pillars, floor and stained glass seemed to penetrate their bodies. Gradually the windows began to glow with weird light; and Ledbetter shone a torch. The beam of a torch crept around. Nothing moved and Ledbetter whispered: “Which way?”

“We go straight toward the nave,” Batten said.

“Where's that old clock?” demanded Bryce. “The oldest in the world, don't they call it?”

“Yes, it—it's up there.” Batten pointed to the right.

“Wait here,” Bryce ordered, and now Ledbetter seemed prepared to let him have his way. He made little sound as he walked toward the cage-like structure which contained the clock, and bent down; in a few moments he was back. “If anything goes wrong,” he said, “some other clock will be the eldest.
That
one won't be there any longer.”

Batten winced.

“Go on,” Ledbetter ordered.

“I want to stick another of these little playthings up by the choir stalls,” Bryce said. “It's easy as kiss your hand. One dab of Sticktite and it'll stay forever. Unless I use my remote-control gadget. One squawk on the right wavelength, and ups-a-daisy!”

“You don't need—” Batten couldn't finish, it hurt him so much to speak.

“I know what we need,” interrupted Bryce. “This is what I'm here for.” He was obviously able to see more clearly now and turned into the nave. His footsteps echoed faintly as he went toward the altar, and the beam of his torch fell on the carved figures of saints and patriarchs about the pulpit.

Soon the light fell on the wooden angels of the choir stalls, the coats of arms behind them.

Bryce made a scraping sound. There was a noise from outside; an airplane, high up. Bryce kicked against something and muttered an imprecation. Any sound was a blasphemy here and at this moment.

Batten said: “We can go that way.”

“Don't try any tricks,” Ledbetter ordered.

Soon, they caught up with Bryce as he came from the choir stalls, whistling softly under his breath. The sound was like a serpent's hiss. His face showed as the others approached.

“Which way?” he asked.

Batten said: “This way.” He looked upward at the great columns which supported the spire, always to him a source of wonder. Now he was shaking and he felt very cold. If he ran, if he made the slightest attempt to stop them, he was sure Bryce would do what he had threatened. Yet here was his last chance to prevent this awful crime.

Here he could break the contact by the simple pressing of a switch. It would take only a moment, and the first alarm would be silenced. And there were other switches. If he passed one, if he turned the key in this door without switching off, the whole cathedral would be filled with ringing clangour, and as he had told Ledbetter, first the chief security officer would come, and almost as soon the close constable; in minutes, the police.

He had the power in his own hands.

Ledbetter could not stop him if he made the move.

But there was the “bomb” in his own pocket. There were those now planted in the cathedral. So there was nothing at all he could do; he had waited too long, his fears had brought him to this state of utter helplessness.

“
Where?
” demanded Ledbetter.

“The—the door in front,” Batten murmured, and he pressed the switch to make their path a safe one.

Oh, dear God, God forgive me. This is holy ground. There are the chapels where worshipers come, altars dedicated to the long dead saints; to St. Michael and St. Laurence and St. Margaret. Here the Lady Chapel which had survived Cromwell. Here the shafts of Purbeck marble, here the effigy of William Longsword, bastard son of Henry II and his fair Rosamund; one like so many from this Western land who had coerced King John to assent to Magna Carta. These things had great significance to him and he held them in awe. Forgive me, forgive me. He took his keys and by force of habit selected the one which would open the door leading to the cloisters, and also the steps which led up to the library. The door opened, very slowly; he had never known it so heavy. Or was that the weakness in his arms? There was no light beyond but the beam of the torch seemed brighter.

“
Where?
” Ledbetter demanded again.

“Up—up the stairs.”

“
Stairs?
”

The beam wavered about and then fell on the narrow winding stone staircase which seemed to lead to nowhere. It showed the cracks and the grooves made by countless feet on each tread; and the one stone wall. They stood at the foot for what seemed a long time, Bryce still whistling,
sss- sss-sss.

“You go first, Bryce,” Ledbetter said. “I'll come last.”

“I—I must go first,” Batten said. “I—I know where to switch off the contact.”

“Watch this flicker,” Bryce said.

“I'll watch him.”

Batten went up a step at a time, Ledbetter almost on his heels. Then they reached the small landing and stood together in front of the ancient door. The light shone onto the panels and onto the keyhole. He touched another switch.

“That the library?” Ledbetter asked.

“Ye—yes.”

“Make up your mind.”

“Yes!”

“Open it,” Bryce said, and dug him savagely in the ribs.

This was the last obstacle before the safe. In there, just beyond the door, were ancient books, manuscripts which were unique; records of the pious and the saintly and the noble; work of musicians and of artists and of scribes. And there, encased, secured, was the copy of Magna Carta. He could see the words as if they were written on the door:

 

THE SARUM MAGNA CARTA 1215

 

Bryce kicked him.

“
Open it!
”

If he did, all would be lost.

But if he didn't, all would be lost, too. They could take the manuscript from here; they would soon find the right key.
There was nothing he could do.
He groped for and selected the key, identifying it by touch. His shin ached; his ribs ached. He could kill these men! The beam shone on the keyhole and on his trembling fingers, and the key turned and Bryce shouldered him aside and pushed the door open.

There were the precious stores; the fabulous treasures; and at the end of the narrow crowded room, the greatest treasure of them all. And – and he had a key to that. He had been entrusted with a key lest he should come here and find a fire and need to save the charter. Now it showed beneath the heavy glass; and as all three of them drew closer, Bryce ahead and Batten next and Ledbetter breathing down his neck, even these two vandals seemed at last to be affected.

For at least a minute none of them moved or spoke but looked down. There was a section, bright and clear in the light of the torch.

The torch trembled.

“Don't,” Batten pleaded. “Don't—don't take it. Don't—”

“You bloody fool,” Bryce said. “That's worth a million nicker.
Open it.
”

“Oh, God—”

“You snivelling basket, open it!”

Oh, dear God, dear God. It was happening and he was doing it: he was letting them take this priceless vellum. He, Thomas Batten, was betraying everything he had ever believed in.

Ledbetter opened the metal box. Inside there was velvet; dark red velvet; red, like blood. Ledbetter took a square of this out. Batten –
Batten
– unlocked and freed and lifted the relic he had never before touched, and placed it in the box. His own breathing was hardly audible; theirs was hushed.

“Let's go,” Ledbetter said.

“Do we need to lock up?” asked Bryce.

“It will be out of the country before anybody knows it's gone.”

Bryce gave a snorting, hissing laugh. Batten missed a step, but no one touched him now. Bryce led the way, shining his torch carefully. Batten moved between them. Ledbetter had the fireproof box clutched under his arm, and held the side of the narrow staircase with his free hand. They reached the bending columns and stood for a moment beneath the tower vault and walked, still breathless, along the nave and to the doors through which they had come, Bryce a yard ahead. He opened the door slowly and it squeaked. He stepped out gingerly, as if he expected the ground to collapse beneath him – and then he stood absolutely rigid, a hiss of breath like the slash of a knife.

Ledbetter called urgently: “What is it? What is it?”

“The bloody cops are everywhere,” Bryce said. “They're even on the roofs.”

 

Tom Batten's first thought was “thank God.” But the feeling did not last. He had not the slightest doubt of the viciousness in Bryce and Ledbetter; it was as if they were primed to kill. They crept silently back into the cathedral and the door closed. Batten felt one man pull at his shoulder, the other at his coat. Both were breathing harshly.

He gasped: “I—I didn't bring them!”

“You're going to send them away,” Ledbetter growled. Something in his voice told of his own fear. “You're going out to tell them that if they try to stop us, we'll press that switch, and there won't be anything left of their precious cathedral.” There he was, holding the case, and Bryce was behind Batten, cold fingers gripping his neck. “Go and tell West what we've done,” Ledbetter went on. “Don't forget a thing. The clock, the choir, the library – they will all go up in smoke if anyone tries to stop us getting away.”

“And so will that whore up in the hills,” Bryce said. “Get going.
Now
.”

He opened the door and pushed Batten out, so that he was alone on the dark porch but able to see the cars beyond the walls, and the men standing, even two men on a roof, opposite.

He was gasping for breath.

He began to walk and then to shuffle and at last to run. He was halfway toward the nearest exit from where he stood before he remembered the bomb in his pocket. He took it out. He placed it carefully on the ground, then he began to run much faster and to cry out as he went.

“It's Batten! Tom Batten! Don't stop them, don't stop them!” He saw two men coming toward him and slowed down so that he could speak more clearly. “They've—they've got the Magna Carta! They'll blow it to pieces if you stop them. And—and—and oh God, they'll start fires all over the cathedral. Everywhere! You've got to let them go.”

His breath caught when he stopped and he could not speak again; just gasped and struggled for breath.

He did not recognise West or Isherwood.

He did not realise how many were here: a tall dean whose work was mostly in the library, the one who had been addressing the coach party that afternoon. Two, three, four other clerics. Sir Richard Way, chief constable of the police region which included the Wiltshire Constabulary. Two women, one whose especial care was the library and who cherished the copy of Magna Carta at least as much as any child of her bosom.