Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

He motioned politely. The gun had re-appeared. Matlock went through into the room.

If he had expected improvement, he was disappointed. The walls were scarred and cracked and of an undeterminable colour. Two hard chairs stood on either side of a small television set. Otherwise the room was empty.

Matlock turned to the door where Francis still stood.

“Where’s your Abbot then?” he demanded.

“Why, here I am, Mr. Matlock. I’m sorry you have been kept.”

Into the room smiling with what appeared to be genuine pleasure came the wizened chauffeur. He extended his hand and Matlock automatically grasped it. It felt firmer and stronger than he had expected.

“You look rather surprised, Mr. Matlock. I’m not a very distinguished figure out of uniform, am I? But I look fairly formidable when I’m dressed up. Oh yes. Here, let me show you.”

He leaned forward and pressed a switch on the T.V. The screen lit up almost instantly into a rainbow swirl of colour which quickly flowed and formed into sky and trees and buildings. The picture held for a moment while Matlock pried into his store of memories. This had to be Fountains Abbey. He had visited it once in his late teens and he could just about re-create a picture of the majestic ruins in their splendid natural setting.

But the picture he looked at now was of no glorious ruin. The broken cloisters were whole again; the once empty frame of the great east window glowed with light and colour even though the afternoon sun cast the shadow of the great buttresses across it.

The Abbot adjusted a switch with an apologetic smile. The picture faded, the colours swirled and re-formed into an interior. Matlock realized they were now looking at the east window from the inside.

Slowly the camera panned down until they were looking straight up the main aisle of the Abbey. A service was in progress and the telescopic lens of the camera carried them swiftly over a forest of long-haired heads towards the sanctuary where on the third of the five altar-steps stood a solitary figure.

“Now, there I am,” said the Abbot with a note of self-congratulation in his voice. “Is that impressive enough for you?”

By the pressure of a switch he held the figure full length in the picture.

Matlock had to agree that this was impressive enough. The flowing white robes shone with a startling radiance against the dull gleam of gold from the altar rails and table. At his breast on a simple silver chain hung a gleaming blue stone.

Now the camera swooped their gaze under the bowed forehead right into the face.

Matlock found he was looking at the features of the man who stood beside him.

“I told you it was me,” he said triumphantly, then added, in response to Matlock’s unspoken puzzlement, “Oh, no. It’s not a recording. That’s happening now.”

Another switch. A grey-bearded face appeared and nodded at the screen.

“All is well, Brother Gareth?”

“All is well.”

“Good.”

The picture faded and the screen went blank. The Abbot sat down on one of the hard chairs and motioned Matlock to the other.

“You see, Mr. Matlock, either I had to come to you — or you had to be brought to me. Now, while it was impossible, of course, to prevent them from knowing we wished to contact you…”

“Them?” interrupted Matlock.

The Abbot raised his eyebrows a fraction.

“Why, anyone who wants to know such a thing. As I say, it was impossible to conceal the desire, even the attempt. But it did seem possible to keep the fact of a personal meeting a secret. That could be important, you know.”

“Why not take me to Yorkshire?”

“Time, and secrecy. We can’t keep you out of sight for very long without someone noticing. Whereas, as you have seen, I can stay away almost indefinitely.”

“That other’s an actor?”

“Of course. In fact, he really was an actor before he joined us. He is also a much loved and respected member of the inner circle of the Brotherhood.”

“Do the others all know?”

“My dear Mr. Matlock, what do you take me for? Some naive curate with a touching faith in his fellow men? I know at least half a dozen of my Brethren who have been planted there by Browning. How many others there are, God alone knows.”

“And hasn’t yet told you? So now you wish to talk to me, Abbot — I should call you ‘Abbot’, should I?”

The Abbot was amused this time.

“There is no need, if it offends you.”

“Only pointless mysteries offend me.”

“You are right. I will be naive, Mr. Matlock, and take your puzzlement at its face value, though as you have already been approached by the Prime Minister, and will be soon by the Scottish Ambassador, you can hardly be totally ignorant.”

Matlock’s training made it fairly easy for him to take the reference to the Scottish Ambassador without reaction, but his mind buzzed with conjecture. There had to be a common denominator somewhere.

“Go on,” was all he said.

“Well, now. I will accept, however, Mr. Matlock, that you probably are ignorant about certain areas of importance.”

“Geographical or political?”

“Both. You have, in fact, led a very sheltered life for many years.”

Matlock half rose from his chair.

“Do not be offended,” said the Abbot. “I do not mean to denigrate you or understate the valiant efforts you have made to establish contact with the people. But you must have been aware yourself of the rigid limits of activity and influence permitted to you by your former party.” “I have been aware,” said Matlock slowly. “But I have met with some success in stepping beyond them.”

“Less perhaps than you think. A rebel must be given some encouragement if he is not to be driven to desperation. This is true, is it not?”

Matlock remembered bitterly his own growing sense of uselessness, of outside control. It was no comfort to have his fears confirmed.

“It is true.”

“Good. You would not be the man I think you are if you did not know it. Less obvious to you has been the interference with your own few channels of information and communication. You have had to rely on others as your eyes and ears for a long time now. You have been a man without friends for almost as long.”

This time Matlock did rise, his chair falling behind him.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, leaning over the small seated figure of the Abbot.

The door opened a fraction and Brother Francis appeared. The Abbot motioned him away.

“Perhaps more, perhaps less than you think. Do sit down.”

Matlock passed his hand over his forehead and swayed slightly. He reached out a hand and steadied himself against the wall.

“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Matlock?” said the Abbot. “This has been a very distressing morning for you, I know.”

Matlock wondered how much he did know. His head was quite clear now and he felt more alert than he had done since leaving Browning. But he shook his head again.

“No, I’d rather stand for a moment or two. You were making certain implications. Please continue.”

The Abbot frowned and the terrible sternness which settled on his face for a moment gave Matlock some indication of the man’s real quality.

“I imply nothing, Mr. Matlock. I was about to give you some facts. Here they are for what they are worth. You were I think threatened this morning with a forged family link between yourself and your secretary Miss Lizzie Armstrong, and your assistant Mr. Ernst Colquitt. Right?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. This is a threat you would do well to disregard.”

“Why?” asked Matlock, knowing already the answer he was going to hear.

“They are Browning’s creatures.”

Ready though he had been, Matlock could not hold in an outcry of protest.