Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

Matlock heard the Abbot come out beside him.

“They came back,” he said. “Conscientious perhaps. Or glory-seekers. They came back to do it themselves.”

“We’d better move,” said the Abbot. “This is a bit of a dead end up here.”

He made to move off down the corridor but Matlock’s gun jammed in his belly.

“Don’t forget that,” he said. “I need it.”

The Abbot went back into his study and picked up the Adjuster.

“You’re right. Even if you didn’t need it, it’s worth a million of anything you name. Shall we go now?”

The lift door was open, the lift occupied. It was Carswell.

For a moment Matlock thought the old man was alive but the blank unseeing eyes told him the truth even before the frail corpse slid down the wall against which it had been propped and sprawled across the floor.

“They must have killed him in the lift, radioed their news to Browning’s men, then come straight back up for us.”

The Abbot did not reply but started to drag the body out into the corridor. The Adjuster impeded him and he could only use one hand.

“In the interests of speed, Brother,” he said, “could you help me here?”

Overcoming his distaste, Matlock seized the old man by the shoulders and heaved him out. When he straightened up his hands were tacky with blood.

“No time for obsequies, I’m afraid,” said the Abbot. “Down we go. Do keep that gun ready.”

But there was no need for it below in the cold passageway, dim and shadowy by contrast with the brightness they had left. As yet it was deserted, though the sounds of war were all about — the crackle of guns, the shouting of men, now and then the loud explosion of something more than a hand-gun.

“Where are we heading?” asked Matlock.

The Abbot stood uncertain for a moment, then seemed to make up his mind.

“This way,” he said and they set off at a jog down the passage which led to the Cloister Court.

The Abbot talked breathlessly as he ran.

“Browning won’t stop till he’s razed the Abbey. Now he’s committed himself, he can’t just go halfway. But he’ll want proof we’re dead first. Not just a pile of rubble we might or might not be under.”

He stopped talking to gasp in great lungfuls of air.

Matlock shouted back, “How does that help us?”

The Abbot stopped and leaned up against the wall.

“It doesn’t much. But at least it means they’ll want everybody. There are one or two others he’ll want to be sure are not wandering round the countryside.”

“But his men will recognize people they know should have been dead years ago.”

“So what? That’s exacdy his justification for this attack. The Age-Law evaders revealed. A plot against the country. There is one law for all, rich and poor. Can’t you hear him? This will make him.”

They were almost at the end of the passage where it came out beside the Chapter House. The Abbot peered carefully out into the Cloister Square, now no longer dark but fitfully lit by flashes of light from the fighting which seemed to be centred in the adjacent Church. Overhead swung helicopters and their searchlight beams swept across the Square and up and down the whole complex of Abbey buildings. Even as they watched, the dazzling light poured down on to the close-mown grass and transfixed there three monks. They turned to run, one tripped over his robes and, falling, clutched at another. A gun chattered above them and they both lay still. The third disappeared into the protecting shadow of the cloister walk.

The light moved away.

“Come,” said the Abbot.

They slid round out of the passage and into the Chapter House. Unhesitating, the Abbot moved among the marble pillars till he came to the tomb of John de Cancia. Matlock stood and watched, still trying to accustom his eyes to the new darkness.

“Help me,” hissed the Abbot. He was fiddling at one corner of the marble slab, and now he began to pull.

Matlock knelt beside him and added his weight, still ignorant of what they were doing. Slowly at first, then smoothly and easily; the marble moved, and Matlock found himself peering into a dark uninviting hole.

“Ah,” said the Abbot with satisfaction. “There we are. These places were often fitted with tunnels for various purposes. This one is very old and runs to How Hill, a mile to the south. I merely had it extended to open up here. Who wants to enter the tomb, after all?”

“Ingenious,” said Matlock. “Shall we go?”

There was a sound behind him. He spun round, gun at the ready, but hesitated when he saw the figure who had so stealthily approached was a monk.

“Thank God I’ve found you, Abbot,” gasped the man. He moved forward so that his face was visible. It was the Abbot.

“Ah, Brother Duplex,” murmured the real Abbot. “How clever of you to know about this. You made more use of our rehearsals than I thought. What’s happening out there?”

“They’re massacring us. We’re out-numbered both in men and firepower. Brother Phillip’s organized what defence he can, but it can’t last long. We must hurry.”

“Indeed we must,” said the Abbot. “Brother, I see you are well armed. I have nothing, let me have a gun.”

He reached out his hand. Matlock saw that he was right. Duplex must have paused long enough at some arms cache to grab a couple of hand-guns and a belt of grenades. The monk now thrust one of the guns into the Abbot’s hand and turned to the tomb.

The Abbot spoke.

“When doppel-gängers meet, one must die,” he said, and shot Duplex twice in the back.

“Now Brother Matt,” he said turning, “look not so disapproving. It suits me very well to have my body found by Browning’s soldiers. And two’s company they say. Come.”

He stooped to pick up the Adjuster. Over his bent back, Matlock saw Duplex half turn on his left elbow, his right hand plucking at his grenade belt. Matlock brought his gun up, but the Abbot rose at that moment blocking his aim. He thrust him aside and fired, but the lost second had been crucial. From Duplex’s nerveless fingers rolled a primed grenade. A whole pack of wild thoughts ran madly through Matlock’s mind. Lizzie, Colin, Ernst, Edna, Carswell, his parents, all rose before him and reached to him and tried to talk to him. But like Ulysses in the underworld, he knew these phantoms needed blood before they could speak. And in his mind he stood and wept silently, futilely before their dreadful pleas.

But his body moved independently. Two strides forward, the grenade scooped up, arm thrown back and the metal egg hurled into the one place which offered them any escape from its blast.

The tomb.

He lay on the ground till the ground stayed still and the stones stopped falling about him. Then he rose.

“Abbot,” he whispered, his eyes still dazzled by the flash, “are you all right?”

But the Abbot was up already and peering down into the tunnel.

“You bloody fool! It’s blocked. We can’t get through. You stupid ...”

His voice trailed away as he saw Matlock’s face.

“Yes of course. There was nothing else to do. Of course. Well, lead on. It’s up to you now. Your quick thinking saved our lives. Let’s see if your quick thinking can save us from the results of your quick thinking.”

“What about the river?”

“The river? Yes, the river perhaps. Perhaps.”

Matlock hit the Abbot in the face with the flat of his hand.

“Wake up, Abbot. Despair is the sin against the Holy Ghost, isn’t it? How do we get to the river without going outside?”

The Abbot stood in silence for a while. Whether in thought or in shock, Matlock didn’t know. But finally he said, “The Cellarium. That is built over the river. We can get at it through the Cellarium.”