Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens (18 page)

“What we’re not going to do is lose our heads. Stokes, you’ve immobilised the colonel’s car?”

Stokes nodded.

“And you’ve put the telephone line out of communication, Mr. Smallpiece?”

“Same as last time.”

“Then I don’t see how they can summon help in under half an hour. We should have ample time to do all we have to.”

“I advise you against it,” said Mr. Calder.

He was standing in the doorway, one hand in his pocket. He looked placid, but determined. Behind him they could see the great dog, Rasselas, his head almost level with Mr. Calder’s shoulder, his amber eyes glowing.

For a moment there was complete silence. Then a low growl of anger broke out from the crowded room. The Rector said, “Ah, Calder. I congratulate you on your ingenuity. Who let you out?”

“Jack Collins. And he’s gone in his own car, to Thetford. The police will be here in half an hour.”

“Then they will be too late.”

“That’s just what I was afraid of,” said Mr. Calder. “It’s why I came down as fast as I could, to stop you.”

There was another growl, louder and more menacing. Enoch Clavering stepped forward. He said, “Bundle him down into the cellar, Rector, and let’s get on with it.”

“I shouldn’t try it,” said Mr. Calder. His voice was still peaceful. “First, because if you put a hand on me this dog will have the hand off. Secondly, because the colonel’s outside in the garden. He’s got a shotgun, and he’ll use it if he has to.”

The Rector said, gently, “You mustn’t think you can frighten us. The colonel won’t shoot. He’s not a murderer. And Rasselas won’t attack me. Will you, Rasselas?”

“You’ve got this all wrong,” said Mr. Calder. “My object is to prevent
you
attacking us. Just long enough for me to tell you two things. First point, the guards at Snelsham have been doubled. They are armed. And they have orders to shoot. What you’re leading your flock to isn’t a jamboree, like last time. It’s a massacre.”

“I think he’s lying,” said Mr. Smedley.

“There’s one way of finding out,” said Mr. Calder. “But it’s not the real point. The question which really matters – what our American friends would refer to as the sixty-four thousand dollar question is – have any of you ever seen a tree beaver?”

The question was so unexpected that it fell into a sudden pool of silence.

“Come, come,” said Mr. Calder. “There must be some naturalists here. Rector, I see the
Universal Encyclopaedia of Wild Life
on your shelf. Would you care to turn its pages and give us a few facts about the habits of this curious creature.”

The Rector said, with half a smile of comprehension on his face, “What are you getting at, Mr. Calder?”

“I can save you some unnecessary research. The animal does not exist. Indeed, it could not exist. Beavers live in rivers, not in trees. The animal was invented by an old friend of mine, a Mr. Behrens. And having invented this remarkable animal, he thought it would be a pity to keep it all to himself. He had news of its arrival at Snelsham passed to a friend of his, who passed it on to a subversive organisation, known as the International Brotherhood Group. Who, in turn, passed it to you, Rector, through their local agent.”

The Rector was smiling now. He said, “So I have been led up the garden path.
Sancta simplicitas!
Who is this agent?”

“That’s easy. Who told you about the tree beavers?”

There was a flurry of movement. A shout, a crash, and the sound of a shot.

“It is far from clear,” said Mr. Calder, “whether Miss Martin intended to shoot the Rector or me. In fact, Rasselas knocked her over and she shot herself. As soon as they realised they had been fooled, the village closed its ranks. They concocted a story that Miss Mardn, who was nervous of burglars, was known to possess a revolver, a relic of the last war. She must have been carrying it in her handbag, and the supposition was that, in pulling it out to show to someone, it had gone off and killed her. It was the thinnest story you ever heard, and the Coroner was suspicious as a cat. But he couldn’t shake them. And after all, it
was
difficult to cast doubt on the evidence of the entire Parochial Church Council supported by their Rector. The verdict was accidental death.”

“Excellent,” said Mr. Fortescue. “It would have been hard to prove anything. In spite of your beavers. How did the Rector take it?”

“Very well indeed. I had to stay for the inquest and made a point of attending Evensong on the following Sunday. The church was so full that it was difficult to find a seat. The Rector preached an excellent sermon, on the text, ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s’.”

“A dangerous opponent,” said Mr. Fortescue. “On the whole, I cannot feel sorry that the authorities should have decided to close Snelsham Manor.”

“You are my Member,” said Colonel Mounteagle.

“Indeed, yes,” said Mr. Pocock, sipping nervously at the glass of sherry which the colonel had thrust onto him when he arrived.

“You represent my interests in Parliament.”

“Yours, and other people’s.”

“Never mind about other people. It isn’t other people’s land this feeder road is going to ruin. It’s my land.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” agreed Mr. Pocock. “But you have to bear in mind that by taking the pressure off the road between your lodge gates and the roundabout, a number of people with houses on that stretch will be relieved of the heavy flow of traffic just outside their front gates. Danger to children—”

“Irrelevant,” said the colonel. “People who buy houses on the main road must expect to see a bit of traffic. That’s not the point. When a road is going to invade the privacy of a land-owner – is going to trespass across
his
fields – he
must
be allowed some say in the matter. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Up to a point.”

“Right. Have some more sherry.” Without allowing Mr. Pocock to say yes or no he refilled his glass. “Now, you’ve got a chance to do what’s needed. You’ve drawn a place – third place, I believe – in the ballot for private members’ bills. I’ve told you what’s wanted. A simple three- or four-clause bill saying that where a new road is planned, the land-owners affected by it will have a right to veto it. If there are several of them, the verdict to be by a straight majority. That’s democratic, isn’t it?”

“In a way,” said Mr. Pocock. He wished he could dispose of the sherry, but if he drank it too quickly he was going to choke.

“But one has to look at the other side of the coin. The new road will be a great benefit to a number of householders.”

“Including you.”

“Yes. It’s true that my present house happens to be on that stretch of road. But I hope you don’t impute—”

“I don’t impute anything,” said the colonel. “I state facts. Mine is the only property which is going to be invaded, and that means that I am the only person directly concerned.”

He gazed out of the window. From where he stood he could see, across two fields, the line of hedge which marked the main road – a thick hedge of well-matured beech. What he now had to face was the thought of a road, a loathsome snake of tarmacadam, giving right of access to every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a stinking motorcar or a roaring motorcycle, violating lands which had been in the Mounteagle family for two and a half centuries. Was it for this that they had fought Napoleon, Kaiser William, and Hitler, that one Mounteagle had fallen in the breach at Badajoz, and another in the sodden wastes of Passchendaele, that he himself—?

He looked down at his left hand from which three of the middle fingers were gone. Mr. Pocock, not fancying the expression on his face, managed to swallow most of the sherry in his glass.

“It may not be easy to push such a bill through,” said the colonel. “But it’s a chance. And maybe your last chance to settle this matter without bloodshed.”

“Metaphorically, I hope you mean,” said Mr. Pocock with a nervous smile.

“I’m not in the habit of talking in metaphors,” said the colonel. “If you put me with my back to the wall, I shall fight.”

“And, oh dear,” said Mr. Pocock to his wife that evening, “I’ve got a feeling he meant it.”

“You can’t possibly promote an anti-social bill of that sort.”

“If I did, it would be the end of me, politically. And it wouldn’t get a second reading. It would be laughed out of Parliament, and me with it.”

“Then,” said his wife, “what’s the difficulty? You just say no.”

“You didn’t see his face,” said Mr. Pocock.

“When I was in India,” said Mr. Fortescue, “there was a saying that all sappers were mad, married, or Methodist. Colonel Mounteagle is a bachelor, and a staunch upholder of the established church.”

“So he must be mad,” said Mr. Calder.

When Mr. Fortescue, manager of the Westminster Branch of the London and Home CountiesBank, wished to make contact with Mr. Calder or Mr. Behrens, both of whom lived in Kent, he would convey a message to them that their accounts were causing him concern. The precise form of the message indicated the gravity of the situation. On this occasion it had been of very moderate urgency, and directed to Mr. Calder only.

“Madness is an imprecise term,” said Mr. Fortescue. He steepled the tips of his fingers and looked severely at Mr. Calder over his glasses.

“If you mean, is he certifiably insane, the answer must be in the negative. But his conduct in recent months has been causing concern in certain quarters. A number of my people have, as you know, succeeded in establishing themselves in positions of some confidence in IRA cells in this country. One of my people has managed to become friendly with Michael Scullin.”

Mr. Calder knew that the people referred to were very brave men who took their lives into their hands every day of the year. He also knew that the systematic penetration of IRA groups was one of the ways in which bomb outrages were kept within manageable limits.

He said, “Scullin? He’s their electronics expert, isn’t he?”

“One of them. He specialises in detonation by remote control, and devices of that sort. He learned his trade in Russia.”

“I’m surprised that we don’t take steps to abate him.”

“On the whole it is more useful to keep him under observation. It can produce surprising results – as it has on this occasion. It seems that recently he has been paid substantial sums of money by a certain Colonel Mounteagle for what I can only describe as a refresher course in the use of high explosive.”

“A refresher course?”

“Certainly. As a young officer, in 1945, Mounteagle had a considerable reputation. He was a member of the task force charged with clearing the mouth of the Scheldt, and blowing up the submarine pens. They were jobs which had to be done against time, and this involved the acceptance of risks. There was a procedure by which unmanned barges filled with explosive could be directed into the underground pens and exploded. The danger lay in the variety of underwater devices which had first to be brought to the surface and dismantled. It was while he was engaged in this work that the colonel lost three fingers of his left hand – and gained an immediate DSO.”

“He sounds quite a lad,” said Mr. Calder. “Do we know what is leading him to a renewed interest in the forces of destruction?”

“He is annoyed with the authorities for wishing to build a road across his park and with his local MP for failing to introduce a private bill to stop them.”

Mr. Calder thought for a moment that Mr. Fortescue was joking, then realised that he was serious. He said, “What sort of reprisals do you think he might be intending?”

“He could be laying a number of booby traps in his park. Alternatively, or in addition, he may be planning to blow up the MP concerned, a Mr. Pocock. Two nights ago Mr. Pocock was awakened by mysterious noises. He telephoned the police. When they arrived they found that the door of his garage had been forced. From the garage an unlocked door leads into the house.”

“I see,” said Mr. Calder. “The colonel sounds like a determined character. Perhaps Mr. Pocock would be wise to press on with his bill.”

Mr. Fortescue said, “I think we must take a hand. The loss of an occasional Member of Parliament may not be a matter of concern, but we don’t want some innocent bulldozer driver destroyed. I suggest you make yourself known to the colonel. His address is Mounteagle Hall, Higham. He is managing director of his own family firm, The Clipstone Sand and Gravel Company. It is on the river, north of Cooling. I will alert Behrens as to the position, but I imagine you will be able to handle this yourself.”

Mr. Calder’s methods were usually simple and straightforward. On this occasion he put on his oldest clothes, armed himself with a fishing rod, and sat down to fish at a point just outside the boundary fence of the Clipstone Sand and Gravel Company. Soon after he had started, a man came out of a gate in the fence and stood watching him. From his appearance and walk he was an ex-naval type, Mr. Calder guessed. At this moment he succeeded in hooking a sizable fish.

This served as a convenient introduction, and Mr. Calder was soon deep in conversation with Chief Petty Officer Seward. He mentioned that he was putting up for a few days at the local pub. Seward agreed that the beer there was drinkable, and that he might be down there himself after work.

By ten o’clock that evening, in the friendly atmosphere of the saloon bar, Mr. Calder had learned a good deal about the Clipstone Sand and Gravel Company and its owner.

“He’s all right,” said Seward. “I mean, you don’t find many like him nowadays. He knows what he wants, and he likes to get his own way, no messing about. But if he likes you, he’ll do anything for you.”

“And if he doesn’t like you?”

“If he doesn’t like you,” said Seward with a grin, “you clear out quick. We had a chap once who set himself up as a sort of shop steward. Wanted to get us unionised. The colonel soon put a stop to it.”

“How did he manage to do that?”

“Threw him in the river.”

“I see,” said Calder thoughtfully.