Return to Ribblestrop (17 page)

‘Hello?’ he cried, softly. ‘Is anyone there?’

He went to knock more loudly, but hesitated. He didn’t need to announce his arrival and it might be better to approach secretly. He fitted the key as silently as he could and the mechanism
turned. Masking his torch with one hand, he pushed it open to reveal a tiny landing and another set of steps descending into darkness. There was a scent of wood smoke and incense.

Holding his breath, he thought he could detect a very faint chanting. His heart leaped – he could see a candle in a small stone recess. This was a breakthrough moment and he descended the
steps, holding tight to the iron rail. He was underground at last! After so much searching and expectation, he was close to the secret tunnels. The pump-room didn’t interest him at all: what
thrilled him to his bones was the knowledge that he must be so close to the whole tunnel network and all the Vyner chambers.

He could hear the chanting still, getting louder.

He came to a passage and a dozen more candles; he walked along it, gingerly. It widened and turned, and at last he came to what had to be the Brethren’s chambers. The ceiling was low. He
passed a number of small cells that might have been bedrooms. A golden glow gleamed up ahead and he was drawn to it, the music slow, peaceful, concentrated.

Six figures, all in brown robes.

They sat with their legs crossed, their hands upon their knees. Father O’Hanrahan waited another five minutes, until there was a pause. Then he spoke.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to startle you.’

The monks did not react.

‘Forgive the intrusion,’ he said. ‘There’s bad news up at the house and I thought you ought to be the first to hear of it.’ He looked round for a chair and there
wasn’t one. He was about to speak, when one of the monks resumed the chant, in a high-pitched, quavering voice.

The priest raised his voice. ‘If you wouldn’t mind just pausing for a moment? I’m all for a bit of worship, but business is business.’

The chant stopped and six heads turned to look at him. The monks wore their hoods up, so their faces were in shadow.

‘Serious business, gents. And it hasn’t been easy tracking you down. By God, you can run like rats.’

He paused and nobody moved. The monks looked identical. Having moved their heads, they were now motionless.

‘I understand a chat is not easy for you and I respect that. A vow is a vow and we’re all holy men together. So what I thought I’d do, was organise a little code system, which
we used in Ballybeg when these situations arose. I did a few of these silent routines myself, so I know where you’re coming from. No one will think any the worse of you if we bend the rules a
little bit.’

Father O’Hanrahan chose a monk at random and walked across to him. He put his stick in front of the old man’s nose and said, ‘Would you be so kind as to take a hold of this
stick, mister?’

The monk seemed not to have heard. The seconds passed and Father O’Hanrahan repeated himself. ‘I know it’s a distraction, sir, but the sooner we do business the sooner
I’m out of your way. News is news and it affects your future.’ Very slowly, the old man’s hands came up from his knees and gently took the stick.

‘I’m sure you know the form,’ said the priest, with a certain relief. ‘You knock the stick upon the ground. Once is yes and twice is no. I’ll sit down, if you
don’t mind – try and make myself a bit more comfortable. Then we can – ouch! – get on with what we all need to get on with.’

He placed himself opposite the monk with the stick. He was surrounded and their concentration was intense. Even so, the priest had the sensation that in a strange way the monks were unaware of
him. He coughed.

‘Lady Vyner has passed away,’ he said, grandly. ‘In the last forty-eight hours. I was not at the bedside, but you will be pleased to know that I was there a short time before.
I had the feeling then that she knew her time was upon her and I was able to be of some comfort. Her loss will leave many of us devastated. You, most of all. Would you mind knocking if you’re
taking this in, sir?’

There was a pause and the listening monk knocked once upon the floor.

‘Well, thank you for that, it’s nice to know this
is
a conversation. What does the sad and tragic death of the old girl mean to us? Well, it means there’s bound to be a
few changes – and I want us to get ahead of the game. The estate trustees are going to want to work out just how much stuff you’re sitting on, down here – they’ll be adding
things up even as we speak. We, therefore, need to move fast. Would you just mind knocking again, so I know your mind isn’t wandering?’

Again, there was a pause. Again, the stick moved once.

‘OK,’ said Father O’Hanrahan. ‘I’m not one to be mealy-mouthed. I don’t want to be the bull smashing at the china shop, when you boys have been here so long,
getting your feet under the table. But I’m looking for the sword of the Order. The Order of St Caspar. Shall we just nail our colours to the mast – is that what you’re looking for
too?’

‘No,’ said the monks.

The old man shouted in terror and clutched at his chest. His gasped for air and crossed himself, peering around behind him.

‘For the love of God,’ he gasped. ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack! Could you not have spoken up before? Oh my word . . .’ He found a handkerchief and mopped his brow.
‘I’m glad of the breakthrough, but that was a shock. We can talk at last, can we?’

‘We are allowed to speak of the Order,’ said a monk to Father O’Hanrahan’s left. The old man spun round to look at him.

‘And of the Vyners,’ said the man with the stick.

‘Lady Vyner’s dead?’ said someone softly. ‘Are we sure about that?’

Father O’Hanrahan realised that there appeared to be no ultimate spokesman. This meant he would never be sure who he should be looking at. It didn’t matter a great deal, since he
couldn’t see faces – but it was disorientating.

‘She’s tough as boots,’ muttered somebody. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Let’s focus on the issue,’ said Father O’Hanrahan. ‘You can do your weeping and wailing a bit later, because I want to get something clear. Whilst I am looking for
the sword, I want to check that you are
also
looking for the sword. Is that what you just said? Because I have assumed, up to now, that your Order was formed in honour of the sword. The
Brethren of the Lost were looking for—’

‘You’re right and you’re wrong, Father,’ said one of the monks.

‘So . . . very well.’ Father O’Hanrahan licked his lips. ‘Am I right that you are
looking
for the sword?’

‘No, sir. We are not looking for anything.’

Another monk spoke. ‘What we were looking for, we found. Our search ended some time ago.’

‘Yours has ended too.’

Father O’Hanrahan felt a little pulse of hope beating within. He’d never been good at reading subtexts or hidden meanings, but the answers he’d heard could suggest extremely
good news.

‘We’re talking about the sword of St Caspar – can I get that absolutely straight?’

Six voices said, ‘Yes.’

‘Which means . . . it’s here. In Ribblestrop?’

‘It was brought here by Lord Vyner. It’s been here for more than half a century. Now it has its guardian.’

‘And Lady Vyner was a guardian?’

‘No, she was not.’

‘The sword is held for the grandson,’ said a quiet voice. ‘He will inherit everything.’

‘But the sword itself,’ said Father O’Hanrahan. ‘Can we stick to the point here?’

‘Our Order traced its journey in the same way that you did,’ said another monk. ‘There was a sighting in Villeneuve. It is written about in a private diary, in nineteen hundred
and seven, and the writer refers to it being displayed at a supper.’

‘Then it was moved to a bank, in Switzerland,’ said someone.

‘From there it was moved to Rouen,’ said the first man, ‘and the intention was to get it out of the country during the war.’

‘But where—’

‘One of our own Order gave it to Lord Vyner, in person, and helped him bring it here.’

‘Of course, he was given it with many other items. Even Lord Vyner didn’t know its full importance. The guardian need not know the worth of what he guards.’

‘But where is it now?’ cried the priest. ‘You’re telling me it’s here? Here at Ribblestrop?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then whereabouts? In this room?’ Even the priest realised that he sounded too anxious. His voice betrayed a certain desperation and terrible yearning. He discovered he was standing
and sweating heavily.

‘Father,’ said a monk, ‘the sword is in its rightful place. Our job is to stay close to it. We draw great spiritual comfort from it.’

‘We’re all old men,’ said another. ‘To be close to it is enough.’

The priest could stand it no more. ‘Have you seen it, though?’ he shouted. ‘Have you actually touched it?’

Nobody spoke.

‘I must assume you have! Is it as lovely as we’re told? Tell me the truth. Does it have the gems intact – does it have the twelve stones?’

‘It’s in safe hands, Father.’

‘Are the stones – the apostles – are they there still? I’ve seen it in glass. I’ve seen the replica.’ His voice was trembling and high-pitched. He
didn’t know who to look at and he dropped to his knees. ‘Show it to me!’ he cried. ‘Show it to me!’

‘Can I ask you, Father: what is your interest in the sword?’

The monk’s voice was gentle and courteous, but Father O’Hanrahan was trembling all over and was less ready for the question than he might have been.

‘My interest,’ he said, ‘is that . . . a sacred article – one that so many hold in such high esteem – is where it clearly shouldn’t be. Neglected. Unseen. My
interest . . . is to return it.’

‘To what place?’ said a voice. ‘A bank vault?’

‘The sword has reached its home,’ said somebody. ‘It cannot be moved.’

‘And it’s not neglected, sir. It’s in regular use.’

The soft voice from behind spoke again. ‘To answer the question that you put earlier, Father. Only Brother Rees has seen the sword and he only saw it once. He touched it, I gather. And
then he came away.’

‘
Where is it?
’ hissed Father O’Hanrahan. ‘Who’s Brother Rees? Where is he?’

‘Close by.’

‘Oh, will they not answer a simple question?’ howled the priest. ‘Must I tear this place apart and find it for myself? Where is the sword of St Caspar? Where is this Brother
Rees?’

There was a long silence, as Father O’Hanrahan’s fury soaked into the stonework.

‘You asked if it is as beautiful as the reports suggest,’ said a voice, at last. It was of a higher pitch than the others and hesitant; Father O’Hanrahan found himself spinning
round again. A seventh monk had entered the chamber and there was an eighth behind him.

‘I am Brother Rees.’

‘We didn’t mean to startle you,’ said the other. ‘I’m Brother Martin, by the way. We were sleeping, but we heard the voices. I’m sure we can answer all your
questions, given time.’

‘Sit here, Brother.’

‘Oh, we’re happy standing, thank you,’ said Brother Rees. ‘I’ve had a full six hours.’

‘I’m going to get a little broth,’ said Brother Martin. ‘Would anyone like some? Or a cheeseboard, maybe?’

There were various replies, as orders were placed, and then the silence settled again.

‘Funny,’ said Brother Rees, with a chuckle. ‘Our work is done without the need for conversation, but now you’ll find us quite the chatterboxes. It’s why we have the
vow of silence – we’d never get anything done without it! But we do allow ourselves to speak of the sword and, yes, as my brother explained, I was the one privileged to see
it.’

‘We teased him rather,’ said a monk opposite. ‘We called him
nosy-parker
.’

‘Oh, I was certainly teased!’ said Brother Rees and the soft laughter pattered around him. ‘But the fact is, I did not mean to walk in on it—’

‘Some of us, you know, still aren’t sure of your motives!’ There was another flutter of laughter, louder now.

Father O’Hanrahan groaned with frustration and the laughter died.

‘
Where
did you see it?’ said the priest, slowly.

‘It’s in Tomaz’s home. He lives in the old storage chambers and it’s in his dining room.’

‘But where – please God – is Tomaz’s home?’

‘Close by,’ said Brother Rees. ‘Just above the Churchill bunker, if you’ve been down there. The access is blocked, though, and I’m afraid that was because of me
poking my nose in. Tomaz must have realised I’d got in and he rather prudently changed the entry system. We couldn’t get in now, even if we wanted to. Lady Vyner had a map, I believe.
Whether or not it still exists is—’

‘But how
did
you get in?’ cried the priest. ‘Where’s the access?’

‘Well, that’s a bit of a story. I discovered the boy’s home quite by accident, when I was rambling. I was a geologist before my calling – I say a geologist, I mean by
that I was a geology teacher. And one of my passions was to take the boys and girls potholing, which I don’t suppose you can do any more – but I used to enjoy it and so did they.
It’s a craze – once it’s in your blood, it never leaves you. So unlike my respected friends here, I would do a little exploring in the Ribblestrop rocks – there are some
splendid fissures up on the Edge and they go hundreds of metres down. I’m not advising you to try, by the way, Father – they are very dangerous.’

‘There have been casualties,’ said another monk.

‘Oh yes. If the waters are high, the whole area becomes
lethally
dangerous. There’s an underground lagoon and they say it’s claimed a number of lives—’

‘I am not about to go swimming in a lagoon!’ said Father O’Hanrahan. ‘All I’m asking is how you got into the boy’s home.’

‘Well, I’m not sure I could find the spot again, but I was accessing a bottle-neck, which after about fifteen metres got much tighter and turned into a spigot. A bottle-neck is an
opening in the rock that gets narrow. Well, the one I found was a beauty and it led me into an unusually tight, cantilevered elbow – easy to get down, but harder on the ascent. It was the
spigot that took me down to Tomaz’s beautiful home. We’d been aware of him, of course, and we knew he’d found the treasures—’