Stone of Destiny (4 page)

We were entirely mistaken in our assumption. We had always been led to believe that Scotland Yard, although perhaps slow, inexorably sifts every clue until it gets its man. It is rather disturbing to a law-abiding citizen like myself to discover that this is not the case. We sprinkled the Abbey with clues, yet Scotland Yard were clueless. So far from using induction and deduction, and all the scientific methods of criminal investigation, Scotland Yard seemed to lapse back into the days of the incantation and the bubbling pot. They conferred with a clairvoyant, who held his head in silence, and with a water-diviner who led them, presumably at public expense, to the River Trent. Up and down the country, in their search for the Stone, water-diviners could be seen twitching twigs. Scotland Yard went daft.

Fortunately for the reputation of the British constabulary, things were different in Glasgow. While Scotland Yard was establishing its Department of Criminal Telepathy, Glasgow’s Serious Crime squad, under Detective Inspector Kerr, was working quietly at the job he was paid to do. I have the most lively respect for Mr Kerr and his colleagues. As public officials they could have no sympathies, yet I know they must have hated
their job. That did not matter; they had their duty to do and they did it efficiently. As far as I could ascertain, all the laurels on the side of the authorities must go to them. I have met the brains of Scotland Yard and was not impressed, but Inspector Kerr is a policeman with whom it is a privilege to have crossed swords.

Accepting the myth of the unbeatable police, we aimed not so much at success without discovery, but at success at all costs. Had we taken even elementary precautions, such as arranging alibis, laying down false clues, and ensuring that all who took part maintained complete silence, after the event as well as before, I do not think we would ever have been discovered. As it was, we accepted certain arrest; waited for the police to come; and it took them three months to find us.

Towards the middle of November I went along to Glasgow’s Mitchell Library and withdrew all the books I could find that dealt with Westminster Abbey and the Stone of Destiny. I signed for these books in my own name, for if I had used a false one I might have been recognised, and the subject of my studies clearly revealed. In the face of arrest it seemed to matter little what name I used, although in the end the library slips with my name on them was the only concrete piece of evidence the police had against me.

I waded through pages of description and history, drew several maps, made calculations, and studied photographs. I followed all the guides step by step from the west door to the Battle of Britain Memorial. I found much that was of interest to me and a little that was of use to me. In the midst of my studies I was interrupted by a fellow student who, peering over my shoulder, was astounded at my choice of reading matter. I hastily explained that I was preparing a lecture that I was shortly to deliver to a church youth club. He accepted the explanation, although when the news broke at Christmas he must have thought it a thin one. To my knowledge he never mentioned the subject of my studies to
anyone. He was a canny Scot who knew how to keep a quiet tongue in a time of seething interest.

Armed with the figures, maps and plans, and filled with the excitement of generalship, I approached another canny Scot to see what money I could wheedle out of him. I knew that he was not a rich man, but I had every indication that he would beggar himself if it would prosper Scotland. The sum I had in mind was £50, quite a lot of money by my standards, and I suspect by his also. He was a Gael whose family came from Mull, and as I sat waiting to be shown into his office I reflected how often in either the major or the minor episodes of history it was the Gael who had helped the Lowlander, more than the Lowlander the Gael. It has always been thus. The Highlands and Islands are in material things the poorest part of our country, yet I could not think of any part of our history where they had not played their part, and ever a generous and noble one. So it was again. Although we had met on many occasions, he did not know me well. I would be just another youth to him. Now I was going to give him details to show that Bill and I could do something that had long been considered impossible. Rejection would have hurt me, and laughter at the idea might have left a permanent scar. I was shown into his little office. This was the first hurdle.

He was sitting behind his desk and he smiled and watched me as I came in. He was small of stature, with a high forehead and a narrow, deeply lined face. His hair was rather untidy, but there was about him an air of shrewdness, which I welcomed. I was in deadly earnest, and I felt that here was a man who would appreciate that, and not hum and scratch and talk about student pranks.

I sat down and told him what was in my mind. I launched out into the details and grew enthusiastic as I went into the possible results of the plan. He watched me intently. He was impressed. He asked me a few questions and I answered them. Then he asked, ‘You appreciate the dangers and you know that you will probably go to jail?’ I told him that I appreciated the dangers.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘I was once in your position.’ And he told me how in the early thirties there had been another plot to recover the Stone, and he had been in it. Unfortunately, one of his confederates had frustrated him by giving the details of the scheme to the press.

He sat silent. I could see what was in his mind. He was full of enthusiasm, and desperately keen to help, but he felt that it was unfair to give us the money to run into danger while he sat safely in Glasgow.

‘If you don’t give us the money, I shall have to go to someone less reliable,’ I said regretfully.

At that he laughed. ‘I’ll give you anything within reason,’ he said.

‘Can I have £10 now?’ I asked. ‘I’m leaving for London tonight.’

I was delighted. We were at last on the way to doing something that would not easily be forgotten. Conversation and argument were behind us. The decision had been made and there could be no regrets and no qualms. The bitter taste of procrastination was no longer in our mouths, for we were going forward.

A few hours later I caught the 10.30 p.m. train from Central Station. By a coincidence, Bill Craig was also going down to London that night as he was addressing a meeting in London University Union. Unfortunately, he was accompanied by another delegate from Glasgow University, so we could not travel together. We regretted this necessity, for we liked each other’s company, but I did not wish anyone to know that I was in London. While I had innumerable reasons for a trip south I did not class myself as an accomplished liar, and I thought that the invention of a sick relative in London was a story that I could not readily sustain. Although the other student was of our own views, I did not wish to arouse his suspicions.

As I crossed the Border I was seized with shaking excitement. The Blue Bonnets were over the Border, and not for the first
time. I thought of how my forefathers from Clydesdale had many times passed this way, in defence of the liberty of Scotland, or bent on hearty plunder. That had happened long ago, but the memory of old bitterness is not easily erased. And although I was travelling south with neither rape, nor arson, nor siege, nor pitched battle in my mind, but with only the recovery of a block of stone as my aim, I did not think, considering the times, that my forefathers would be ashamed of me.

When I reached London this excitement was redoubled. It was a fine sensation to be at the heart of England once again, but this time not as a serviceman on leave or as a tourist, or as a visitor, but as a spy, arranging something which, while it was not hostile to this mass of people, could hardly command their enthusiasm and support.

I was elated. At last I was doing instead of thinking. For years I had talked a little, and dreamed a little, and thought a little, and read a little, and now as a result of my dreaming and thinking, I was at last on the threshold of action without which no young man is complete.

I went to a hotel near St Pancras Station and registered in my own name, as I saw no reason for subterfuge. The hotel was clean enough and reasonably comfortable for its price, but full of that big city commercialism that aims at giving not a halfpenny more than a pound’s service for 20 shillings.

It was afternoon, and as soon as I had washed and freshened up, I took the subway over to Westminster. The Abbey lay in a pale East Coast sunlight, rich and dignified and stately, like an Englishman’s conception of his country’s history. But when I saw the Houses of Parliament which lay behind it, I realised that it was a jewel set on a mud-bank.

I crossed Parliament Square and entered the dim sanctuary of the nave from the west door. It was quiet and peaceful. A handful of visitors lingered along the gloomy length of the building or moved respectfully round the grave of the Unknown Warrior. I
joined the procession of sightseers, and for some considerable time moved about in the calm duskiness. It was, of course, not my first visit to the Abbey, and I had studied so many maps and plans that I already had a considerable knowledge of it. But I wanted to have a vivid picture of the whole building in my mind. In particular I wanted to learn all I could about locks and doors.

At length I came to the entrance to the eastern chapels, and was forced to pay my shilling entrance fee like a visitor to a common museum. Religion in England seems to be a lucrative trade, but I was more offended at the idea of a Scot being charged by an English cleric for permission to view the Stone of Destiny.

The Stone was contained in a box-like aperture under the seat of the Coronation Chair, which stood in Edward the Confessor’s Chapel with its back to the rood-screen, which in turn acted as a backdrop to the high altar. I examined the Stone carefully. It is a block of rough-hewn sandstone 26¾ inches long, by 10¾ inches deep, by 16¾ inches broad. These measurements came from a book. I did not measure it. I had not been able to find its weight, but we had reckoned that it would not be more than 3 hundred-weight, though we were later to discover to our cost that it was more than four. On either end a few links of chain terminating in an iron ring would provide handles that would be useful for carrying it.

The Chair itself provided no great difficulty. It is, I think, of oak and very ancient. It is indeed the oldest piece of furniture still used for the purpose for which it was made, to hold the Stone. A small lath along the front held the Stone in place, and I saw that this could easily be removed. I was anxious that we should be able to do this without damage, for I had a veneration for ancient workmanship. But if it needed to be jemmied away, jemmied it would be. The stolen Stone was behind it.

Having gorged myself on these details, I looked further afield. The corkscrew wooden stairs that led into the chapel would give considerable difficulty to two people dragging a heavy weight,
and the iron grill through which I had passed when I paid my shilling might be locked at night. We might, however, be able to circumvent those difficulties by using the door that led through the rood-screen and past the high altar. I disliked thus invading what to some people was a holy place, but for my own part I had no dread of altars.

Before I left I engaged one of the guides in conversation. I was interested in the Abbey, very interested, but how did they keep it so clean? Surely an army of cleaners came on every night when the Abbey was closed. No? I made a mental note that we would not be likely to blunder into an army of cleaners. A few other leading questions and another prowl round showed me all there was to be seen. I was then able to leave the Abbey, taking with me all the information I required for successful burglary.

I collated this information in an adjacent pub. I had bought a guidebook which contained an excellent plan of the Abbey, and I spent my time filling in details that I had observed and wished to remember. It amused me to think that the Dean and Chapter were providing the drawing on which the plan of campaign was to be worked out. Thereafter, for the space of three hours, I wandered round the back streets between Victoria and Millbank, for I wanted a complete picture of all the approaches to the building. In the early evening I went back to my hotel and lay on the bed and smoked a cigarette. I had had little sleep the night before, and I had walked many hours that day on hard streets. In return I had a complete picture of the whole district. There was only one thing more I wanted to know, and that was what police activity there was in the vicinity of the Abbey in the hours of darkness.

I put out the light and slept. At eleven o’clock I rose and took a tube to Westminster. My intention was to keep circling the Abbey all night, making careful notes of all I saw. By one o’clock the streets were deserted, and only an occasional vehicle sped along the rear of the Abbey. I was particularly interested in Old Palace Yard. I continued my watching, making notes every quarter of an
hour. As time passed, I became more and more satisfied, for only once did I see a policeman, and he was some distance from the building. The nearest one on permanent duty was 300 yards away at the gateway to Palace Yard. At five o’clock I walked to Whitehall, hailed a taxi and returned to my hotel, well satisfied with my night’s reconnaissance.

My reconnaissance took place before the days of terrorism, when there was still casualness rather than fear in the management of affairs of state. I did not know then that what guarded Westminster was not guns, or security cameras, or patrolling policemen, but the mystique of the British Empire. So confident was the Empire in 1950 that it was beyond belief that anyone would sacrilegiously penetrate its mysteries, and certainly not us Scots, who were a subject race; the decent Jocks who can always to be trusted. It was that very mindset that we sought to change, and we could not have found a better way of changing it. Had there been any real security we would have been frustrated right at the start. I had never any thought of using violence. Although I had been taught to handle arms in the forces there was no thought of going armed. Mahatma Gandhi was dead only two years, and he was then, and still is, one of my great heroes.