Return to Ribblestrop

  Miles blinked.

  ‘If you want to look after someone, practise on yourself. No one else is going to.’

  Miles stood for a moment, watching Millie as she walked away.

  Then, slowly, he climbed onto the desk. He moved to the wardrobe. From there, mechanically, he opened the loft-hatch. With practised ease, he hauled himself up to the roof space. In a moment, he was out on the parapet, the freezing wind rioting around him, lifting the shirt from his body.

  He put his back to the battlements and hugged himself, shuddering in the cold. The stones were covered in scratch marks. They had been getting more intricate each night. He had wanted to show her, but she’d gone, and he was alone.

  Now he simply read them again, to himself.

  ‘The child knows no fear, if the tiger he rides,

  And the sick can be healed through all that must pass . . .’

  He crawled further round the tower, for the next section.

  ‘The river shall run full, that the valley be watered – at last

  Will the labyrinth come straight, though the sword hides.’

  The next part ran over the door, sliced in the old paintwork:

  ‘Lion and lamb, united in this place;

  After the lightning and the damaged face.

  Seek not for the children that choose to be lost: realise

  That the world still weeps, but must one day dry its eyes.

  St Caspar will come home; in this place he’ll be sworn.

  So drown the precious sword: from his heart it can’t be drawn.’

  There were lights on in all the towers and a sprinkling of stars. Miles closed his eyes and stood up. Then he opened them and looked down at the lawn.

  The ghost of Lord Vyner was standing below him, as Miles knew he would be. He was still as a sentry, arms by his sides. He was dressed in a black tailcoat, as if he’d been called out of a cocktail party. The face was pale, and even at this distance you could see the horrible distortion of the bullet wound.

  Miles swallowed and stared at him. Then, carefully, he sat up on the parapet and swung his legs over the edge. The wind was now freezing his body and he was starting to feel the numbness he craved. As he stared, the ghost did what it had done last night, and the night before. It clasped its hands slowly together and raised them above its head. Its gaze did not leave Miles’s face.

  Meanwhile D.C.C. Cuthbertson, Gary Cuthbertson, Father O’Hanrahan, and Darren were sitting around the same barroom table as before. They surrounded a single piece of paper.

  ‘I can’t see it,’ said the old man. ‘You’ll have to read it to me.’

  Cuthbertson held it nearer. ‘Can you read the title?’

  ‘No, I can’t read the blessed title! I’ve still got a headache from hell.’

  ‘It’s The Potholers’ Gazette.’

  ‘Why have you brought it?’

  ‘Can’t you guess? I’m always proud when a little police work pays off.’

  ‘Just tell me what you’ve found out.’

  ‘That’s the difference between us, isn’t it? Gary and I, we go slow and steady; you move in like a bull. I get results; you get a broken head. The Potholers’ Gazette closed down twenty years ago. This is an old edition.’

  Father O’Hanrahan went to speak, but the policeman rode over him. ‘Gary tracked it down, from nineteen fifty-one.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘You’ll be wanting champagne at the end of this. There’s an article here by Barnaby Phipps, who was one of those lads who went rambling and cycling and then wrote all about it. This is May, and he found himself on our doorstep. Listen.’

  Cuthbertson licked his lips and tried to catch the jaunty tone of a fifties youth hosteller:

  ‘Cycling up from Taunton, one has several choices. The majestic peaks of Exmoor rise seductively to the north, but there are interesting geological formations to the west as well. I fortified myself with a foaming pint of scrumpy cider and opted for the latter. What a happy choice it was! I found myself pedalling towards the sleepy town of Ribblestrop, and just before I got there, a kindly farmer directed me to a spectacular viewpoint, the Ribblestrop Edge. (A word to the wise: once you’ve seen it, replenish that flask with a bottle of Williams’s ginger-beer, available from 36 Ribblestrop High Street – quite the finest in this sceptred isle, and a snip at threepence halfpenny.)

  As I ate my sandwiches, who should appear but a gamekeeper. Now I’m for it! I thought. But not a bit of it. The fellow sat with me – shared a sandwich, in fact – and told me a few yarns.

  “Ever done any potholing?” he said.

  What a question to ask Barny Phipps. “Not half,” I said and he took me along various paths to a grassy knoll (map reference OS344993). An unlikely-looking tumble of rocks opened quickly to a substantial bottle-neck, and that led to a cantilevered elbow. A very promising start. Cursing the fact I had no ropes, I drew back – no point putting oneself at risk without the proper equipment.

  It’s the ideal spot, though, and I will return. Any readers interested in joining me for a proper Ribblestrop expedition are invited to write in immediately. Potholes don’t get more promising than this one – it’s crying out to be mapped!’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Are you awake, Father?’

  ‘Stop calling me Father.’

  ‘The map reference is one hundred per cent accurate. We’ve found our way.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘We visited last night,’ said Gary.

  ‘You think it’s the one the monk was talking about?’ he said.

  ‘We don’t think,’ said the policeman. ‘We know. The magazine uses the same words you did: “bottle-neck” . . . “cantilevered elbow”. It’s the same.’

  ‘And it’s open? We can get down?’

  ‘It’s tight,’ said Gary. ‘It won’t be easy and someone’s tried to cover it up. But with the right gear, we can get it open.’

  ‘Oh, and listen to this, by the way,’ said Cuthbertson. ‘It’s in the next edition of the magazine – this is June nineteen fifty-one, just one month later. Editorial apology. Looks like young Mr Phipps got a bit carried away. Listen:

  ‘The editor would like to apologise for, and withdraw, the invitation made to readers to explore potholes situated on the Ribblestrop Edge. We have been informed by the Ministry of Defence that the land referred to in the article is strictly private, and off limits to the general public. The estate of Ribblestrop has long been under the control of the War Office, and the pothole referred to has been sealed. Ground staff are not allowed to discuss the topography of the area, and the gamekeeper who extended a wholly inappropriate welcome to an unwelcome trespasser has been disciplined.’

  ‘When do we go down?’ said Father O’Hanrahan, after another silence.

  ‘Darren and I are going to clear a bit more stone,’ said Gary. ‘We’ll do a few “explorations”. But I’d say next week.’

  ‘You still with us, are you?’ said Cuthbertson.

  Father O’Hanrahan looked up and his eyes had brightened. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘By next week I’ll be ready. I’ll be prepared for that ghost, as well. He is going to be annihilated.’ He tapped his satchel. ‘I’m almost looking forward to a showdown. With Vyner and all of them.’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Darren wore a black tracksuit with a hood and he carried a dark sports bag. He took his dad’s van and drove across town to pick up Gary Cuthbertson. There was just time for a quick beer, so they studied the map of the school one more time. Conversation hadn’t been easy since the disastrous football game and the collapse of Darren’s professional hopes – though, in fairness, conversation had never been easy, as Darren tended to grunt rather than speak. Now, even the grunting was strained. By an unfortunate coincidence, they had run into Mr Scanlon, the football scout, that very afternoon on Ribblestrop High Street. He’d checked into the local hotel – tomorrow he’d be driving up to London with Imagio, so he was in
buoyant mood. He hadn’t noticed Darren’s smouldering fury.

  Gary and Darren drove to the High School and loaded the van with climbing equipment. Climbing Club had folded a few years before, due to health-and-safety legislation, and Gary had sold off a lot of the gear. There were ropes, though, and a few spigots. There was also a wire assault ladder – the sort you could roll up and put under your arm.

  Gary locked up and directed Darren out of the school onto the Old Taunton Road. They turned into a farm, crossed its yard, and took a track through a bit of scruffy woodland. Soon they were crossing the railway line and coming under the Ribblestrop Edge onto Lady Vyner’s land.

  It was another night of spectacular stars, so Darren drove with his sidelights only. At exactly ten o’clock, he saw a torch flash and he spotted the D.C.C.’s police car. Father O’Hanrahan sat in the back and Percy Cuthbertson was in the driver’s seat. Both men were dressed in black.

  The first thing everyone did was share a thermos of coffee. A half-bottle of brandy went round with it and the policeman rubbed his hands.

  ‘How are you feeling, Darren?’

  Darren grunted.

  ‘Good lad. I want to stress the need for calm on this job. We’re going in at about eleven. It’s an hour’s climb – I think we cleared most of the debris last night and we did a bit of a recce. But tonight it’s the real thing, and I want to stress something else. If there’re kids, and believe me, there’s always a chance—’

  ‘This time of night?’ said Gary. ‘They’ll be asleep by now, surely?’

  Father O’Hanrahan chuckled bitterly. ‘Not these children,’ he said. ‘They don’t behave like any children I’ve ever met.’

  ‘He’s right. You can’t keep tabs on them. We might encounter individuals; we might encounter groups. If we do, we use reasonable force. We are not going to be thwarted this time, alright? This is an in-and-out job and we want no trouble. But if you encounter a kid, don’t let it run.’

  ‘What do we do?’ said Gary.

  ‘Immobilise it, fast. Then handcuffs. I’ve got a dozen pairs. We handcuff them to something, knock ’em out if you have to. I don’t mean we go looking for trouble. But we don’t go soft, either. If some little devil raises the alarm, all hell could break loose. Darren, you’re our timekeeper. What’s the time?’

  Darren held up his watch.

  ‘Everyone comfortable with that? Ten-oh-seven. Rendezvous by the Neptune statue, one-thirty. You’ll have the boat by the bridge, Darren. Yes?’

  Darren nodded.

  ‘No lights. No engine. Float in her while we’re underground. We’ll be up from the pump-room as soon as we’re done – if we’re ahead of time, I’ll flash you two short, one long. You’ve got to be by the first bridge. As soon as we’re up – home we go.’

  ‘What about Crowther?’ said Gary. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cuthbertson.

  ‘Who’s Crowther?’ said Father O’Hanrahan.

  ‘Mr Crowther’s in position and he’ll be straight off to London. Crowther’s the antiques man, Father. I told you about him.’

  ‘And has he got the cash?’

  ‘I saw it about thirty minutes ago and it looked crisp enough to me.’

  Father O’Hanrahan felt his mouth go dry.

  ‘We settle up, as discussed – then separate ways. I’ll drop you by the boat now, Darren. Crowther’s in a BMW on the far side of the lake. The three of us have a bit of a hike – how long, Gary?’

  ‘Forty minutes.’

  ‘Forty minutes. In that case, let’s get going. Let’s get rich.’

  They transferred the bags and D.C.C. Cuthbertson started the engine. He slid his vehicle through the darkness, down to the lakeside. He drove carefully and slowly, picking his way over the grass. Ribblestrop Towers appeared on their left, half the windows lit. Dance music came from one of the towers and the policeman shook his head in disbelief. They drove carefully round and the speedboat appeared just as they’d moored it, bobbing in the water.

  Darren climbed onboard, black from head to foot.

  The other three shouldered their bags and struck off for the Edge.

  The children of Ribblestrop had no idea what the next six hours would bring.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  In Tomaz’s home, ignorant of the movements above ground, night-watch number 901/7 were playing chess. Oli had created the schedules and changeover was midnight. Sam and Ruskin were completing what they hoped would be the last game. It was Imagio’s final farewell party and they were itching to get back to school to attend it.

  ‘Your move,’ said Sam.

  ‘I thought it was yours,’ said Ruskin.

  ‘No. I had to move my knight. Your humbug was threatening.’

  The children always used sweets as pawns – it was a nice little treat when you captured one.

  ‘You know, I’ve lost the plot a bit, Sam. To be honest. I’m completely shattered and my eyes . . . How long have we got?’

  ‘Eric should have been here twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘This really is the graveyard shift, isn’t it? At least the midnight team gets to sleep. We just have to sit and . . . I’m not complaining, I mean it’s a very nice place to sit. Shall I put another log on the fire?’

  ‘No, it’s too hot as it is. D’you want a cup of tea, Oli?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Time meant very little to Oli. He had brought Millie’s submarine with him and was resoldering its propshaft for greater speed. He would work through the night, if allowed to, and wouldn’t think of moving. He was hoping to present it to his friend at the end of term, all trials complete.

  ‘Shall I check in with the boss?’ said Sam. ‘Where did you put the radio?’

  ‘It’s on charge,’ said Oli. ‘In the kitchen.’

  Up in the south tower, Lady Vyner had poured herself a large glass of rum. There was little chance of sleep without it. The tower opposite – the orphans’ tower – was throbbing with music again and lights were flashing. As far as she could tell, the children seemed to have parties most nights and her insomnia had got progressively worse. Tonight, the racket seemed particularly extreme. She glanced out of her window. She could see boys on the roof again, but she had no reactions left – they’d been doing it for weeks. Recently, there had been a spate of tightrope-walking, and because of this, one of the power lines into the school had come down. She could not believe what she was expected to endure. She could make out dancing shapes in the windows.

  She looked at her grandson. She had formally forgiven him a week ago and he had moved back into his bedroom – rather reluctantly, she had noticed. Now his nose was pressed against the glass.

  ‘You want to join them, don’t you, my little viper?’

  ‘No,’ said Caspar, guiltily. He turned to face her. ‘And I am not a viper, Gran.’

  ‘You seemed to be getting along with them nicely enough. Made a few friends, did you, after the assassination attempt? I’m not surprised—’

  ‘I am not a viper! I thought that gun was empty and it was not an . . . an assassination attempt!’

  ‘Yes . . . well, there’s many a murderer’s gone to the gallows claiming he thought the gun was empty. I could press charges yet, you know – there are care homes for boys like you.’

  ‘Gran! I thought the gun was empty! Miles told me—’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’ve read your letters of apology, every one. They make a fat file.’

  ‘I don’t know how many more times I can say it.’

  ‘I read your cards, I . . . arranged your flowers. I appreciated all your efforts to atone, Caspar. It’s rare to see you feigning affection.’

  ‘I did not mean to shoot you.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t, darling. It was a mistake any unloved, friendless child could make and I do not reproach you.’

  As they watched the east tower, a window opened. A boy – naked apart from shorts – clambered out and reached up to the
guttering. Doonan was there too, trying to reclaim him, but the boy was up onto the roof in a moment, a bottle in his hand. Someone threw him what looked like a firework and the bottle was placed up by a weather-vane, then lashed to it with a school tie. A match was struck and explosions ricocheted over the roofs. Arcs of silver were shot in a giant umbrella of phosphorescence.

  ‘It’s Imagio’s last night,’ said Caspar. ‘It’s his special send-off.’

  ‘Imagio’s last night. On his deathbed, is he?’

  ‘No!’ said Caspar, trying to keep calm. ‘I told you. He’s a nice boy—’

  ‘You say he’s nice, Caspar. But that, to me, suggests your loyalties are now divided. I thought you were the spy behind enemy lines, and now you appear to be turning your coat.’

  Caspar writhed with frustration. ‘Oh, Gran, honestly! Leave me alone! Some of them are nice! Even Miles, when you talk to him – he’s been nice to me. Oh! Listen, it’s the school song.’

  Lady Vyner closed her eyes. ‘Jungle music.’

  ‘Can I go? Can I go to the party? Please?’

  Caspar turned, his eyes burning with longing. He stared at his gran and put his hands together, as if in prayer. ‘Just for half an hour, Gran,’ he whined. ‘Just to say goodbye to Imagio?’

  ‘No, darling. You can’t.’

  ‘But – please! Please!’

  ‘I am an invalid still and your place is at my side. Anyway, they’ll all be on the road soon. Their deadline is approaching – let’s look forward to the eviction party.’

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Gary Cuthbertson was the most experienced climber, so he had led the way.

  He wasn’t fit any more, but he was strong and he still had a certain technique. He knew how to keep his balance, and shift his weight, and having run Caving Club he was very good at leading others.