Matlock's System Read online

  The Abbot was speaking again.

  “The other main rallying points for our cause were the Head of the North East Development Corporation, who has disappeared without trace, and the Doncaster Poetry Appreciation Society and the Women’s Guild of Nottingham, neither of whose ridiculous guises proved strong enough to fool Browning. The President of the Doncaster Society was hanged after a summary trial and his entire committee arrested; while the ladies of Nottingham have either gone to earth or been put to earth. Nothing has been heard of them since yesterday. There have been many arrests in the rank and file, but Browning’s too clever to overdo it. Prisoners are a nuisance, and become martyrs. Freedom with fear is much more useful. His men have let so many of ours know that they are known that even those still unsuspected go in fear of constant observation.”

  Matlock shivered in a light breeze which momentarily touched the tower.

  “Tell me,” he said, “why in all this activity have the Meek remained untouched?”

  “You must ask Browning that,” laughed the Abbot. “It seems to me that here at Fountains we have one advantage not shared by our colleagues. We are a united group. All together. All in one place. To destroy us would need a major operation. As I’ve said, Browning doesn’t want this. He wants to cut the beast’s hamstrings, not butcher the body. He knows we are warned. He knows that alone we are impotent. And though our strength lies in our unity, so does our weakness. For we are easy to watch, both from inside and outside.”

  “So,” said Matlock, clutching the parapet tightly, “it is over. You have shown me the Promised Land, then turned me back to the wilderness.”

  “Why, the atmosphere of the place is affecting you after all, Mr. Matlock.”

  “I want no jokes. What happens now?”

  “Now? I think bed, Mr. Matlock. Bed I think.”

  He moved back towards the trap, but Matlock stepped smartly in front of him and grasped his robe.

  “What about the future, Abbot? Is there any hope?”

  The Abbot disengaged himself gently.

  “There is always hope, Mr. Matlock. We shall see. Let us wait in patience.”

  “I can’t wait too long. I have a birthday. Remember?”

  “Oh don’t let that concern you one little bit. We have our own adjusting machine. We’ll give you another fifty years in a jiffy.”

  The rush of relief through his whole body made Matlock ashamed. He found himself talking to try to stem the selfish joy which the news had brought him.

  “And Lizzie? Ernst and Colin? You’ll try to find out about them?”

  “Of course I will. Though I suspect that the first two are either reaping the rewards of their success or paying the penalty of their failure. It just depends how Browning looks at it. But let’s go down now. It is rather chilly up here. I have duties to perform. Only my duties are important here. All else can wait till tomorrow.”

  Four days later Matlock was still waiting for this tomorrow. He had woken up the following morning, breakfasted simply but well, and then he had set out across the grass towards the main buildings determined to get some outstanding matters settled. But as he approached the Abbey a smiling figure he recognized as Brother Phillip, the guardian of the porch, had come to meet him.

  The Abbot, he explained, had a great deal of work, both administrative and pastoral, to catch up on just at the moment and he had asked if he, Brother Phillip, would look after Mr. Matlock’s needs until an interview could be arranged.

  Brother Phillip smiled sympathetically as he said this and Matlock felt his anger evaporating under the charm of the man.

  “I see why you were picked for the job.”

  “I hope that’s a compliment, Mr. Matlock. Would you like to see round the Abbey?”

  “Why not?”

  So had begun a conducted tour of the buildings. Phillip had proved to be such a good guide — informative, intelligent, humorous — that Matlock had found himself enjoying the day despite his sense of time fleeing past; time important in any plan to overthrow Browning, and time even more important to himself.

  His birthday was now less than a week away. But he had determined to make as good use of this waiting period as possible. The set-up at the Abbey was obviously a great deal more complex than the Abbot had implied and he felt pretty certain there must be other reasons for its immunity from Browning’s purge than those he had been offered. So he questioned Phillip closely about everything he saw, but had to admit that the monk seemed to answer freely with no attempt at concealment. Yet Matlock at the end of four days felt himself no nearer the solution of any of his problems.

  The very beauty of the place only made him feel more cut off from reality. It was many years since he had felt himself so secluded from the great cities which now covered so much of the countryside. There was not a sign of their existence visible from most of the grounds which had been exquisitely laid out in the eighteenth century with a series of ornamental lakes, lily-ponds and classical statues. It was not until you reached their easternmost end where the Skell poured smoothly down a small but impressive drop that the distant edge of the multicity which comprised Ripon, Boroughbridge and Harrogate, could be seen.

  There was a set of stepping stones or rather slabs over the river just above the fall, and a rather curious incident took place here on the fourth day.

  Matlock was sitting in the grass looking out towards the cityscape and wondering what was going on in the world of men and action he seemed to have left behind. Suddenly impatient for activity he jumped to his feet and without a word to Phillip set off across the stones. As he trod on the first one a hooded monk started across from the other side. When he saw Matlock he stopped sharply and stared right at him. The sun was striking athwart his hood and only the barest hint of features could be made out in the dark shadows beneath.

  Then he stepped back to the bank. At first Matlock took this to be merely an act of courtesy but as he continued over the stones, he saw the monk, pulling his cowl still further over his head, set off briskly along the path beside the river.

  Matlock stood in the middle of the river and watched him go. He heard Phillip come up behind him.

  “He didn’t want to meet one of us,” Matlock said.

  “Surely not. A change of plan. Something remembered which took him back that way. That was all.”

  “If you say so.”

  But Matlock was beset by a strange sense of familiarity as he watched the now distant figure.

  “Tell me, Phillip,” he said, “are there two types of monk here? Or degrees or ranks? The Abbot said something about this when we first met, and I’ve noticed that many of the Brothers always wear their cowls up indoors and outdoors.”

  Phillip paused a while before answering.

  “That’s two questions really,” he said. “Yes there are degrees of course, under the Abbot. Degrees of responsibility in the running of the Abbey and degrees of religious initiation. But the wearing of hoods is only indirectly related to this. Some of our brethren prefer this ultimate in withdrawal, this final abasement of self, the concealment of the face, or most of it anyway. It’s a logical spiritual step, if that’s not a contradiction.”

  “It must make things rather difficult. Surely you want to be able to recognize people at some time.”

  “Why? We are interchangeable, equal before God. Even our names are borrowed. We have them chosen for us on arrival.”

  “Do you shed your old identities completely?”

  Phillip laughed.

  “That would be very difficult. We are still under the Law here. We must report ourselves according to the dictates of the Law.”

  “And your heart clocks?”

  Phillip looked at him quizzically.

  “When our time is up, we must be accounted for like anyone else.”

  “But I thought the Meek would inherit the earth?”

  “A metaphor, Mr. Matlock. A metaphor.”

  Matlock grunted, trying not to sound too
disbelieving. His mind was once again sharpening for action and he didn’t want to show the full depth of his dissatisfaction. There was much here in need of investigation and he was not altogether certain whether Phillip was merely his guide or also his guard.

  That evening Matlock made a great play of borrowing a history of the Abbey, saying he was going to get some real insight into the traditions and aims of the place. He almost overdid it for Phillip became very keen to stay with him in the Strangers’ House and guide him through the labyrinthine chapters of the massive tome, but Matlock finally persuaded him to leave the discussion till the morning and join the others in the usual pre-midnight service.

  “They’ll drum you out if you don’t start paying more attention to your religion and less to me,” he said lightly.

  “Same thing,” said Phillip, “you’re the lost sheep.”

  Blacksheep, thought Matlock as he watched Phillip move across the grass to the church. Then he turned swiftly and went back to his room. He had chosen this particular time for two reasons. The first was that in a few minutes nearly all the monks, including the Abbot, would be participating in the service. The second was that the watchers in the tower would be more easy to fool if they happened to be scanning the area between the Strangers’ House and the main buildings. At least he hoped so, as he pulled from his bed the tattered remnants of the blanket he had spent the previous night hacking to pieces. Now he draped it over his shoulders and carefully set another piece on his head.

  He only had a small shaving mirror and from what he could see of himself in that, he didn’t look much like a monk. But he hoped that on the television screen, if he was unfortunate enough to appear there, his shadowy image would pass muster.

  He moved to the door of the Strangers’ House and peered out into the darkness. He saw a couple of figures move swiftly across an open space, then they disappeared into the shadows. Taking a deep breath as though he was about to dive into water, he stepped out into the night.

  When he reached the protecting wall of the main building, he felt a sense of relief but recognized it instantly as premature. He had no way of telling if he had been observed or, if observed, whether he had been detected in his disguise. But there was nothing else to do now but continue with his plan.

  Plan was perhaps rather too organized a word for what he had in mind, he thought as he slipped through the low arched door into the Cellarium, the Abbey’s main store-house. His destination was the Abbot’s private rooms and his purpose — he shrugged, and the blanket nearly slipped off his shoulders. To look around. To test a few suspicions. To do something instead of waiting for something to be done to him.

  It was eerie down here in the Cellarium. Almost as long as the church, but much lower roofed, the building was totally unlit, and he stood for a while till his eyes grew used to the darkness.

  Gradually the long row of central pillars began to form themselves out of the darkness like an exercise in perspective; then the arches of the vaults which sprang out of them. And finally, prosaically, the shadowy shapes and forms of the crates, boxes and cans of provisions which packed the vaults.

  Distantly he heard the now familiar line of chanting which told him the service was under way. As quietly as possible, he made his way across the Cellarium and through the door that led into the cloister court. Compared with the darkness he left behind him, thin starlight glinting on the faintly damp grass was very bright indeed. He kept to the right, as far as possible moving always in shadow. He had no anticipation of meeting anyone, but the instinct of self-preservation seemed to have strengthened in him during the past few days.

  I have the cloak, he thought hugging his blanket closer. Now I only need the dagger.

  Surprisingly, he suddenly felt in need of a weapon. The gun he had had with him when he first came to the Abbey had disappeared during his first sleep. He hadn’t thought it worth mentioning to Phillip. Either he would know, in which case he would be an accessory to the theft. Or he wouldn’t know. In which case he wouldn’t know.

  In any case it had been Francis’ gun.

  Francis. He hadn’t had even a glimpse of him since the first day. Matlock surprised a sentimental fondness for the man in himself. They had been through trouble together. Such things had an illogical binding power.

  But Francis was very firmly the Abbot’s man. Never forget that.

  The thought of the Abbot suddenly snapped his mind back to the present. He had been moving forward with a stealth which was purely physical. His mind had been only half concerned with his progress. And his return to full alertness almost came too late.

  He was just at the corner of the court nearest the arch which led through into the Chapter House. Inside he heard the shuffle of sandalled feet.

  Silently he moved sideways till he came up against the wall.

  Out of the Chapter House came a cowled figure who walked slowly, as though in deep thought, over the square of bright grass.

  Matlock recognized instantly the figure which had turned away from him at the stepping stones that morning. But some deeper, older nag of near-recognition was scratching at his mind.

  He shifted his position slightly to try to get a better view of the man. Under his shoed foot a stone clinked.

  The monk stopped and turned. He seemed to be peering doubtfully towards the shadows where Matlock stood, but the shadows on his own face were still impenetrable.

  “Is that you, Brother James?” enquired a querulous, high-pitched voice.

  A remembered voice.

  An old man’s voice.

  “My God,” said Matlock.

  “Who is that?” asked the old man. Then with a sudden strength which echoed ancient authority.

  “Who is that, I ask? Come out and show yourself.”

  My God, breathed Matlock, now certain, but still desperately uncertain. Believing and incredulous at the same time.

  He took three steps forward out of the shadows, then stood and shifted his hood back.

  The monk stood like a weather-worn statue for a few moments then imitated the gesture revealing a thin ascetic face topped by a wiry tangle of white hair. It was a face which should have been long decayed in the earth. But the eyes were too full of a lively intelligence to belong to a ghost.

  “Hello, Matt,” he said.

  “Carswell?” said Matlock. “Carswell!”

  8

  The old man suddenly looked furtively around, pulling his hood back over his head.

  “Come,” he said, beckoning like a figure from a Gothic novel, and he moved swiftly back into the Chapter House.

  Matlock followed more slowly, still trying to catch his thoughts. His suspicions about the Abbey had been along these lines, but this dramatic and personal confirmation of them had caught him entirely unprepared.

  Carswell, his one-time father-in-law had led the Party for over forty years, finally retiring well over the E.O.L. to enjoy the year of grace permitted to anyone retiring from a post which had held exemption privileges.

  He should have been dead for seventeen years.

  Now he sat like Death itself on the white marble which showed the last resting place of John de Cancia, the thirteenth-century abbot who had been responsible for many important developments at Fountains.

  “Well, Matt,” he said, “I didn’t think we would ever meet again. Not after the last time.”

  Matlock thought back to that last occasion they had come face to face.

  A wet day. October. Gusty. Umbrellas full of air interfering with dignity. Substituting irritation for grief.

  Edna’s funeral.

  They had stood facing each other across the grave, the priest between.

  Nothing had been said. Nothing dramatic was done much to the disappointment of the reporters and photographers with closely focused zooms resting on the cemetery wall.

  “You should have let me know,” he said. “I’d have sent you a telegram on your hundredth birthday.”

  Surprisingly, th
e old man laughed at the gibe.

  “You remember that? The King used to do it. To mark a rarity. Even rarer now, isn’t it, but no telegrams. Wouldn’t do at all.”

  “No, I suppose not. Well, Carsie. What’s the set-up? Are you going to tell me, or just leave me to make intelligent guesses?”

  “You’d be good at that. But not Carsie, by the way. Adeste.”

  “Adeste?”

  “Brother Adeste Fideles. That’s me. We choose our own religious names. It seemed fitting.”

  “O come all ye faithful.”

  “That’s right. Wouldn’t do for you, Matt, would it? You shopped us all.”

  A shadow passed over Matlock’s face then his mouth puckered with distaste.

  “And you, Brother Adeste Fideles, have betrayed yourself.”

  The old man grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the cavern of his cowl.

  He’s in good nick, thought Matlock. Over a hundred. We could all be like that.

  As if catching his thought, Carswell nodded vigorously.

  “Here we are on the same side again, Matt. After all these years. That might be good. It might be bad. I don’t know. I’m too old for memories. Memories are the debris of life. When you get to my age, you start again. Dump the junk. But I do remember that you’re a dangerous man. That’s the first thing I thought when I first met you and talked with you. Here’s a dangerous man, I thought. Like Cassius. Or rather, like Brutus, the really dangerous one because it didn’t show too much to most people. But to me it showed. And you made my party. And you made my daughter. I suppose in a way, you made me. Leader of an insignificant minority group to Prime Minister of the most powerful government this country has ever known. Do you remember that day we met, the first cabinet, at my house? In the orchard? Every tree seemed packed full of the fruit of the tree of life. It was there for the picking. There for the picking.”

  Matlock found himself trembling, with what emotion he did not know. The old man hadn’t finished.

  “And I picked it, Matt. That’s what I’ve done. Me and a hundred others. All these Brothers going round with their cowls up. We’re the new immortals, whip back those hoods and you’d find a few faces you thought long gone. But you’d guessed all this?”