In the Mouth of the Tiger (128 page)

‘We have prevented Bryant speaking to you because no good could come of it,' Makin said. ‘He made it quite clear in a number of calls we have intercepted that he wants to see you alone. We have absolutely no intention of allowing that to happen. The man is a homicidal maniac and he will kill you at the first opportunity he has.'

‘What is your basis for saying that?' Denis asked. ‘You have the man tried and convicted before he's had a chance to say a word in his own defence.'

Makin shook his head. ‘On the contrary, we have heard an awful lot of what he has to say. Amongst others, he has spoken to a police psychiatrist.'

‘I assume these conversations occurred when Bryant was trying to get through to me?' Denis asked.

‘We have a trained negotiator and a psychiatrist stationed at the Sturminster Marshall exchange,' Makin said. ‘They have received several calls from Bryant, all from public telephone boxes. It is the professional judgement of the psychiatrist that Bryant is dangerously delusional. He is making wild allegations against a whole range of people, but the chief focus of his paranoia is you. That is why we are going to make damned sure that he doesn't get to talk to you alone. It could do no good and it might do a lot of harm. It might push the man over the brink into complete insanity, and then there is no knowing what he would do.'

Denis looked at me, his eyes wide as he sought my support, and in that moment I nearly gave in. But I remembered just in time that Denis's life was at stake, and coolly looked away.

Denis got up and went over to the window, and then turned so that he faced us. Faced me too, because I was now an opponent. ‘Malcolm is going to try and telephone me at six tonight,' he said quietly. ‘The call will no doubt come in to the exchange at Sturminster Marshall. I intend to be there to take it. I don't want that conversation overheard. If Malcolm offers to meet me so
that we can settle this business like gentlemen, then I will agree to meet him. I don't want the police or anybody else interfering with that meeting. In fact, Makin, I'll want a formal promise from you to that effect.'

‘I'm not going to let you talk to Bryant,' Makin said bluntly. ‘And as for a private meeting with the madman – not a chance in Hell! We have a duty to protect the public, Mr Elesmere-Elliott, and that includes you.'

Denis sat down behind his desk and cranked the handle of his telephone. ‘Sturminster Marshall 222 here,' he said. ‘I would like a call placed to Westminster 4141. Sir Stewart Menzies. I'll hold on until you put him through.'

‘Put that phone down,' Makin snapped, but Denis just held up a quiet hand.

I've often noticed how quickly a particular type of man can have the wind knocked out of his sails. He is usually the sort who rants and postures, who draws himself up as if affronted when anyone opposes him. Real opposition floors that kind, and Inspector Makin fell into the category. One moment he seemed invincible in his stern authority, treating Little like a scullion, snapping at our guards, even telling Denis what he could and could not do. But faced with the reality that Denis didn't care a fig for his posturing he fell apart. ‘Please be reasonable,' he tried again, and then, with desperation: ‘For Christ's sake, this is a police matter! Sir Stewart is not and cannot be involved!'

But then it was too late and Denis was already talking to Stewart. ‘I want to talk about Bryant,' he said. ‘I assume you are fully briefed?' Stewart obviously agreed that he was fully briefed, and Denis went on. ‘I've got a policeman here called Makin who says you have no role in this matter. For a start I want you to put him right and tell that him this is an MI6 operation and that you are in charge.' He held the telephone receiver out to Makin peremptorily.

Makin took the receiver as if it was something alive, and listened for a moment. He made only one comment, a strangled apology, and then handed the receiver back.

Denis took out his handkerchief and wiped the Bakelite instrument with a flourish before putting it to his ear, a piece of pure theatre. ‘Stewart,' he said softly, evenly, ‘now that's sorted out I want you to agree to my talking to Malcolm Bryant face to face so that we can sort this business out once and for all. He's going to ring me at six tonight. The police are intercepting his calls at the Sturminster Marshall exchange, but I want you to order them to let me talk to the man unhindered. Then I want a promise from you that if I
can arrange a meeting with Malcolm, nobody will follow me and no one will interfere.'

But that was obviously too much for Menzies and there was a long, long silence. ‘Why not?' Denis asked, and I could see his face hardening.

Stewart was
not
going to agree, I told myself, and my heart leaped with joy. Stewart would not go to water as Makin had. Perhaps everything was going to be all right after all.

But I had underestimated Denis. ‘Just a moment, Stewart,' I heard him say, his voice even softer, even more dangerous than it had been. ‘If I don't have your word on this I'm going to ring the Home Secretary. I will tell him that you are planning to have Bryant killed because he can tell an intensely embarrassing story about you and the Malayan Emergency, and an equally embarrassing story about you and the distribution of Ultra material to the Russians. And I'll tell the Home Secretary that I can corroborate every word that Bryant is likely to say.'

Menzies caved in. Of course he had no alternative. Denis handed the receiver over to Makin once again: ‘Sir Stewart will tell you of certain undertakings that he has just given me, Inspector,' he said.

Denis drove off to the telephone exchange in Makin's Jaguar, and I watched him go from our bedroom window with a dagger of ice lying against my heart. It was five thirty, and completely dark outside. The moon had not yet risen, but the shape of the huge yew tree beside St Mary's was visible against faint stars, looming like a monster over the graveyard that it had sheltered for half a thousand years. The familiar scene seemed suddenly sinister, and as the lights of the Jaguar disappeared into the distance I found myself shivering with horror.

‘It's Christmas Eve, Mummy,' Frances said, bursting into the bedroom. ‘You're supposed to be helping Mrs Heppenstall wrap presents!' Her face suddenly broke into a cheeky grin. ‘But why do
humans
need to wrap presents, Mummy? Aren't they supposed to come from Father Christmas?'

And so I wrapped presents in the locked schoolroom with Win while excited children pounded up and down the corridor outside and Denis spoke to a madman on the telephone, probably arranging his own murder.

Denis returned just on seven as the gong was sounding for high tea, and I met him in the hall and gripped the lapels of his overcoat. ‘What is happening?' I asked, my voice thin like an old woman's with my fear and my concern.

‘I've arranged to meet Bryant a bit later tonight,' he said. ‘Ten o'clock.'

All the horrors of Hell descended on me. ‘Tonight?' I gasped. ‘Not tonight, surely? It's Christmas Eve.'

‘The sooner this business is over the better. It's been playing out far too long already.'

I had asked Makin and Little to join us for dinner, so it was a restrained meal with everyone on their best behaviour. Even the children had decided to settle down, perhaps a little worried that Father Christmas might have his eye on them. For me it was an hour of sheer purgatory. I toyed with food which was as dry in my mouth as cinders, and looked across at Denis, so handsome and relaxed, and realised that this might be the last meal we would ever share together.

As soon as the meal was over I caught up with him. ‘Please, darling, don't go,' I implored. ‘Please. I have a dreadful feeling that I'll never see you again. You know how much I love you, and so you must know how much you're hurting me. Please don't be so cruel.' Tears sprung into my eyes and I blinked, and blinked, and then gave up so that they streamed down my cheeks unchecked.

Denis took my face in gentle hands. ‘Don't cry. I have to meet this man, darling. I wish I didn't, but I do. Don't you see, they're hunting Malcolm down like a fox, and the terrier-man is already out there digging up his earth. He'll be dead if I don't do something quickly.' (The terrier-man is the member of a hunt who breaks open a fox's lair if it goes to earth, and sets the dogs in after it.)

‘Then let me come with you,' I pleaded. ‘If you're going to see Malcolm I want to be at your side. You promised me we'd always be together.'

We were in the downstairs corridor and the children discovered us at that moment, whooping as they surrounded us. ‘Story time!' Tony demanded. ‘It's time for the Christmas Eve story!'

We were escorted back to the lounge where the lights had been turned down low and the Christmas tree sparkled in the gloom. The children had invited Makin and Little, and the two policemen were there, looking a little abashed in their armchairs. Our Christmas Eve story was a family tradition and there was no way we were going to be allowed to escape it, however much I would have preferred to spend the time with Denis. I looked at my watch. It was after eight, so time was running out and my heart began to beat like a muffled drum.

Denis told the story of the Okeford Child. My story, and he told it looking almost exclusively at me. He told it almost right, but with his own gentle slant that I think made it an even better tale.

‘It was just before Christmas, in the Middle Ages, when England was a dark and often cruel place,' he began. ‘Some women walking by a river saw a child wandering through the reeds. He was small, and thin, and dirty, and obviously very hungry so they washed him, and fed him, and then they asked him where he lived. “I live beside the river,” he said. He was only four or five, so they thought he didn't understand their question, and they called the beadle, who was a sort of village policeman.

‘The beadle looked as stern as he could and asked again: “Where do you live?” But again the child pointed to the river: “I live down there,” he said. “Then you are a foundling,” the beadle said, “and we have to turn you out, and send you back to the river from where you came, because times are hard in England and nobody has spare food for another mouth, or spare clothes for another body.”

‘The women were upset, because the child had been so nice, and polite, and had thanked them so gratefully for the crusts that they had given him. “He'll die if we turn him out,” the women said. “It's the middle of winter, and without clothes and shelter and a fire, the boy will be dead before morning.”

‘The beadle frowned. “What you say is true,” he said. “But this is the Middle Ages, a dark and often cruel time, and we have no way of looking after foundlings. But I am a kind man. I don't like to see suffering, and this child will suffer grievously if we turn him out. So I will be a good Christian and kill him quickly with my sword.”

‘The women dropped to their knees and pleaded with the beadle. “I'll look after him, at least for one night,” one of them said. “And I'll look after him the next,” another called. But the beadle still looked grim, and tugged at his beard. “Even if you all took the child for a night in turn, he will suffer eventually. A time will come when he will need new clothes, and nobody will be able to spare the money to buy them. A time will come for him to go to school, and nobody will be able to spare the money to buy him books. And if he is sick, who will pay the doctor? Much better that I kill him now, quickly, so that he does not suffer.”

‘But one of the women – I think her name was Mary – held up her hand. “It is Christmas – Christ's birthday,” she said. “And I for one remember the Lord's injunction: ‘feed and clothe one who is hungry and naked, and
you feed and clothe me'. I will go to all the nearby villages and remind the people of that injunction, and ask them to give me money to look after our foundling.”

‘But the Beadle still looked grim. “People will pay a little money when you ask, but that money will soon run out. In a month everyone will have forgotten the little foundling, and then he will suffer. Better that I kill him now so that he does not suffer.”

‘But still Mary did not give up. “Then I will ask each village to promise to pay a sum every month for our little foundling,” she said. “Either a shilling, or sixpence, or even a halfpenny, depending on how rich or poor the village is.” And that is exactly what she did do. She told the story of the foundling child to the people of all the nearby villages, and each village promised to pay a certain sum every month to keep the child in food, and clothes, and shoes, and schoolbooks. That is why a lot of villages near here have those funny names, like Sixpenny Handley, or Fivepenny Aukford. And the little village where Mary came from, and where the child grew up, that village became known as Child Okeford.'

The children all looked at me for confirmation, and I nodded gravely. ‘Lady Drax and I looked up the story of the Okeford Child in all the Dorset libraries, and what Daddy says is probably just what happened.'

‘What happened to the little boy?' Frances asked. The truth is that nobody knows, but Denis smiled and leaned back in his chair. ‘That's the most amazing part of the story,' he said. ‘You see, he grew up to be a kind, wise young man, with long dark hair and the sort of face that they have in Bethlehem. And then one Christmas morning he just disappeared.'

‘He was Jesus Christ,' Frances said with conviction. ‘I just knew he was.'

I felt tears pricking close behind my eyes. I knew precisely why Denis had told that tale. To remind me that there was a man in need out in the darkness, and that whoever we
thought
he was, he
might
be Jesus Christ.

And then I clapped my hands for attention. ‘Time for games, children,' I said, ‘and then it's off to bed.' Like most families we had our traditional Christmas games, like Hide and Seek, and Postman's Knock, and I wanted our children to have as close to a normal Christmas as we could manage. So I threw myself into the fray with all the enthusiasm I could muster, and soon the lounge was a shambles with pillows being thrown about and Inspector Makin and Sergeant Little escaping with their lives to the drawing room.