Briskly, he walked in the twilight past a row of timber-framed buildings. There was a confectioner’s, a tobacconist, all very normal — and yet his confidence began to ebb away. It was so very still in the half-light. On such a night he might even pass knights on their way to murder Thomas in the cathedral. The eerie atmosphere was only in his mind, Robert told himself as he passed the grocery store of David Greig. There ahead of him was the tower of St. George’s Church. He was nearly there. He crossed over Canterbury Lane, remembering its bakery shop and how he had loved as a boy to gorge himself on the Chelsea buns. Innocent pleasures in prewar days, all gone. He sensed a moving shadow behind him; an innocent one, perhaps, but it turned him from the church and into the White Lion pub next to it. He would have a pint of beer to steady himself.
“You’re lucky, mate,” someone remarked. The bell for last orders had rung as Robert paid for his order.
“My lucky day.”
In Robert’s pockets were his masked torch, gloves, a small hammer and chisel — all he should need for his mission. He drank his pint slowly, wondering whether the door might open and his pursuer enter. What would he do if that happened? Robert firmly quelled the flutters of his heart. No one came in, and Robert departed with his fellow drinkers. Then at last he walked through the Norman tower doorway into St. George the Martyr’s Church.
St. George’s was an ancient church much extended in Victorian times, and Robert strolled all round it, not yet needing his torch. He strained for the slightest sound, alert to the smallest movement, for he could not begin until he was sure he was alone. Suppose those men had remembered, suppose someone in the solicitor’s office had read the letter and resealed it. After all, the solicitor had access to the house and the seal was in his grandfather’s desk. Robert steadied himself. This was the solitude and approaching darkness speaking, not common sense. Resolutely he walked to the old doorway that had once led to the belfry staircase. Now it was blocked up, and what better place to hide the jewel? Quickly he looked above the lintel, and for the place behind the plaster where the stonework had been loosened to insert the jewel and only lightly replaced. It was old mortar, and should give easily, the letter had told him.
Swallowing, he built up a small pile of hassocks to stand on, and identified where he must excavate.
Just as his chisel was poised to chip the plaster, the silence was shattered. The familiar eerie wailing of the air-raid siren was joined almost simultaneously with the shrill sound of Tugboat Annie, the local name for the Canterbury inner warning system. Usually this followed the siren alert to indicate that hostile aircraft were approaching the city; to have it come so hard on the siren’s heels was ominous.
What to do? How could he leave now for an air-raid shelter? Feverishly Robert chipped away, almost sobbing with tension, expecting to hear the crash of bombs at any moment. Tugboat Annie’s three blasts on the steam whistle would be repeated every fifteen minutes until danger was past.
He worked on as the light began to fade more quickly, but as Tugboat Annie sounded once more, he realised to his horror he’d made a mistake. He’d chipped off the wrong corner. Again he began his work, trying to control his trembling hands, and was rewarded after five minutes by the sound of the “all-clear.” The original warning was a mistake, of course it was. No German bombers would be fool enough to come so early, on such a light evening.
It took him another two hours or more before, at last, sweating with fear and exertion, he managed to prise out the stone concealing the pouch. It fell to the floor with a crash, and the noise resounded throughout the church. He listened, heart in mouth, in case it might attract attention from outside, but there was nothing. Excited now, he put his hand in the hole and pulled out the prize for which he had worked so hard, the canvas pouch, for Sir Walter’s velvet covering had been changed several times.
Robert’s heart thudded painfully as he held the pouch in the flickering light of his masked torch, for the light inside had now gone. Carefully he balanced the torch on the pile of hassocks and opened it. Within the canvas was another, silken pouch, through which he could feel the chill of a large stone. Was it fear or excitement that was keeping every nerve taut? Carefully he withdrew the silk covering.
The Regale was in his hand. He held it in the light of the torch and even in that dimness it glowed red, as fiery red as the pilgrims to Becket’s shrine had reported long ago. Its beauty confused him, making him once more uncertain of what he would do with it, save that he must take it with him.
“Bonjour, Robert!”
For a moment the words did not register. The whisper came from nowhere: It was the voice of conscience, or the voice of Saint Thomas. But then, with a deadly chill sweeping over him, Robert realised it was human, and that the words were French.
He sensed, then half saw, a black figure in the darkness moving towards him. It was Nemesis, in the form of Christophe Bonneur.
“It’s you,” Robert said flatly, some of the terror evaporating. An enemy, even in the darkness, is easier to deal with than the unknown. He began to laugh at the inevitability of fate. “You remembered? Of course you would.”
“You have found my jewel for me, Robert. Merci.”
“Yours?” His hackles rose. “What the devil do you mean?”
“Mais oui, cher ami. I was intrigued by your so-interesting story on the beach at Dunkirk. All families have legends, my family, too. It is said that an ancestor of mine was English but he came to France where he married a French girl and took her name for fear of enemies from England. It is said that Sir Walter left in Canterbury what he should have brought with him to return to the king, the famous Regale carbuncle.”
“It was given by your king to Saint Thomas’s shrine.”
“Against his will, mon ami, and you told us in your interesting story that the Regale was returned to Canterbury on condition the true faith was restored. It never was and so is ours again by right.”
“It was given into the safekeeping of my family.” Robert’s mind was numb. Desperately he tried to size up his situation.
“Non, it is to be returned to its rightful owner.”
Robert regained the power of logical thought. “And will you restore it to the Crown of France?” he sneered.
Christophe laughed. “There is no Crown to receive it, and France is under German occupation. Never fear, I will keep the Regale until happier times. Would you return it to Saint Thomas if I left it with you?”
“That would be against my duty,” Robert prevaricated.
“But there is a Catholic church in Canterbury, a mere stone’s throw away. Why not surrender the Regale to its priest?”
“What I do with it is my concern,” Robert snapped. The ruby seemed to glow warmly in his pocket where he had put it for safety, as if it were telling him that it too had a voice in this discussion. Perhaps it did, for in the sudden silence that fell, Robert heard the sound of aircraft. A long way off — no need for concern.
Or so he thought, until the siren alert wailed out, and once again Tugboat Annie’s three blasts. Through the windows the sudden light in the sky confirmed Canterbury was the target, as flares were dropped by German aircraft.
Christophe laughed as though nothing had happened. “So you will not hand me the Regale — and I have no qualms in telling you, mon frere, that the public coffers of France will know nothing of it, either.”