More Tea, Vicar?
Trembling and breathing quicker than usual, Rebecca peered tremulously out through the door and across the beach. All seemed quiet. She quickly left the boathouse and scurried up into the sand dunes, running as fast as she could until, tired by churning through the soft sand, her legs told her she could simply go no further. She was not quite certain what her next move should be but knew she could not spend too long making up her mind.
Daedalus and his cronies now had the gold. What was worse, they also had Laura, Drew, Rupert, the Admiral and Von Krankl. If the Komrades were to be stopped from making their getaway, it was down to her. She had until dawn.
Rebecca found a sheltered hideaway in the dunes from where she could observe most of the path along the cliff to the monastery. She flopped down to catch her breath. Every so often the others would come into view in the distance like a column of ants as they trudged after Brutus and Severus, before disappearing.
From her vantage point, she waited patiently, allowing them sufficient time to reach the monastery. Nobody had returned to search for her, so she began to relax. A gull called loudly as it circled overhead. Rebecca let her gaze wander along the magnificent stretch of coastline, with its towering cliffs, jagged rocks and coves and its sandy beaches onto which the powerful Atlantic waves pounded and roared. She was struck, not for the first time, by the curious contradiction of the beauty of her surroundings and the secrets and dangers they concealed. But there was no time to hang around.
Rebecca got to her feet and was just about to move when she heard a boat’s engine. Squatting down on her haunches, she watched as a fishing boat appeared round the point from the direction of Druid’s Rock. One look was enough for her to recognise the Mary Jane. No doubt heading back to port as if nothing had happened, she scowled.
She was in need of an ally though, with the others gone. She decided she would tell the entire story to Gaston, confident he could be trusted and could help. She set off at a run up the path towards the farm but stopped as an awful thought struck her. Did Gaston know that his father, the Admiral, was not dead after all? If not, she certainly did not feel it was her place to be the one to tell him.
She passed through a crenulated gateway in the wall around the outer edge of the farm below a flight of steps. An old cannon stood in a recess in the wall, pointing out across the bay. She drummed on it absently, her mind wrestling with what was the best thing to do, when a voice hailed her.
‘Hello, young lady! How are your investigations?’ The cheerful vicar, with his customary beaming smile. ‘I always take a stroll by the sea for my daily exercise. I do so love these beaches!’
Rebecca pondered for a moment. ‘Reverend Hendricks, how … timely. Er, I wonder, could I speak to you about something … well, quite frankly, something you probably aren’t going to believe?’
‘Well of course, my dear. Talking about things others don’t necessarily believe is how many people would say I make my living, ha! Erm, perhaps a cup of tea?’ They set off up the lane, Rebecca weighing up in her mind exactly how much she should divulge. As somebody presumably used to handling delicate situations, it was in her mind that the vicar might be persuaded to tell Gaston.
* * *
‘What happened to Rebecca?’ whispered Rupert to Drew, as they were led at gunpoint along another of the monastery’s seemingly endless passageways. From somewhere in the dim recesses of this austere place a solitary bell was tolling the hour. Drew cast a cautionary look towards Brutus marching ahead, before answering. ‘She got away at the boathouse. For God’s sake don’t let on. They obviously haven’t noticed. Let’s hope she can get us out of here.’
They were herded into a small chapel with tiny arched windows. ‘Watch them till I find out where the boss wants them,’ Brutus ordered Severus in the doorway, before leaving the room. Severus took up his position in the doorway, a revolver brandished in their general direction and a peculiar smile on his lips.
‘I suppose it is too much to hope we are put back in our old cell,’ murmured Von Krankl.
* * *
At the top of the hill overlooking the cove, James Hendricks pushed a small wicket gate and held it open for Rebecca. ‘Is this where you live?’ she asked in surprise. Before them in the corner of a field next to the woods was a gaily painted Romany carriage. The vicar laughed at her obvious astonishment.
‘Not quite the traditional vicarage is it?’ he joked.
‘It was my Uncle’s. He was born in it …rather a long time ago. I am the gypsy vicar!’
‘It’s great!’ enthused Rebecca, stepping lightly up the short wooden ladder into the cosy caravan which was surprisingly spacious inside. She flopped into a comfortable armchair full of cushions, as James Hendricks filled the kettle at the sink. ‘How cool!’ she grinned, admiring the beautiful décor and fine wooden carvings. ‘So you are a traveller, or the son of travellers?’
‘Don’t mention it to my flock, will you? Might be a bit of a shock that their quintessential English vicar is actually Romany by heritage! Now, my dear, what is it exactly that you want us to talk about?’
‘Yes.’ Rebecca sat forward, suddenly serious again, remembering the urgency of the situation. ‘It’s all a bit delicate.’ She proceeded to relate as concise an account as she could of the events of the past few days. When she finished, the old vicar sat for a moment in stunned silence.
‘Extraordinary! Poor old Bertie … but jolly glad to hear he is alive after all. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. And you youngsters have been very courageous!’
Rebecca shook her head. ‘As a man of God, Reverend, how could people so evil dare to hide behind God, living as monks?’
James Hendricks gave a wry smile. ‘What God wants, God gets, God help us all.’
‘Eh?’ Rebecca was taken aback.
‘Roger Waters – another rock legend from the dim and distant past, my dear!
God wants crusades, God wants jihad, God wants good, God wants bad … perceptive lyrics. Message is that God is not perfect either. I should qualify that; man’s many myriad interpretations of him aren’t. You can’t blame God for what men think he is.’
‘I suppose,’ said Rebecca.
James Hendricks smiled. ‘Back to things more earthly and pressing. Don’t you worry, you leave Gaston to me. One of the advantages of being a vicar is that I am used to giving news, good or bad … in this case good, obviously. So, what is your plan now?’