Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 126, No. 1. Whole No. 767, July 2005

The Pilgrim by Amy Myers

Amy Myers was once a director of a London publishing company. When she gave up that “day job” to write fiction, she produced her highly acclaimed series about Victorian chef Auguste Didier. She has other series and stand-alone books to her credit, too, including The Wickenham Murders (Severn House ’04), which introduces new characters and, she hints, may be the first in a series.

Perhaps it was merely a foolish whim to walk the last mile or two to Canterbury. The idea of driving into the city on the path along which so many pilgrims had passed before him didn’t seem right. He wanted to reflect, not to fight twenty-first-century traffic. He was over eighty now, but this was his penance, and his own two legs must carry him to it.

Here at the bend of the eastern edge of Harbledown Hill, pilgrims had caught their first glimpse of Canterbury Cathedral, its steeple crowned with a gilt angel. Here they would dismount and fall on their knees to give thanks, for within that cathedral lay their destination, the shrine of Saint Thomas a Becket.

Murder and religion, he reflected. The passions aroused by both had been linked in the day of Archbishop Thomas as they had been ever since. In the year 1170 it had taken four knights to strike down Thomas a Becket within his own cathedral, and for the rest of their lives, so legend said, they had wandered the world in penance and misery after their terrible crime.

A night in Canterbury in World War II had changed his life, too. He had been a young man in his early twenties when the murders were committed. He, unlike the other two, had lived on. Perhaps that in itself required a penance at the Martyrdom or the site behind the cathedral altar where Becket’s magnificent shrine had once rested. Then Thomas Cromwell had boasted that he would make Henry VIII the richest king of England there had ever been. The Pope’s supremacy had been renounced, and Cromwell’s men destroyed and looted even this most sacrosanct of memorials.

Before that time, the pilgrims would advance up the steps from the Martyrdom to the Trinity Chapel, first to see the golden likeness of the saint’s head, and then to the shrine itself, guarded by iron railings through which only the sick were allowed to enter. The shrine would be invisible as they approached; it was concealed by a wooden canopy suspended from the roof by ropes. At the given moment, the canopy was drawn up, and the shrine itself blazed forth with all its glittering jewels and gold decoration. The largest jewel had been the Regale of France, given by King Louis VII. It was a huge carbuncle, a ruby said to be as large as a hen’s egg, which glowed fiery red as the light caught it.

For sixty years the man had forced himself not to think about the night of Sunday, 31 May, 1942, but now he must do so. It had been sheer greed that brought murder to Canterbury. Did the whole story matter now that the jewel was gone forever? Yes.

As the music of the great organ of Canterbury Cathedral soared around him, Lieutenant Robert Wayncroft wrestled with his conscience. On Friday, after his grandfather’s funeral, the solicitors had given him the sealed envelope he had expected. His grandfather had been his sole close family relation, and so Robert had been permitted a brief compassionate leave to sort out his affairs. He had inherited the house on Lady Wootton’s Green, and Chillingham Place, the Tudor ancestral home near Chilham, now in a sorry state of repair and requisitioned by the army. It was the letter that concerned him most, however, for it contained the details of the closely guarded secret that had been handed on from generation to generation of Wayncrofts: the whereabouts of the Regale of France.

“The blessing of God almighty...” The service was ending, but Robert remained in the cathedral, thinking about what he should do. With Canterbury under constant threat of air raids, the jewel could hardly be safe where it was. Only ill health had prevented his grandfather from moving it, as had happened before when the jewel seemed in danger — not least when Napoleon looked set to invade Kent. That much was clear. What was less clear was what should happen to it after he had found it. Try as he might, the insidious thought of the money that the huge ruby would fetch crept into his mind and refused to leave. He could do so much with it when the war was over. He could even rebuild Chillingham Place; alternatively he could, his conscience told him, give the money to the church. Then he battled with more personal ways of spending the money. What was the point of the jewel being hidden away when if he sold it to a museum it might be displayed for all to see?

“Only to ensure the safety of the jewel is your duty, Robert, not its future,” his grandfather had made clear in his letter.

Yet this was wartime, Robert argued with God, and there was no sign of the war’s ending. The time for old legends was past, this was the twentieth century, and the old faith would never again be restored to Canterbury Cathedral.

He stood up. It was time to leave. He would go to where the jewel lay hidden and take it to safety. That was the first priority.

He glanced around him as he moved out into the aisle, aware of the increased tension in the city streets even though it was still light. Most people would be at home, fearful of air raids in retaliation for last night’s RAF bombing raid on Cologne. What better cathedral to aim for than Canterbury? Since April, German policy had been to strike at the historic cities of England: so far, Exeter, Bath, Norwich, and York. A target as tempting as Canterbury could not be long delayed, and the sooner he fulfilled his mission the better.

Something made him stop. Would he, even now, be followed by someone watching in the dark recesses of the cathedral? He decided to make his way through the cathedral precincts to the Broad Street exit, and he slipped out of a side door and down the steps to the remains of the old monastery. It was silent here, and, despite the daylight, gloomy as he entered the so-called Dark Entry. He paused to listen for any footstep following him, and as he did so he remembered his grandfather telling him that there had been gruesome stories about the Dark Entry passageway even back as far as Henry VIII’s reign.

“It was here, Robert, that your ancestor Sir Geoffrey Wayncroft met his death in trying to prevent the theft of the Regale by Cromwell’s men.”

As a child, Robert had been terrified by the place, imagining that any Wayncroft who walked here might meet a similar fate.

He pulled himself together. He was a soldier, trained to kill if necessary. What if someone were following him, someone who remembered his foolish talk on the beaches of Dunkirk two years earlier? The nightmare came back. He had been sitting with two other soldiers, but not from his battalion. They were in the lightly wounded category, waiting, it seemed endlessly, for ships that might with luck return them home across the Channel to England. With the Luftwaffe screaming overhead, minutes ticked by like hours. Family secrets hadn’t seemed so important then; lack of food, sleep, and the need to communicate with someone, anyone, made him loose-tongued.

“Ever heard of the Regale jewel? It was a huge carbuncle,” he heard himself saying.

“That’s what you get on your bum, ain’t it?” the private sniggered.

Robert had been furious and it made his tongue the looser. “It was a ruby as huge as an egg. It hasn’t been seen since the sixteenth century — and I’ll tell you why. When my grandfather dies, I’ll be the heir and know the secret of the hiding place. The Wayncrofts have been guarding it as a sacred duty until the Pope returns to Canterbury.”

“May that be soon, mon ami,” said the French lieutenant.

Robert had been too engrossed in the need to bolster his own importance. Now he glanced at the other two men, and saw naked greed on their faces: the Cockney and the Frenchman, Private Johnnie Wilson and Lieutenant Christophe Bonneur.

“And your name is Wayncroft?” asked Bonneur.

“You must have heard of the Wayncrofts of Chillingham Place.” Robert glided smoothly away from the topic of jewels. “We had to move out, patriotic duty, of course, in wartime, but we’ll go back when the war’s over. The old pile’s falling down, though.” Even then he had thought it was a pity that the family hadn’t put the jewel to better use.

To his horror, Christophe had replied casually: “I’ve heard of this Regale, mon ami. It belongs to France, you know. It was our King Louis the Seventh who gave it to the shrine.”

Robert had tried to be equally casual. “He tried very hard not to, you mean. He offered a mint of money to the Archbishop in compensation for loss of the jewel, and it was accepted, but the Regale had other ideas. The story is that it simply flew out of his hand and stuck like glue onto the shrine.”

“So our poor king lost money and jewel, too.” Christophe laughed. “That is evidence, is it not, that the jewel belongs to France, not once but twice. Yes?”

Johnnie Wilson, who had been listening quietly, now contributed to the conversation: “How did you Wayncrofts get it, then? Nicked it, did you?”

The nightmare had begun, a nightmare Robert had managed to suppress, until this evening. As he came out into Broad Street, every shadow seemed to hold a threat. It wasn’t like him to be jumpy, he told himself; maybe he was being followed. He’d go back to the house at Lady Wootton’s Green just in case, he decided, and come out later. No one would expect him to leave it so late. It would be safer then. Another hour or two would not matter.

The jewel had waited for over four hundred years.

Sir Walter Barbary dismounted at Harbledown, for Canterbury was in sight. He had no penance to perform as pilgrims usually had, only a mission on behalf of his dying monarch. It was cold and raining, and he took refuge in the inn from the November chill while he made his final decision as to what he should do.

“Walter,” Queen Mary had rasped last evening. “I know you to be a good Catholic and true to our faith, as you are to me. Would you do me one last service?”

He bowed his head. “Your Majesty.” It was well known that the queen was near her end. She had been slipping in and out of consciousness, and it was rumoured she was dying of a broken heart. She had good cause; the child she longed for had never come, despite all her fierce endeavours she had not completely restored the Pope’s supremacy over the English Church, and now Calais, England’s last foothold in France, was lost.

When he had been summoned to St. James’s he had guessed it was not merely to give him thanks. Queen Mary had something more in mind.

With an effort, the queen withdrew a shabby velvet pouch from among the cushions of her bed and handed it to him. It was heavier than he had expected from its size and within seemed to be a large oval stone that felt cold even through the velvet.

“Do not stay to open it, Walter. We may be disturbed. Take this to Canterbury for me, back to the place from which it was stolen by those rebelling against the true faith. Those who influenced my misguided father.”

Sir Walter did not proffer his own views on the part played by the late King Henry VIII in establishing the new Church. It had been, as his daughter Mary knew full well, imposed on England to satisfy his own lusts with the sanctity of a so-called marriage to Anne Boleyn — a marriage that had failed to produce the male heir he wanted.

“My father used it as a toy, a huge ring worn on his thumb,” Mary whispered, “and when he tired of it, he gave it to me to wear in a golden collar. I have done so for his sake but it lies heavy on my conscience. I would have my soul at peace as I face God. When Cromwell’s Royal Commission destroyed the shrine of the blessed Saint Thomas, they stole the Regale and it must be returned.”

“Your Majesty,” Walter chose his words carefully, “despite all you have done to restore England to the guidance of the Holy Father the Pope, the cathedral might not yet be a fitting place for the Regale. Once more it might be treated as a toy.”

“You are a diplomat, Walter.” Queen Mary smiled with great effort. “You mean if — when — my sister Elizabeth rules, she will bow to no Pope. Walter, you must ensure that the stone is kept safely in Canterbury until the true faith is established there once more.”

He had left for Canterbury immediately. This morning, as he left the inn, news had just arrived that the queen had died at dawn. By that time, thanks be to God, he was well set on the pilgrims’ route to Canterbury. They would have sent to Hatfield for the new queen and once she entered into London the hunt for the Regale would begin. If he knew Bess Tudor, who had a great liking for jewelled collars, she would waste little time. He must be gone, and gone forever.

Walter decided to lead his horse for the last mile or two in order that Our Lady might grant him inspiration, for despite his halt at Harbledown, he still could not decide what to do with the jewel. As he neared Canterbury, he could hear the bells ringing — but for no Pope. He knew he could not hand over the jewel, nor keep it for himself, for this would go against his promise to Queen Mary, yet he would instantly be suspect when the jewel was missed. He had no choice. He must fulfill his mission, then ride for Dover and sail overseas for France.

He paused unrecognised at the cathedral entrance, watching as the dignitaries of Canterbury came to give thanks for the new queen, whether they were sincere or not. One of them was Sir Edward Wayncroft, whom he knew well, and Walter gave thanks to Our Lady, for surely here was his answer. Sir Edward was of good Catholic family, staunch to the last. It had been his father who had been slain in the passageway trying to prevent the theft of the Regale by Cromwell’s men. He would ask Sir Edward to guard the jewel until these rebels and their so-called new religion were swept away.

As twilight came, Robert retraced his steps to the cathedral, reasoning that anyone following him would assume the Regale was hidden there. His stalker — was he real or in his imagination? — might even be amongst those few bowed heads still in the cathedral at this late hour. Involuntarily, he glanced over his shoulder. His grandfather’s death had been announced in the Times as well as in the local newspapers. What if his avid-eyed companions on the beach at Dunkirk had remembered his chance words? He had seen neither of them since, but in theory they could be here, waiting for him to make his move to reclaim the jewel. Would one of those so earnestly praying suddenly rise up and strike him down, as Becket himself had been struck?

Robert took hold of himself. Of course they would not do so. Even if one of them were waiting for him, he could not be sure whether Robert had the letter, or when he would go in search of the jewel. In any case, he would need to follow Robert to where the jewel lay hidden. His imagination was getting out of control, Robert decided, but nevertheless he would take precautions. He would linger by the steps to the Murder Stone, then walk briskly down the north aisle to the main door — then past it. Instead he would stroll up the south aisle, and mount the steps leading to Trinity Chapel, the site of the shrine itself. Yes, that was fitting, since any pursuer would assume the Regale was hidden near there, and would pause there regardless of whether he could still see his quarry. By that time, Robert would have hurried down to the cloister door and out into the night air.

He breathed it in thankfully as he walked into Burgate Street and then through Butchery Lane and on to the Parade. Robert felt safer now, if only because it was uncommonly light, even for the end of May. There would be no air raids tonight. A man whistled; nothing uncommon in that. A few people hurried towards their homes; that, too, was natural. A cat howled as he passed the Corn Exchange and came into St. George’s Street; the sound of Glenn Miller on a wireless drifted down through a blacked-out window.

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.”

“You speak,” Robert managed to say evenly, “as if it were in your pocket, not mine.”

“It soon will be, my friend. Or shall we share it amicably?”

“Never.”

Christophe sighed. “Your British SOE has given me excellent training in silent methods of killing. If you refuse to give it to me, I shall have practice as well as theory before they drop me into occupied France.”

Robert quickly debated his options. He was strong enough, and a trained soldier, but he was unarmed save for his tools, which would make uncertain weapons. If this Frenchie was right about his training, Robert would stand little chance against him, unless he could take him by surprise. He estimated they were about three yards apart, although it was hard to tell in the dark. If he could knock Christophe off balance he stood a chance of escaping with the Regale while the Frenchman recovered. The tower door was close, though not quite near enough to make a run for it without first distracting Christophe. But how to take him by surprise? Robert slid his hand into his pocket and realised there was only one way. It was a risky one, but with the aid of his torch it might be possible.

He inched the stone out of his pocket, making no sudden movement, and flung it straight at where Christophe’s face must be.

He hit truer than he had dared hope, according to the Frenchman’s howl of pain as the carbuncle took him full in the face. In a flash, Robert was at his feet, scrabbling on the floor for the stone as Christophe, blood streaming from his face, dropped to the floor to clutch at him.

“A la mort, Englishman,” he hissed.

Where was the Regale? Sobbing, Robert tried to tear off the clutching hands, and just as the first crash of bombs came in the distance, he saw the ruby. Christophe wrenched his hand away and stretched it out to where it lay. But another hand reached towards it, a hand whose owner had been hidden in the darkness listening. But it was Robert, having scrambled to his feet again, who grasped it first — until Christophe tripped him, sending him crashing to the floor again. Murderous hands round his neck made him loosen his hold on the stone.

“Ta very much. Thanks, mate.” There was a whisper as the hands round his neck fell away; the words were almost drowned out by the crash of bombs on Canterbury’s ancient city. The explosions were almost overhead now.

Two of the men escaped, the other lay dead even before the bomb hit St. George’s Church.

Private Johnnie Wilson paused briefly in Canterbury Lane. The heavy bombers were screaming overhead, and more and more arriving. Was anyone following him? He looked back past the White Lion to the church. It was time to get the hell out of here and find a shelter, if no one was following him.

But someone was. A moving shape lit by the flames in the sky was coming out of the doorway. He took to his heels, all thoughts of a shelter gone. He was nearly at Butchery Lane by the time the bombs demolished half of St. George’s Street behind him.

The blast knocked him to the ground and stunned him; he was choking on the dust when he came to. Tugboat Annie was sounding; there was the noise of bombs falling and the roar of more aircraft coming in. He picked himself up and stumbled onwards, with falling masonry and fires from the incendiaries all around him. There was a split second of eerie silence, and then he could hear screams.

Was he still being followed? If so, by whom? The Englishman or the Frenchman? He’d seen the Frenchie at Canterbury Station, and as he had read the report of Wayncroft’s death in the local rag, Johnnie had guessed exactly what he was doing here.

Now he was in a hell like no artillery barrage he’d ever been through. He stayed right where he was in the middle of the road as buildings crumbled like card houses. Where he was standing seemed relatively untouched, but St. George’s Street behind him was an inferno.

Johnnie lost all sense of time, listening only to the bomb explosions. Rose Lane area seemed to have copped it badly, and the whole city was lit up by flame, smoke, and flares. Canterbury was disappearing. The road behind him was like the old pictures of Passchendaele. Where there had been pubs, shops, and the old gateway to Whitefriars monastery were now only piles of rubble and smoke. He could hear the clang of fire-engine bells, but no all-clear yet. The barrage was still going on.

St. George’s Church had been hit, but the tower was still standing, and its clock still sticking out like a yardarm. And there was someone coming after him. Automatically Johnnie took to his heels, his ears deafened by the blast. He couldn’t even think about that stone in his pocket.

“You all right, mate?” An air-raid warden caught his arm as he stumbled on.

“Yeah. I’ll give you a hand,” Johnnie replied. But he didn’t. He had a bit of a limp, a God-almighty bruise from a lump of stone or something, but nothing too bad. Even so, it was like running in a nightmare; his legs wouldn’t move as quickly as he wanted, and all the time his pursuer was gaining on him. Where should he go? Johnnie hesitated for a moment.

Then he knew the answer. Over there he could see the cathedral, still standing proud, lit up by flame. Bits of it must have been hit judging by the smoke, but the cathedral looked mainly intact. Johnnie was not a God-follower, but he knew now what he had to do. He had to get into that cathedral. It was like Saint Thomas was waiting for him.

People were coming out onto the streets, even though the all-clear had not yet gone, emerging to see the ruins of their city, or their houses, and to help where they could, though the raid was not yet over. Johnnie staggered through the gateway to the cathedral grounds, glancing back to see if he was still being followed. He bloody well was, though by whom he couldn’t tell. He had to get into that cathedral and quick. But they wouldn’t let him.

The firefighters and wardens stopped him, the officious twits. “Not in there, mate,” said one smugly. “Don’t know if it’s safe yet.”

Breathless, terrified, Johnnie remembered his battalion being brought to a service here, and that there was a door into the cloisters from the place where old Thomas a Becket met his Maker. He rushed round to the north side of the cathedral, scrambling his way into the cloisters. No bombs here, and he ran for the door into the cathedral — only to find it shut. Sobbing with fear, he turned left, for there was no way back.

At the far end was another door, but in the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a man running to cut him off from this exit. Everywhere was noise and the smell of smoke, which was billowing out into the cloister. With relief he realised that what he’d taken to be a window was in fact the entrance to a passageway between two buildings.

Or what had been two buildings. The one he passed was more or less intact but the farther one, he saw as he reached the passageway, was a pile of smoking, smouldering rubble behind the cloister wall. It had been a library by the looks of the charred paper and leather, but there was little left save part of the far wall.

He could hear his pursuer behind him as he stumbled over the debris that had spilled into the passageway. In seconds he would be upon him, and Johnnie realised this was going to be as near as he could get to Saint Thomas. He reached the end of the passageway, clambering over the piles of smouldering rubble into what had once been a cathedral building.

He took the Regale from his pocket, and felt his pursuer’s hot breath and then his hands round his neck — just as Tugboat Annie sounded once more. For a split second they both looked up — to see part of the remaining masonry of the wall by their side about to collapse upon them. With his free arm and last ounce of strength, Johnnie tore himself free and threw the Regale into the fiery rubble of the library.

“Here you are, Tom,” he shouted. “If you can’t have it, no one else is bleedin’ going to.”

After sixty years there were no traces here now of that terrible night of the blitz in 1942. The tower, fully restored, was all that was left of St. George’s Church, its clock still projecting from it as though to remind the passerby that this church could not be defeated by time. Much of St. George’s had fallen in that night and what was left had been demolished save for this tower. A casualty had been found within it, so he had read: a soldier gone in there to pray. Apart from this tower there was nothing to recognise — or fear — in St. George’s Street or its church.

He had come to pay penance to Saint Thomas for the night that had changed his life forever, a penance for being alive, when morally there was little difference between the three of them. He was a murderer, no doubt of that, though he’d had good reason. Yet the knights that had murdered Becket had believed that, too, and they had ended their days reviled and hated by all men. Johnnie Wilson had given the ruby back to Saint Thomas just as he was pushed under that falling wall. He hadn’t meant to kill him, he was just crazed out of his mind. And after all, Johnnie Wilson was a murderer. He had knifed a man to get the stone away from him.

Nevertheless Johnnie had redeemed himself. He had given the jewel back to Saint Thomas — and through his action redeemed his killer, so he was twice blessed. That final shout of Johnnie’s had changed his life. He had devoted his life to the good of others. Just as the knights who murdered Becket went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, he had taken aid and food wherever it was needed in the world, and when too old for that had returned to run a well-known charity.

It wasn’t quite enough. He paid his entrance fee and walked into the cathedral to the place of Becket’s martyrdom.

There, to the great astonishment of the tourists around him, Robert Wayncroft fell to his knees in penitence.

Copyright (c); 2005 by Amy Myers.