Two miles further on, Powerscourt signalled Johnny off the road. They moved into a clump of trees by the side. Powerscourt peered back the way they had come. ‘Listen, Johnny,’ he whispered, ‘can you hear anything? I’ve thought for some time that someone was following us.’ They waited for a full five minutes, straining to catch the sound of another horseman on the road at this time of night. All they heard was the wind sighing through the trees and various small animals scuttling around in the field behind them.
‘Would you like me to go back, Francis, and see what I can find?’ Johnny Fitzgerald was always eager for action. Powerscourt shook his head. They could have been spotted conversing with the Chief Constable in Anne Herbert’s house. They could have been followed back to Fairfield Park and then on to the road. For months, for years, this murderer had been plotting and killing to secure this day when the cathedral would be rededicated to the Catholic faith. If it took a midnight ride and another couple of dead bodies to keep that secure Powerscourt had no doubt that the murderer would carry on with his deadly campaign. Still they heard nothing.
‘Let’s just give it a couple of minutes more,’ Powerscourt muttered, advancing to the very edge of the trees to stare back at the road. A disturbed owl hooted angrily in protest. Johnny was looking at his watch, doing mental calculations about how long it would be before they reached Bampton and roused the cavalry. Another owl sounded off in the distance, back the way they had come. That seemed to make up Powerscourt’s mind. He gestured them back on to the road once more.
Less than a mile from Bampton disaster struck. Johnny Fitzgerald’s horse, which had carried him steadily all through their journey, suddenly stopped. Its legs gave way and it sank slowly to the ground. Johnny looked at it closely. ‘Damn! I don’t know what’s the matter with the poor animal, Francis,’ he said, ‘I think she’s had it for the time being. You’d better go on alone. I’ll wait till she’s better. And I was just thinking about a proper breakfast with those cavalrymen. They always like to start the day with a decent spread.’
Powerscourt too peered closely at the horse. He would have been the first to admit that his knowledge of the workings of horses was limited. ‘You can’t stop here, Johnny. It’s out of the question. Leave her here and hop up behind me. We’ll ask the cavalry if they can send somebody out to bring her in for repairs.’
Shortly after half-past seven, under a pale blue sky flecked with pink at the eastern corner, a weary Powerscourt and Fitzgerald presented themselves to the sentry on duty at the barracks.
‘Colonel Wheeler is in the officers’ mess, sir,’ he said to Powerscourt, ‘Please come with me.’
Military architecture had never been one of England’s glories, Powerscourt reflected, as they were led across a dreary parade ground. Around it were nondescript military constructions, the cheapest the War Office could get away with, and handsome stabling for the horses off to one side. It seemed that the horses had better accommodation than the humans.
‘Colonel Powerscourt, Major Fitzgerald to see you, sir!’ The sentry raised his hand in a textbook salute. The Colonel was alone in the officers’ mess, seated at a top table that would hold about a dozen officers, enjoying a generous breakfast. He looked to be in his late forties with an enormous moustache and greying hair.
‘You look, gentlemen,’ he growled, ‘as if you haven’t been to bed. Better have some breakfast before you tell me your business. Lance Corporal! Bring another two chairs! And a couple of As at the double!’ Colonel Wheeler showed them into their seats. He scratched his head.
‘Powerscourt, Powerscourt. You the fellow who was in India? And then in South Africa?’
Powerscourt nodded. ‘We both served in those locations, Colonel.’
‘Goddamit, man, you’ve both seen more active service in your lifetimes than this regiment has in a hundred years! See these pictures on the walls?’ He waved a fork carrying half a mushroom around his officers’ mess. ‘See all these officers commanding the Compton Horse? Look carefully and you’ll find the significant fact.’ The Colonel paused and gave his full attention to a couple of kidneys. ‘Do you see it? Let me tell you. Look at the bloody uniforms. Those four colonels over there,’ he pointed dramatically at the left-hand wall, ‘fought with Marlborough. Blenheim, Oudenarde, those sort of places. The other six,’ Colonel Wheeler waved his fork once more, this time bedecked with tomato, at a collection of veterans on the opposite wall, ‘they all went to Portugal in the Peninsular Wars, lucky devils. Fought their way right across Spain with Wellington into France. Talavera, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vittoria, Toulouse. Sent home after Toulouse. Too far away to be called back for Waterloo. Too far away to be called up for the damned Russians in the Crimea or the bloody Boer in South Africa. We’re the forgotten regiment, Powerscourt. Miracle the bloody War Office remembers to pay us.’
At that point two enormous breakfasts were placed in front of Powerscourt and Fitzgerald. Eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, kidneys, mushrooms, fried bread.
‘A is the full experience,’ the Colonel explained happily, ‘B doesn’t have the fried bread, C doesn’t have the kidneys and so on.’
‘So G would just be eggs and bacon on their own,’ said Johnny, tucking into bacon and mushrooms.
‘May I talk as I go, Colonel?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘There is very little time. You will see why as I explain.’ He took Wheeler through the events in Compton, the murders, the plans to defect to Rome, the bonfire the previous evening, the intention to rededicate the minster to Rome that morning and to celebrate Mass in what had been a Protestant cathedral at midday.
‘Goddamit, man,’ the Colonel had turned red, ‘this is monstrous! This is a Protestant country! Catholics have their own places for conducting the Mass or whatever they do. What’s wrong with those, for God’s sake?’
The Colonel found temporary consolation in a combination of egg and tomato. Powerscourt looked quietly at his watch. It was five minutes to eight.
‘The Chief Constable is short of men, Colonel. He sent us here to seek reinforcements.’
The Colonel stared at Powerscourt. He laughed bitterly. ‘Whole century goes by, Powerscourt. Compton Horse rots quietly down here, not invited to any parties at all, no chance to destroy His Majesty’s enemies. When the call comes we’re to turn into bloody policemen and arrest a couple of canons and a rural dean. Never mind, Powerscourt. This regiment won’t let you down. How many men d’you need?’
‘Thirty,’ said Powerscourt firmly, ‘forty if you could manage it.’
The Colonel uttered an enormous roar that might have been Lance Corporal. He devoted his full attention to finishing his breakfast. Tomatoes, eggs, sausage, kidneys disappeared at breathtaking speed. Powerscourt wondered if he would suffer from indigestion on the ride back to Compton.
‘Lance Corporal!’ he bawled as the man appeared in the doorway at the end of the room. ‘Get those bloody officers out of bed and in here at the double! Order the buggers’ breakfast for them! Can’t hang about while they dither about whether to have the kidneys or not. Find the Regimental Sergeant Major! Tell him I want thirty-five men ready to ride out at eight thirty sharp! Move!’
Compton Cathedral was packed to the rafters. All of those who had come from right across southern England to the bonfire were now filling the pews in the nave, standing in the two transepts and the ambulatories. The candles that had illuminated the night had been replaced with fresh ones to illuminate the day. The pillars in the nave glowed gold for the consecration of the cathedral and the ordination of a bishop. One of the men who had come from Rome was presiding over the service, clad in his bishop’s robes, the ring clearly visible on his finger. The congregation were on their knees.
‘Sancte Michael, Sancte Gabriel, Sancte Raphael,’ two cantors sang, working their way down the Litany of the Saints.