Stone of Destiny Page 5

  The fourth man that I approached jumped at the opportunity with avid glee. He listened intently to the whole plan from beginning to end, and was as impatient to start as I was myself. Gavin Vernon, our number three, was a 24-year-old engineering student who had the Scotsman’s delight in the risky enterprise that aims at high things. He was quite short of stature, but heavily built and of considerable physical strength, which he delighted in showing. Opening beer bottles with his teeth made him a useful man at a party. Although his features had the raw-boned, obstinate set usually associated with the Lowlander and were overset with a bristling English moustache he was far from dour. Indeed his mad recklessness got him into many scrapes that no dour Scot was designed for.

  With three people our team was now complete and we were almost ready to leave. We met in my room in Park Quadrant and time and again went over our maps and diagrams. This was, I suppose, what the Royal Air Force calls briefing, and we briefed ourselves as often as we all had a spare moment to foregather. We were not trained to follow maps, and I was the only one with firsthand knowledge of the Abbey, so it was necessary for them to memorise every detail.

  Meanwhile I had my own worries. I had collected a burglar’s toolkit, including an immense jemmy of which I was inordinately proud. With loving care I had made a sling that left the jemmy hanging its 24 inches from my oxter to my trouser pocket. The only trouble was that when I bent down it was prone to slide from its sling. The files, wire, hacksaw, wrench, etc., I carefully stowed about my person until I was fully equipped with the tools of my new profession. Then I would put on my coat, go down to the little cafe in Gibson Street and talk to my friends, with the delicious cold steel against me, and a private thin smile of sheer joy on my lips.

  While I was running needless risks in cafes, Gavin was not idle. He had made arrangements to hire a car to take us to London. This would be the car we would use outside the Abbey, so it did not need to be particularly powerful. In London I had already arranged to hire the bigger car that we would need to transport the Stone to its hiding place on Dartmoor.

  All this preparation was very costly, and I suddenly realised that our money was running out. I could not for the life of me approach our original benefactor, for £50 was more than I cared to take from him. I knew, however, who would be equally ready to help. I called again on Councillor Gray.

  He was eager for news and greatly disturbed to hear that Kay was coming with us, for he seemed to feel a rough sort of responsibility for all the workers in the self-government movement. I quickly assured him that Kay had not been press-ganged, and thereafter, although his uneasiness grumbled away in his mind, it only occasionally erupted into complaint.

  I left an uneasy Bertie who was suddenly poorer by £30. That was, I feel sure, of no consequence to him at the time, as he was the most generous of men. What was on his mind was our safety, and he would willingly have come with us to look after us had I not pointed out that the Vice-Chairman of the Covenant could never involve himself in illegality.

  Having seen Bill and arranged a code to use if I had to telephone him from London, we were now ready to depart. That night, Thursday, 21 December 1950, Gavin and Kay and I met to hold our last council before leaving. We parted early, since it would be the last full night’s sleep we would have for many days.

  The next morning I rose full of excitement, as this was to be the great day. It was cold and dismal, with a hint of raw frost, and although I knew that I had many miles to drive that night I was not dismayed. Nothing could stop us now. Not frost nor snow, nor the weather nor our plans, and not even ourselves because the decision had been made.

  My mood of exultation was to some extent sullied by Gavin, however, for I discovered that instead of meeting me as arranged, he was still sleeping soundly in his bed. I went to his lodgings and had him out. Anger, friendship and amazement that he could sleep while I was racked with excitement fought within me, but friendship won. The morning was ours and there was little cause for hurry.

  Towards lunchtime we went down to the garage in Pitt Street and collected our hired car. We were rather disturbed when we saw it. It was an eight-horsepower Ford and at least 12 years old. We could not find anything definitely wrong with it, and it was all we could afford. The engine pulled well, so we took it, but with a feeling of trepidation lest it should not stand up to the tests we were to put it to. Gavin went away to get used to it as he was to be driver-in-chief, and, having arranged to meet at 3 p.m., we parted, and I went home to pack my lovely toolkit.

  That afternoon at three o’clock I went to meet Gavin as arranged. To my dismay and impatience, when I got there he was talking to a tall, finely built young fellow, with a frank boyish face and a crop of golden hair. I hesitated on the street corner in an agony of anger. I had known that Gavin had told some of his friends where he was going, and I had accepted his assurances that that was the better way, since they would otherwise talk with loose and suspicious tongues. But it seemed madness to bring one of them to see us off.

  When I had mastered my anger I went forward and was introduced to the newcomer. His name was Alan Stuart. His fine name and obvious honesty did not palliate my anger, and it was clear to me from the way Alan blushed that I had an ugly scowl on my face. Yet, like his namesake in Kidnapped, he was to prove the bonniest fighter I have ever met, bar only Kay Mathieson herself.

  ‘I want to come with you,’ said Alan, pleading rather than offering.

  I thought quickly. I liked him instinctively, for he was boyish, unpretentious and unspoiled. But he was only 20 and looked younger, and I did not know how he would stand up if things went wrong. Furthermore, the plot had been laid for three people and it seemed unnecessary to take four. On the other hand, he knew all about us and could not gossip if he were with us.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  He could not have been more hurt if I had kicked him. ‘It’s all right,’ he said through his disappointment. ‘And the best of luck anyway.’

  I warmed to him more. There was a simplicity in everything he said that erased my ill temper, and chastised me for it.

  ‘He could bring a car,’ whispered Gavin.

  ‘I could indeed,’ said Alan eagerly as he caught the whisper.

  My resistance fell, and I was naked against them.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘You’re on.’

  His face lit up with boyish joy and he thanked me eagerly. He departed in a rush to arrange his affairs and get his car. He had gone 20 yards when he dashed back.

  ‘Do you want an Armstrong or a Ford Anglia?’ he asked.

  ‘Would an Anglia carry four hundredweight?’ I asked.

  He thought before replying. ‘Och yes,’ he said. ‘It would carry Nelson’s Column, pigeons and all.’

  In this fashion we recruited Alan Stuart and the Ford Anglia car. Which was the more reliable, Alan or the Anglia, I do not know. But I do know that I would go round the world with either of them, and there would be laughter and confidence all the way.

  Chapter Seven

  We were later in getting away than I had intended, since the arrival of Alan threw us off schedule. I was in a fever of impatience to be gone, which Kay’s remote calm and Gavin’s complacent confidence in no way soothed. At last, about seven in the evening, when we drove through Glasgow Cross and along London Road on the first mile of the road south, I was able to relax a little. Yet the relaxation was of a child going on a long-anticipated holiday. Now and again it would come to me in the middle of a sentence, or in a moment of calm driving, that we really were going after the Stone, and I would hug the knowledge to me, a glowing secret whose warm presence I could feel. At the same time the knowledge steadied my excitement, for the cerebral part of the operation was past, and all that remained was to fulfil in action what had been created a thousand times in dreams. As I drove I knew that even the driving was all part of the unity of our operation.

  I took the first spell in the Anglia with Alan at my side. Four hours e
arlier he had been a stranger, but now I had warmed to him and circumstances had made us old friends. I was glad of the opportunity to talk to him, and as I followed the rear light of Gavin’s car down the long winding road to Carlisle, I told him how we intended to mate intention with success. He followed me carefully, and by the time we stopped at Gretna for a meal he knew exactly what his part would be when we came to the Abbey.

  As we pushed through the blackness to Carlisle, the night became colder. It was plain to us that we were going to get hard frost with perhaps glazed ice on the higher stretches. Eight-horsepower cars are not the best vehicles for a 400-mile journey in midwinter, but they turned back the miles constantly and uncomplainingly. Inside it was cold, and our breath froze on the windscreen, which had to be constantly wiped clear. Wrapped in our heavy coats we froze also. Yet time passed. We were all drivers, and while two sat and slept or chatted or lit cigarettes for the drivers, the other two drove on steadily southwards.

  We crossed the Border and looked back at the country we had left, and thought of our people snug in bed, since it was nearly midnight. I would have changed places with none of them, and as the draughts poked at us and our feet grew dead to heat and cold alike, we almost welcomed it as part of the great adventure. As the night wore on, the passengers became more silent, snatching half an hour’s sleep before changing over to take another turn at the wheel. As we passed through Penrith and swung east for Scotch Corner, a fall of snow flurried across the headlights. We knew we were for it; the Pennines lay before us.

  Before we were halfway to the summit the snow came down in earnest. It was not honest snow, which lay crisply or drifted before the wind, but wet ice which congealed on everything it touched, like a black deadly skin. We slithered from corner to corner, driving by luck rather than judgement, until I gave up and passed the wheel to Alan, who was a much more competent driver than me. Again and again we were forced to stop to scrape the ice from the windscreen with our nails, because the wipers could not keep it clear. When we stopped on the summit to chip away the creeping ice on the cold glass, I had an idea.

  ‘Remember that gill of rum we bought in Glasgow?’ I asked. ‘Let’s rub it on the glass, and the spirit will stop it from freezing up.’ We did so, and drove on in a haze of alcohol.

  As we ran down the other side of the Pennines conditions gradually improved. Soon we were running on soft ice which broke in slush and sang cheerfully under our wheels. But many times that night we knew the sickening sideways swing as the car slid across the road out of control. There were few other vehicles on the road, and it was one help all. Several times we helped to pull drivers out of the ditch, and more than once had the same assistance given to ourselves. The slow speed forced on us was all that saved the cars from damage.

  We were well down in Nottinghamshire when dawn broke, clear and frosty and welcome. We pulled in at a roadside cafe and had breakfast, at city prices, but welcome nevertheless, as we were starving. We washed as best we could in the frost, and the cold snapped at our skin. Although our eyes were heavy and our skin was grainy with sleeplessness, we joyfully filled our lungs and slapped our legs and stamped our feet, and proceeded on our way quite believing we were the four finest people in all that shining dawn.

  It was afternoon when we reached London. We had been lost in its vast suburbs and lonely approaches. It was Kay’s first visit to London, and I am sure she was not impressed. I think if it had been hers she would have swapped it all for five acres in Inverasdale, and while I would not wish to denigrate the 8 million people who call it home, she would not have had a bad bargain.

  We parked the cars behind the mammoth block of offices that the government was building between Whitehall and the river. What we all needed was a wash and a meal, but we had no great time to lavish on luxuries. We went up to Lyons’ Corner House and did the best we could in as short a time as possible, and then with considerable excitement we piled into the Anglia and shot along Whitehall, past Scotland Yard – so named as the place where Sir William Wallace was tortured to death – and from there to the Abbey.

  We split into two parties, since we wanted to take no chances. Now that the attempt was to be made we felt that we could not be too careful. It would have crushed us if we had discovered that special security arrangements had been put into operation because of suspicions aroused by a group of four Scots who whispered and looked longingly at the Stone and measured every tomb and cranny east of Poets’ Corner.

  Gavin and I went first; Kay and Alan followed behind. It was a strange kirking. Kay had changed out of her slacks and looked very chic, but I felt that Alan’s duffel coat looked a bit out of place in a church. He assured me that many well-dressed men wore them in England, and indeed my own observations confirmed this. Gavin’s sports jacket and corduroys would have been more at home in a football crowd, but among the tourists he looked inconspicuous enough, if Gavin could ever look inconspicuous. He was the sort of person who made nuns cross themselves when they passed him in the street.

  We approached the Abbey from the back and passed up the lane that runs from Old Palace Yard to Poets’ Corner door. It was a quiet lane and quite suitable for our purpose, even though it was blocked by two iron gates. One of these gates was, I knew, never locked, and the other did not look as though it would last for long against my fine set of tools. Moreover, the door into the Abbey was not visible from the road. Here was our line of escape. We went into the Abbey and paced through the huge, dim, quiet extent of it. Its original austerity must have been breathtaking, but the severity of the line of the nave had been broken by frilly tombs and pompous statues. This was of considerable assistance to us, because apart from giving us cover, all the appendages, which cluttered up every available corner, would deaden any noise that we might make.

  We paid the admission money to the chapels and followed the route I had already taken. Alan was worried by the six narrow wooden steps leading to the Confessor’s Chapel, for, like me, he feared that we might not be able to manoeuvre the Stone down them. We both shrugged our shoulders at that. What had gone up must come down.

  Now that we were there with intent, the Stone looked even larger than I had remembered. Would we really be able to lift such a massive thing? Just looking at its bulk made the whole thing seem impossible. Then an alternative method of getting it down from the five-foot-high Confessor’s Chapel suggested itself. Looking through the two glass doors of the rood-screen, we could see that the broad steps of the Sanctuary would present little difficulty to two, let alone three fairly able men. I had tried the doors on my previous visit, and I knew that they were not locked. The only snag to this plan was that the door we would have to use to get the Stone out of the Abbey was the Poets’ Corner door, which would need to be forced, as it was padlocked in such a way that the lock could not be screwed off, even from inside. But that might not be too difficult. It was the only door to the Abbey made of pine. The rest were of oak, and as hard as whinstone.

  We also paid considerable attention to the Coronation Chair, and to the barrier that prevented the public from pressing too closely against it. The latter would offer no trouble. It was hinged and would lift easily away, but the Chair would have to be damaged, since it fitted very closely round the Stone and the wooden flange along the front seemed thicker and stouter on further examination. I decided to try partially to dismantle it with a screwdriver during the night, lest the necessity for speed should force us to tear it apart with a jemmy. The English have run the risk of having their Chair damaged ever since they built it to receive stolen property, but nonetheless we wanted to keep damage to a minimum.

  Leaving the Chapel, we passed the plain, unadorned tomb of Edward I of England, who had ravaged our country and removed the Stone 650 years before. ‘Keep Troth’ was his motto. It was a command to others; never a rule of his own conduct. He was as treacherous a Plantagenet as ever raped a child or lied in his teeth. He had coveted our country, and two countries which should have lived i
n peace had fought a series of bloody wars, the memory of which could never quite be effaced from the minds of the two peoples. Six hundred years is a long time, but there was a continuity of strife from his time to ours, and his sacking of the Abbey of Scone was, I hoped, to have its more civilised counterpart here in Westminster that very night.

  When we got outside, we found that a grey haar had crept in with the darkness, and the night bore that cold cheerlessness which raw frost brings to a big city. The shops, however, were gay with lights, and each pub and each cafe had tricked itself out in tinsel and coloured paper. Christmas was all about us, scarcely the Christmas of the clean snow, the stall and the little Child, but a Christmas nevertheless. Suddenly I felt that perhaps we were all part of a new Christmas Carol, and that the little man with the pinched face who stood wistfully looking at the great Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square was really Bob Cratchit on his way home to his children in Camden Town. The moment passed, and again we found ourselves there as strangers, lost to the wonder they all shared. We went among these revellers to Lyons’ Corner House in the Strand, and sat there with them. There, among their celebrations, we held a council of war.

  Our first point of discussion was whether or not we should take action that night or wait until the following day, which was Sunday and Christmas Eve. I pointed out that we had had no sleep that night, and, if things went according to plan, we should have no sleep for at least two nights after the operation. I reminded them also that, although there was every sign of revelry around us, the pubs would be open even later on Sunday in celebration of Christmas Eve, and the police would be more occupied with drunks then than they were tonight. The English are no respecters of the Sabbath.