It seemed disloyal, somehow, to plot treason under St Mary’s roof and so, that evening, we all changed into civvies and convened a meeting at the Falconberg Arms – the pub in the village.
Markham got the drinks in and we settled ourselves in the furthest, darkest corner of the lounge bar, surrounded by hunting prints and horse brasses.
‘Well,’ I said, kicking things off. ‘The usual rules apply. Only one person speaks at a time. Everyone gets to speak. No interruptions. No violence. We all know what tonight’s topic will be. Mr Roberts, will you go first?’
We all knew what his opinion was, but it seemed wise to let him speak first.
‘I think we did it,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Well, not us specifically, but I think we initiated the events. We – Thirsk – moved the sword. It was put there to protect the people and we took it away.’
He sat back, indicating he had finished.
Peterson stirred. ‘You can’t possibly know that.’
‘I can,’ he insisted. ‘I do. There’s no way my dad’s farm can have foot and mouth. It’s just not possible. There’s not been any new livestock – he hasn’t even been to the livestock markets for a few weeks. Not Monmouth, nor Abergavenny. It’s a prize herd. He looks after them far better than he ever looked after us. And streets ahead of how he looks after my mam. According to my mam, that is.’
‘It’s a highly contagious disease,’ said Peterson. ‘Vehicles, people, equipment, other animals – it could have come from anywhere.’
‘All right,’ he said hotly. ‘What about the lorry crash? Vehicles go up and down that lane all day long. Nothing like that has ever happened before. Why now, suddenly? And what about the factory? It was fine. They’re not some fly-by-night operation – they make agricultural equipment. They’re a family firm established for the last thirty years. Their order books are full, Dad says. Why now do the banks suddenly decide to pull the plug? I tell you – it’s the sword. They took away the sword and suddenly everything starts to go wrong.’
Silence.
‘Surely you can’t deny it?’
‘It does sound a little far-fetched,’ said Sands, mildly.
Roberts took a pull on his pint, set the glass down carefully on his beer mat, and said quietly, ‘Events are escalating. Who wants to speculate on what will happen next? Anyone?’
Silence. We all looked at our drinks.
‘Well, let’s have a think, shall we? What about a fire at the infants’ school? How many would you like to see die before you consider that I might be right? What constitutes a tragedy? Five? Twenty? Would they all have to die before you can accept what’s right in front of your faces?’
He was beginning to shout. I put my hand over his and said, ‘Hush.’
He jerked it away angrily, and went to speak again but Markham said, ‘If Max says to hush, then I really think you should hush, don’t you?’
He subsided into his pint.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Everyone just slow down and take a breath. Stop and think for two minutes. Then we’ll go round the table and listen to what everyone has to say. Everyone gets to speak. No interruptions. Questions and discussions at the end. Starting now.’
We picked up our drinks and no one spoke for two minutes while we marshalled our arguments.
As you can imagine, everyone had a great deal to say. Two more rounds of drinks materialised. I made several trips to the facilities. Eventually, it all ground to a simmering halt.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘We put it to the vote. ‘Who agrees with Mr Roberts’ theory? Peterson?’
He put down his glass and said, ‘I think there might be something in what he says.’ Which was as big a surprise to him as to us, I think.
‘Mr Sands?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Sorry mate – but no. I think it’s just an unfortunate coincidence.’
‘Mr Roberts?’
‘It’s the sword.’ He stared us down, defiantly.
‘Mr Markham?’
He sighed. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know, and because I don’t know I’m saying horses, not zebras.’
He meant – if you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras. The most obvious explanation is usually the right one, and the most obvious explanation was just simple bad luck.
‘Two each,’ said Peterson, downing the last of his pint. ‘It’s up to you, Max.’
It wasn’t yet too late. Even at this stage, we could step back from the brink. And I did. I stepped back. I said, ‘I agree with Sands and Markham. Coincidences. Tragic, unfortunate coincidences.’