“The work is done,” said Samuel, emerging into the light of the cloister to stand next to Humphrey. “The commissioners may pull down Ewolda’s shrine, they may loot the treasury, but some secrets shall remain hidden.”
“Are you and I the only brothers who know this secret?” said Humphrey. “Does not even the abbot know, and might he not tell Cromwell?”
“He knows not,” said Samuel. “But there is no surprise there. The abbot knows little except how to feast and how to squander money. There is one other who knows—a brother at St. Ewolda’s named James. He suggested that we undertake the work we have now completed. He also believes that the books at St. Ewolda’s should be removed here, for that place will certainly be fully sacked, and the prior will be lucky to escape with his life. Here some of the books may escape the hands of the commissioners.”
“But surely the commissioners will be there within hours. Is it not too late to remove the books to Barchester?”
“That is a question,” said Samuel, “we shall be able to answer soon.”
May 11, 2016
SEVENTH WEDNESDAY AFTER EASTER
The next afternoon, Arthur bounded up the stairs to the cathedral library with a lightness in his step he hadn’t felt in ages. With the guidebook finished, he had no particular agenda; he just wanted to spend a couple of hours in his favorite place. He might pull out a manuscript of medieval prayers and try to brush up on his Latin or he might read through some of Bishop Gladwyn’s correspondence in the archive files. Perhaps he would return to one of the nineteenth-century books about life in Barchester, such as The Almshouse or Barchester Towers, or maybe he would choose Lives of Twelve Christian Men, a two-volume collection of short biographies of nineteenth-century churchmen that included the only biography of Bishop Gladwyn. Arthur had read those thirty pages over many times, but he had never read about any of the other eleven men.
After depositing his satchel on the floor by his now empty usual table, Arthur crossed the room and stood beside the wall of books. For a long minute he just gazed at their beauty. In this room, he thought, he would never lack for something to read. He saw gleaming leather bindings of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with spines decorated in gilt floral patterns and overlaid with leather labels in contrasting colors. Side by side with these beauties were books like Barchester Towers—volumes bound in brown or green or red cloth frayed at the spine from a thousand fingers pulling them off the shelves. Then there were the books of greatest value, unassuming bindings of mottled leather or smudged vellum with no markings on the spines—books on science and medicine, agriculture and art, theology and history, all dating from before the eighteenth century. Taking down one of these books was always an adventure for Arthur. Until he gently opened to the engraved title page he had no idea what the volume would hold. But he had had enough adventure lately. What he needed, he decided as he basked in the atmosphere of thousands of books, was an old friend.
He scanned the shelf of biographies where he expected to find Lives of Twelve Christian Men, but there was a gap where the two volumes ought to be. Because he spent so much time there alone, Arthur sometimes thought of the cathedral library as his private collection, and he was always a little taken aback to discover that other people used it, too. No matter, though. As he looked at the empty spot on the shelf he began to think that minibiographies of nineteenth-century churchmen were not, perhaps, the perfect reading for this afternoon.
He slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and felt what he had placed there that morning. In spite of all the wisdom that stood arrayed in cloth and leather and vellum before him, on this afternoon this was what he wanted to read—his Penguin paperback copy of Right Ho, Jeeves. Penguins were a marvel of publishing design, he thought. They nestled perfectly in your hand or your pocket, their pages turned like thick cream pouring from a pitcher, and, while most old paperbacks eventually fell apart, Penguins mellowed. They accumulated brown blotches of foxing on their covers and pages and they absorbed a subtle odor that spoke of pipes and damp and long walks in the countryside. Arthur opened to his bookmark, pressed his nose into the book, and inhaled deeply. Yes, he thought, as he settled into his chair and began to read, this was going to be a wonderful afternoon.
But Arthur had finished only a paragraph or two when it occurred to him Bethany was not clicking away at the far end of the room. Her equipment stood silent like some abandoned ruin. Arthur loved a quiet library, so why did he have so much trouble concentrating without the incessant click of her camera and tapping of her keyboard? He hadn’t seen her since they had returned from their unsuccessful expedition to Plumstead Episcopi. Perhaps she had gone into London for a few days to hobnob with some of her fellow digitizers, but wouldn’t she have told him? Maybe she was having a late lunch, or taking a walk to clear her head, or taking the three o’clock tour of Barchester Castle, but wherever she was, Arthur found that her absence made concentration impossible. He couldn’t spend more than a page with Jeeves and Wooster before stopping to listen for her footsteps. He had just reached the point in the narrative where Bertie was spiking Gussie Fink-Nottle’s orange juice when, at last, he heard feet on the stairs.
“I’ve been wondering where you’ve been,” said Arthur as the footsteps entered the library.
“At school like I am every day.”
Arthur turned to see Oscar, and found himself surprisingly disappointed. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought you were Bethany.”
“Yes, people often mistake us,” said Oscar. “I think it’s my girlish figure.”
“When did you become such a wit?”
“A coping mechanism, I suppose.”
“I find,” said Arthur, holding up his book, “I have become so used to the sound of Miss Davis’s equipment, that I can’t seem to concentrate on Jeeves without it. I can’t imagine why she’s not at work this afternoon.”
“Actually, she’s with Mother,” said Oscar. “I asked Bethany to look in on her and she’s just rung a few minutes ago to say she’s going to stay a bit longer until I can get over there. I just stopped by here to pick up a book to read to her. Mum likes to hear me read in spite of . . . you know, my voice.”
“Oh, God, Oscar, I’m so sorry. You told me she was back in hospital. Here I am nattering on about silly noises and reading Wodehouse, and you’ve got genuine problems to deal with. How is she getting on?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. They had thought she’d be ready to go home by yesterday, but now they think she might have developed pneumonia, so they want her to stay for a few more days at least.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Would you mind acting as host tonight?”
“Lord, I almost forgot it was Wednesday, and your week to host the BBs as well. Certainly I can take care of it. I’ll ring David. Will you still be able to come?”
“She’s usually asleep by six,” said Oscar. “I’ll tell Bethany about the change of venue.”
Bethany had become a regular at the BB meetings and although Arthur had resented her presence that first week, he had come to enjoy sparring with her over matters of digital media and watching David fail to seduce her.
“Does she spend a lot of time with your mother? Bethany, I mean.”
“She does,” said Oscar, smiling. “She’s been a real friend these past couple of weeks. Don’t know what I would have done without her. Bethany is . . . she’s a breath of fresh air, I guess you would say. I thank God for her every day.”
“I’d say maybe you’re the one with a bit of a crush.”
“No need to get jealous,” said Oscar. “I’m not moving in on your girl.”
“She’s not my girl,” said Arthur, rather more forcefully than he intended. “I have come to tolerate her, yes, and at times enjoy her company, but I’m no more interested in her romantically than you are.”
“That seems unlikely,” said O
scar with a wry smile. He turned and picked up a book from his desk. “Thanks for helping out tonight. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
“Give my best to your mother,” said Arthur as Oscar disappeared through the doorway. He felt a stab of guilt that he had not given his best to Mrs. Dimsdale personally. She had been in hospital for several days, and Arthur had been so caught up in his own concerns that he hadn’t even thought of going to visit her. On several occasions over the years, Mrs. Dimsdale had invited the BBs to dinner. David had flirted with her shamelessly, bringing a blush to her cheeks, and Arthur had eaten her heavenly trifle and done his best to be solicitous, but even though he had known her since childhood, he had never felt particularly close to her. That was no excuse, he knew, to avoid visiting her in hospital. He would go tomorrow afternoon, he vowed, as he slipped his book back in his jacket pocket. For now he would go home and tidy up in preparation for the BBs meeting, but tomorrow he would visit Mrs. Dimsdale. Maybe Bethany would go with him.
—
Arthur had just pulled a tray of scones out of the oven when David and Oscar arrived on his doorstep simultaneously.
“Thank you for doing this,” said Oscar.
“Don’t be foolish,” bellowed David, striding into the sitting room swinging a bottle of wine. “He’s always happiest when he’s hosting. That way he doesn’t have to leave his little nest. Now, corkscrew, please.”
“I’ve just made some scones,” said Arthur.
“Fine,” said David. “You enjoy teatime, but I am ready for some proper liquid refreshment.” David plopped down into his usual chair and Arthur ducked into the kitchen, appearing a moment later with a corkscrew, three wineglasses, and a plate of scones.
“Four glasses, Arthur,” said David, grabbing the corkscrew and setting to work on the bottle. “Bethany is coming, right?”
“I thought she didn’t drink,” said Arthur, remembering the Diet Coke Bethany had ordered when they first met.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said David. “Of course she drinks. I had a drink with her last night.”
Arthur took a moment to digest this piece of intelligence. He realized that he had come to think of Bethany as something like his own private acquaintance. Outside of her interactions with him, he had imagined, she did nothing but digitize manuscripts, eat, and sleep. But, in fact, Arthur was just one of her many friends in Barchester. She was sitting with Mrs. Dimsdale, and drinking with David, and dining with Gwyn, and who knew what else.
“How’s Mum, Oscar?” said David, once he had poured himself a glass of wine and attacked it with some ferocity.
“Better this evening, they say. Some chance she might be able to go home in a day or two.”
“I was thinking of going to visit her tomorrow,” said Arthur, determined to follow through on his resolution.
“I’m sure she’d appreciate that. She loves to be read to. She’ll listen to absolutely anything. Today, Bethany was reading to her from something called Lives of Twelve Christian Men.”
“Bethany has that book?” said Arthur.
“Yes,” said Oscar.
“I was looking for it in the library this afternoon.”
“Of course I can’t tell you what books Miss Davis checked out because of confidentiality rules, but I can tell you she was reading to my mother about Bishop Gladwyn this afternoon.”
“Seems an odd choice.”
“I don’t know about that,” said David. “From what she told me, she spent the weekend transcribing your stories about the history of the cathedral. In fact, I gather that, thanks to Bethany, you have now completed the grand task of your professional life and that a toast is in order.” David stood and raised his glass.
“Of course,” said Oscar. “With all the worry about Mother, I’d nearly forgotten. Bethany said you’ve finished the guidebook at long last.”
“To Arthur,” said David, “who may be the slowest writer in the history of English tourism, who may require the coaxing of an American assistant to finally give birth to what is undoubtedly a masterpiece, but who knows whereof he writes and who, furthermore, has impeccable taste in women.”
“To Arthur,” said Oscar, and as they lifted their glasses to drink, there was a knock on the door.
“I’m glad you could join us,” said Arthur to Bethany when he had shown her in. He would have liked a moment to take issue with some of the points in David’s toast, but he was nonetheless touched by his friends’ congratulations, in which Bethany now joined.
“Gwyn told me you e-mailed her the manuscript,” she said. “She says she really likes it.”
“Does she? I haven’t heard the first word from her.”
“I went to talk to her after Communion this morning.”
“You went to morning Communion?” said Arthur.
“I’ve been going every morning. It’s in St. Dunstan’s Chapel, which thanks to you, I know was originally a fifteenth-century chantry chapel dedicated to Bishop Draper. It’s tiny—it only fits about five of us, but it’s so beautiful with the fan-vaulted ceiling. It’s like a miniature cathedral. Anyway, they have Morning Prayer in the Epiphany Chapel on one side of the quire and Communion right after in St. Dunstan’s Chapel on the other side. So Arthur can go to Morning Prayer without ever knowing that I’m quietly praying just a few yards away before the Communion service starts.”
“I had no idea,” said Arthur.
“My point exactly,” said Bethany.
“The things about which Arthur has no idea are without number,” said David.
“Anyway, the dean was celebrating this morning and afterward I had a nice long chat with her over coffee and we happened to touch on the subject of your manuscript.”
“And she liked it?”
“She said there might be a few revisions and possibly a bit of trimming, but that could wait until the photos are selected. I gather the precentor has been put in charge of that.”
“Of course he has,” said Arthur, rolling his eyes.
“Apparently,” said Bethany, “Teresa has a friend who’s a professional photographer and she invited her down from London for the party on Friday and this woman has agreed to bring all her equipment and spend a few days shooting the cathedral. I suppose we’ll all meet her on Friday.”
“I’m sorry,” said Arthur, “but how will we meet her on Friday?”
“At Teresa’s party,” said Oscar.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” said Arthur.
“And my point is proven,” said David.
“She told me she invited you,” said Oscar.
“Have you stopped checking your e-mail again, Arthur?” asked Bethany. “He never checks his e-mail.”
“Who in God’s name is Teresa?”
“The precentor’s sister,” said Oscar.
“Why does everyone know people but me?”
“Because,” said David, “you’re antisocial and stay hidden away in the library all the time.”
“Oh, thank God you said that, David,” said Bethany. “I was afraid I was going to have to be the one to tell him.”
This comment brought a roar of laughter from David and even a chuckle from Oscar, but Arthur felt chastened. Was he really so far removed from the world?
“Now,” said David, “I propose we move forward with the reading. I believe Bethany has volunteered to fill in for Oscar, who was to have been our host.”
“Thank you, David,” said Bethany, taking a seat and pulling a book out of her handbag. “I’ve brought a little something that I think you’ll find interesting. This is from a book called Lives of Twelve Christian Men. You see, Arthur has convinced me that actual books can sometimes be worth reading. And on rare occasions they might even include information unavailable on my laptop.”
“I think you misunderstand the purpose of our rea
dings,” said Arthur. “They are meant to amuse, or at the very least to entertain.”
“Come now,” said David. “You don’t think Lives of Twelve Christian Men will be entertaining?”
“You said you were looking for it yourself this afternoon,” said Oscar.
“Not for entertainment exactly.”
“I’m sure I shall find it greatly entertaining,” said David, “especially if it annoys Arthur.”
“If you gentlemen would care to stop bickering, I can explain why I chose this particular volume. You, Arthur, may find it pleasant to rest on your laurels after completing the soon to be best-selling Visitor’s Guide to Barchester Cathedral, but as far as I’m concerned, we still have a mystery to solve involving a certain missing manuscript—a manuscript, I might add, that could very well force you to rewrite your entire opening section when it tells you the story of St. Ewolda. And Bishop Gladwyn’s biography holds some tantalizing clues about that manuscript.”
Arthur had been afraid for a moment that Bethany would mention the Grail, but she kept his confidence.
“I’ve read Gladwyn’s biography a dozen times,” said Arthur. “There’s nothing in there about a lost manuscript.”
“How did he ever become a researcher?” said Bethany to David.
“Search me.”
“You have to read between the lines, Arthur. We know there is a manuscript missing from the library. You guessed that it went missing on the night of the Nazi bombing, and maybe it did. But who is the last person we know saw the manuscript? Bishop Gladwyn, who included it in his inventory. So what does the biography tell us about Bishop Gladwyn? Some very interesting things, as it turns out.” Bethany picked up the volume of Twelve Christian Men. The section on Gladwyn bristled with sticky notes.
The Lost Book of the Grail Page 21