The Lost Book of the Grail

by Charlie Lovett

  “You’ve been busy,” said Arthur, nodding toward the pink and yellow place markers.

  “Evelyn fell asleep this afternoon and I had an hour or two. The biography’s only thirty pages long.”

  “Evelyn?”

  “My mother,” said Oscar.

  Arthur felt admonished again. He had been friends with Oscar for decades and hadn’t even remembered his mother’s Christian name.

  “So,” said Bethany, “I’m going to skip around, because I’ve marked the important bits—or at least the important bits for solving this little mystery.”

  “More than a little mystery, I’d say,” said Oscar. “Arthur if you and Bethany can recover the lost Book of Ewolda, that would be something.”

  “OK, a little background to start with. Gladwyn was the son of a country rector in rural Barsetshire, someplace called Uffley, but he apparently came to the cathedral often as a boy. He went off to Oxford, took his degree at Lazarus College, and then came back and served as curate for his father until the old man died in 1863. Then he became rector himself, but his eyes seemed to always be on the cathedral. In 1865, he became examining chaplain to Bishop Bridewell and the next year he became a canon of the cathedral. He hired a curate for Uffley and moved to Barchester. Then, in 1870, he picked up another job—I love the way these Victorian clergymen would hold all these different livings, rake in the money, and then pay curates a pittance to do all the work.”

  “Actually,” said Arthur, “that practice was dying out by the 1870s. It was the eighteenth century that—”

  “Hush, Arthur,” said David.

  Arthur hushed.

  “Anyway, guess what living he was given. I’ll give you a hint—tiny, almost no money associated with it, but also almost no responsibilities. Plus, tremendously important to our little mystery.”

  “St. Ewolda’s of the Missing Manuscript?” said David.

  “Practically. He was made rector of St. Cuthbert’s.”

  “Why should that make any difference?” said Oscar.

  “Because Arthur and I think another rector of St. Cuthbert’s, Henry Albert Naylor, took the manuscript on the night of the bombing. Don’t you think it’s a pretty big coincidence that the last two people who saw that manuscript were both rectors of St. Cuthbert’s?”

  “I’d completely forgotten that Gladwyn held the St. Cuthbert’s living,” said Arthur, shaking his head. There seemed no end to what Bethany could discover that had escaped his notice. And of course his grandfather had also been rector of St. Cuthbert’s. Arthur wondered if he, too, had been somehow connected to the manuscript.

  “But that’s not all,” said Bethany. “In 1872, Gladwyn became bishop and eventually he rebuilt the residences in the precincts that were damaged in the Civil War and then get this, he moved out of the bishop’s palace so it could be renovated and into the ‘modest cottage,’ as the book describes it, at Number Four, St. Martin’s Close. And he settled in. He never moved back because he liked being so close to the cathedral. And then listen to this. It’s from a letter written after his death by one of his fellow canons.

  Robert Gladwyn, in addition to his many good works, was a gracious host, a renowned wit, and a man of keen intellect. He could converse on almost any topic and outspar his opponent in any controversy. His knowledge of Barchester, its cathedral, and the outlying parishes of Barsetshire was encyclopaedic and his visitor’s guide to the cathedral will no doubt be read for generations to come. He was a regular fixture in the cathedral library, where he was known to read for hours on end at a worn and gouged table that he preferred to more modern furnishings.

  “That’s my table,” said Arthur. “That bit is one of the things that made me feel connected to Gladwyn.” Bethany continued.

  But the true source of his erudition was said to come from his personal library of some thousand volumes, which he kept in his own lodgings and which he generously shared with those of the cathedral community who wished to borrow books. Many of these volumes he left to the cathedral at the time of his death, but some remained in his lodgings, where he established a library for future residents.

  Bethany stopped reading and set the book on the table.

  “Am I missing something?” said Arthur.

  “Usually,” said David.

  “Tell him the rest, Oscar,” said Bethany.

  “Ah, so you and Oscar have been working the problem without me.”

  “Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Oscar knew where to find the records of the choirboys, so I figured he’d know where to find the records of who else lived at Number Four, St. Martin’s Close.”

  “And who else lived at Number Four, St. Martin’s Close?” asked Arthur.

  “Henry Albert Naylor,” said Oscar.

  Arthur gave a low whistle.

  “Naylor,” said Bethany, “who may have stolen the manuscript on the night of the bombing, lived in a house with a private library established by Gladwyn, the last man we know examined the manuscript. What better place to squirrel away a book?”

  “We should look,” said Arthur excitedly. “Who lives there now?”

  “Once again the rector of St. Cuthbert’s,” said Oscar.

  “And who is the rector of St. Cuthbert’s?” said David.

  “The precentor,” said Oscar.

  “The precentor,” said Arthur, expelling a breath.

  “The precentor,” said Bethany. “And I have an idea how we can swim into the salmon’s library.”

  —

  The BBs broke up early because Oscar wanted to get back to the hospital and check on his mother. Arthur announced his intention to go to Compline, and was pleased when Bethany took his arm and walked with him to the cathedral. They composed two-thirds of the worshippers, the other being Canon Dale, whose best singing days were some decades behind him. Bethany had never been to Compline, but she read music well and Arthur was surprised to find her the best singer of the three of them by some margin.

  “That’s a lovely service,” she said after Canon Dale had slipped away to his lodgings and she and Arthur sat alone in the chapel in the light of the dying candles. “I understand why you want to end your days like this.”

  “I find it very comforting,” said Arthur.

  “Even though you believe all those beautiful prayers fall on deaf ears?”

  “Just because I don’t believe in God doesn’t mean that I don’t want to. And it doesn’t mean I can’t find comfort in routine and in connecting myself through those words and this space to a hundred generations who have come before me here.”

  “That’s a nice thought,” said Bethany. They sat in silence for several minutes, until one of the candles flickered out. “Will you walk me home?”

  “Gladly,” said Arthur. He blew out the remaining candles, and they made their way through the dimness of the cathedral out into a cool night. The spire stood in silhouette against the rising moon and only a few lights glowed in the windows of the houses in the close.

  “I didn’t tell David and Oscar about the Grail,” said Bethany as they walked under the archway that led them into the High Street. “That’s just between you and me.”

  “I appreciate that. I don’t know why my grandfather wanted me to keep the Grail search a secret, but I’d like to respect that wish as much as I can—at least for now.”

  “I was looking at the marginalia in the Barchester Breviary today,” said Bethany. “If Barchester has a secret treasure, like the Holy Grail, for instance, it makes sense for it to be described in a coded manuscript, and it makes sense for that manuscript to be hidden by someone in authority.”

  “I just hope the missing book really is a coded manuscript and not just a Psalter.”

  “Have faith, Arthur,” said Bethany. They walked on in silence for a few minutes.

  “Do you think I’m an ant
isocial recluse?” asked Arthur as they turned the corner into the lane leading to Bethany’s lodgings.

  “I think you live in a world of books more than in a world of people. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing. And we still love you.”

  “We?”

  “Your friends, Arthur. And yes, I count myself in that number.”

  “Bethany, would you . . . that is, I wonder if you might . . .”

  “Spit it out, Arthur, before I change my mind about just how socially awkward you are.”

  “I was thinking of visiting Mrs. Dimsdale tomorrow afternoon, and I wondered if you would go with me.”

  “I thought you were busy tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Gwyn said this morning that a man was coming up from Sotheby’s to look at the manuscripts tomorrow afternoon and that you were going to show him around.”

  “Blast!” said Arthur. “I completely forgot. What a lovely prospect, showing the manuscripts to the man who will eviscerate the Barchester Cathedral Library.”

  “Do you really think they’ll sell them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did Gwyn tell you about the north transept?”

  “Yes,” said Arthur.

  “I suppose the history of English cathedrals is full of stories of bits that almost fell down.”

  “It’s also full of stories about bits that did fall down. I’m thinking of a new opening for the guidebook. ‘Widely considered, by those who bother to consider it at all, to be the most neglected cathedral in Britain, Barchester attracts little in the way of tourists, little in the way of historical or architectural study, and little in the way of funding—so little, in fact, that parts of it may well have collapsed into rubble by the time this guidebook is published.’”

  “Would selling the manuscripts raise enough for the repairs?”

  “I’ve no idea. But tomorrow afternoon I shall bite my tongue and smile and show Mr. Sotheby or whatever his name is around the library and just hope he doesn’t see too many things that appeal to him.”

  “I’m not sure you have it in you to talk trash about rare books, Arthur.”

  “Well, then,” said Arthur, thinking of the resolution he had made after talking with Gwyn. “I’ll just have to find another way.”

  “Another way to do what?”

  “To raise the money the cathedral needs to repair the north transept and maybe even build the Lady Chapel.”

  “How much would that take?”

  “Gwyn thinks about ten million pounds.”

  “What’s that, fifteen or twenty million dollars?”

  “Why, are you planning to write a check?”

  “I’m not, but to Jesse Johnson twenty million dollars is chump change.”

  “Are you saying that your boss, the evangelical nutcase who is dredging the Red Sea for Pharaoh’s chariots, would give obscure, forgotten Barchester Cathedral twenty million dollars?”

  “I highly doubt it, especially if you keep referring to him as a nutcase just because his religious views are different from yours. But if we find the Holy Grail, or even something that could be the Holy Grail—he’d pay millions for that. Lots of people would.”

  “And that fact may be exactly why my grandfather wanted me to keep the Grail a secret. But you bring up an interesting point.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That Jesse Johnson could easily afford to save Barchester Cathedral.”

  “Do you want me to hit him up for a donation?”

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  “I can do that,” said Bethany. “I’ll drop him an e-mail and tell him about the transept and the danger of the manuscripts being sold off. You never know—apparently he is very generous to causes that interest him.”

  “Thank you,” said Arthur. “It may lead to nothing, but it seems worth a try.” They had reached the door to Bethany’s lodgings and she fumbled to retrieve her key from her handbag.

  “Shall I make myself scarce tomorrow while you’re talking to the appraiser or whatever he is?” said Bethany. “I could go visit Evelyn. Tell her I’m bringing your good wishes.”

  “That’s very kind, and probably just as well that we have a little peace and quiet.”

  “Yes, I am such a loud and obnoxious American—how do you ever put up with me?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” said Arthur. “I only meant—”

  “It was a joke, Arthur. Thank you for taking me to Compline. And thank you for walking me home.” She stood on her toes and gave Arthur a light kiss on the cheek, then disappeared inside and closed the door. She had kissed David and Oscar good-bye when they had left Arthur’s cottage earlier that evening, so there was nothing unusual about her doing the same with him, but as he walked home, Arthur could not decide just how he felt about this new form of saying good night.

  X

  ST. DUNSTAN’S CHAPEL

  This beautiful chapel in the Perpendicular style was one of the last pieces of new construction in the cathedral prior to the Reformation. It was built in 1450 as a chantry chapel for the late Bishop Draper. A chantry was an endowment left by wealthy donors to pay for Masses to be said for their souls every day in perpetuity. For Bishop Draper, perpetuity turned out to be about ninety years. At the Reformation, the chantry’s endowment was confiscated by the king, and the chapel stripped of its finery and rededicated to St. Dunstan, a tenth-century abbot of Glastonbury.

  October 28, 1539, Priory of St. Ewolda

  “The inventory is complete,” said Thomas, “and prepared as you requested.”

  “Excellent,” said James. The two men stood in the treasury, over the open chest that held the monastery’s books. “Where is the volume of mathematical studies?”

  “Is this the time to be reading about mathematics?”

  “This is not the time to ask questions,” said James sharply. “Find the volume.” As Thomas sorted through the books, James took a quill and quietly added a column of numbers, memorized long ago, to the list of manuscripts.

  “Here is the book,” said Thomas, passing the volume to James.

  James inserted the inventory into the manuscript and returned the book to the chest. Then from within his robes he withdrew another volume.

  “I have one more book to add to our collection,” he said. “It is a volume I have toiled many months to prepare.”

  “What book is this?” said Thomas.

  “There is but little time for me to acquaint you with its contents,” said James. “For now I must entrust you with the most important task of your life. You must enlist the aid of Brother Anthony to help carry the books to the cathedral, where they might find at least some protection from the commissioners. But there is another object you must take with you, and of this great treasure and its history, with which I shall burden you, you must tell no one.”

  “What is this treasure?” asked Thomas, who could not believe that anything of great import could reside at St. Ewolda’s.

  “The most sacred relic of St. Ewolda’s or of any monastery, and today you shall return it to its home in Barchester, whence our Saxon brothers removed it nearly five hundred years ago—for you, my brother, are now the Guardian.”

  —

  An hour later, James watched as Thomas and Anthony made their way across the field outside the monastic precincts and toward the city of Barchester, carrying the book chest. Only Thomas and James knew the truth about the rest of their burden. James had prepared in every way he could for this day, even marking the treasure itself with a clue as to its true nature. He felt he had chosen the new Guardian well, that Thomas would do everything in his power to protect the treasure—he only hoped, in this time of great uncertainty, it would be enough.

  Brother James now turned his attention to the task he ha
d dreaded since he first heard the king had begun taking over the monasteries. With tears in his eyes, he made his way furtively through the lengthening shadows to the monastic kitchen. Several servants were already busy preparing dinner, and James stood watching them for a moment. As far as they knew, this was an ordinary day, no different from any other day of their lives. They had risen at four to prepare breakfast and would work in the kitchen until the evening bell tolled eight. Then, as required, they would sit in the nave, behind the screen, and listen to the murmured sounds of Vespers before returning to their lodgings. They were fed, sheltered, and clothed, which was more than many men of the realm could claim. And the monks of St. Ewolda’s prayed for them each day. Now James was about to destroy all that. He wiped the tears away with his sleeve, drew a deep breath, and stepped forward from the shadows.

  “Servants!” he called. “The monastery is under attack. You are dismissed. Fly or face the consequences.”

  “Pardon, sir, but where are we to fly?” asked a young man holding an onion in one hand and a knife in the other. “This monastery is our home.”

  “There is no home for you here anymore,” said James. “The king’s commissioners are upon us.”

  “But mustn’t they eat?” asked the man.

  “Fly, I tell you. Do you not understand that I bring instructions from the prior himself? No one who remains within the precincts of the monastery is safe for another hour.” James knew he was exaggerating the threat to mere servants of the monastery. Only the prior was likely in any real bodily danger. Still, he needed the kitchen to himself, and it was true that within a few days the monastery’s coffers would be emptied and there would be no money to pay the servants. “Now go!” he roared.

  The servants needed no further encouragement. While they may have had little understanding of theology or politics, they did understand that if one of the monks spoke to them in such an authoritative voice, it was best to do as he asked. In another moment, James had the kitchen to himself.