“Do you think Malory could have seen these carvings?” asked Bethany, once again leaning to inspect the figures.
“Who knows?” said Arthur. “The chapel was built just before the time when Malory was most likely writing Morte d’Arthur. If he ever visited Barchester, this would have been the newest work in the cathedral.”
“But he never described the sculptures of Camelot.”
“No,” said Arthur, “he didn’t.”
—
“Why, Arthur Prescott,” said Gwyn, striding toward Arthur on Friday night, drink in hand, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at a party before.”
Arthur fidgeted nervously, not so much because he was unused to parties—he was perfectly adept at making small talk when the occasion called for it—but because of his purpose at this particular party. He had had a meeting with Oscar, David, and Bethany in the library after Evensong and they had all agreed on the plan for the evening—a plan that, if all went well, would end with their being guilty of having stolen a medieval manuscript out of the private residence of a cathedral official. Arthur’s nervousness as he chatted with Gwyn had nothing to do with the party. It was just that he had never been part of a heist.
Arthur, David, Oscar, and Bethany had all read enough Agatha Christie and Ngaio Marsh and Sherlock Holmes that they had no trouble concocting an unnecessarily complicated plan to steal the manuscript from the precentor. The plot depended on knowing the exact size of the missing manuscript, but Bishop Gladwyn’s inventory described it only as “8vo.” That meant octavo, which meant the book was roughly the size of an ordinary hardback novel but roughly wasn’t good enough for tonight. They needed the exact measurements. This need led to Arthur’s first contribution—a rather masterful piece of detective work, he thought. The shelves of the former chained library on which the manuscripts sat were constructed specifically to hold these manuscripts, Arthur guessed. And he knew from experience that each shelf was about six inches too long—inches that would have been taken up by the width of the manuscripts’ covers if they had not been torn off. But the second shelf had almost eight inches of extra space. That meant, reasoned Arthur, that the missing manuscript had been about two inches thick.
“But what about the height?” said David.
“When the manuscripts were returned after the war,” said Arthur, “they were returned to the shelf in their original order. The same order given on Bishop Gladwyn’s inventory. And we know that manuscript B-28 was the last volume on the right of the second shelf.”
“What good does it do for us to know that?” asked David, but Arthur was already at the bookcase.
“The chains are still here,” said Arthur. “They are all pushed to the end of the iron rod, behind the molding at the edge of the bookcase, but they’re still attached.”
“So?” said David.
“The chains were originally attached to the top corners of the manuscripts, and each chain was just long enough to allow its manuscript to rest on the reading ledge.”
“That means if we compare the length of the chain for the missing manuscript to the chain for a manuscript that’s still here . . . ,” said Bethany.
“We can get a pretty close estimate of the height of the missing Psalter,” said Arthur. It took longer for someone to find a tape measure than to do the actual measuring and math.
“So,” said David, “the manuscript is two inches thick and nine inches tall.”
“And even though there is some variation in handmade manuscripts, we can guess that if it’s nine inches tall it will be about six inches wide.”
“Arthur, you’re a genius,” said Bethany, and she flung her arms around him.
“I always did think he was rather clever,” said David, smiling.
But Arthur only heard Bethany whispering into his ear, “Well done.” Even that he almost didn’t hear, for he was suddenly not thinking of manuscripts and chains but trying to recall the last time he had felt a woman’s embrace. He honestly could not remember. It felt nice, he thought. And as Bethany let her arms fall away from him and stepped back, he was a bit surprised to find that he was not blushing. Not only had it felt nice, it had felt natural.
“Here we are,” said Oscar, entering the library from the anteroom. “George Gilbert Scott’s plans for St. Martin’s Close. It’s a funny thing, I’ve seen it referred to as the most beautiful residential development in Britain and as the most hideous.”
“All depends on whether you like Victorian Gothic domestic architecture,” said David. “I myself find it appalling.”
“And I find it breathtaking,” said Arthur.
“But the real question,” said Bethany, “is where the precentor’s study is.”
“Right there,” said Oscar, pointing to an architectural drawing. “And,” he added, pulling another sheet to the top of the pile, “according to these renovation plans from the 1920s, the downstairs loo is right next to it.”
“Right,” said David, “I think that means we have a manuscript to steal.”
—
“So,” said Gwyn, once she had gotten Arthur a glass of wine, “I gather you had an excellent session with Mr. Mangum yesterday. I really appreciate your doing that. I realize you’re not on our staff, but you know more about those manuscripts than anyone.”
“It was my pleasure,” said Arthur, glancing around to see if Bethany had arrived yet. “We actually had a lovely afternoon, in spite of the black cloud that hung over the occasion.”
“Black cloud?”
“The possibility that Barchester’s history will be sold to the highest bidder.”
“Thankfully we’re not quite there yet.”
“And what did Mr. Mangum suggest as a next step?”
“He feels we should hire an appraiser to evaluate the manuscripts in more detail. But I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that he also suggested very strongly that we hold back a few of the items most important to the cathedral’s history. He was particularly firm in warning me not to sell the Barchester Breviary or the early Gospel of John.”
“I think Mr. Mangum’s sense of business is surpassed by his sense of history,” said Arthur with a smile.
—
The precentor, Arthur had discovered when he finally got around to checking his e-mail, was holding a party on Friday night. His sister Teresa acted as hostess, and Arthur suspected, as she greeted him at the door, that the party was more hers than her brother’s, but the precentor seemed perfectly capable of playing the role of host. He even managed to look less like a salmon than usual.
To most of the partygoers that night—canons and their spouses, friends of the cathedral, parents of the choirboys—the gathering seemed no different from any other year. Crowded rooms, flowing drink, heaps of food, and the deafening din of conversation that all but drowned out the choral music playing in the background. Not unusually, there had been a small disturbance by a guest who had overindulged in the liquid refreshment, but he had been politely sent on his way and would no doubt arrive at Sunday morning’s service contrite and sober. One of the other guests had come to the aid of the precentor when the drunken man had knocked over a pitcher of Pimm’s, but considering the loud altercation Arthur Prescott had with the precentor earlier in the evening on the subject of selling off the cathedral manuscripts, the spilling of a little Pimm’s was not even the most dramatic thing that happened at the party. For most, it was an enjoyable night.
But had there been a careful observer at the party, he might have seen something altogether different. He might have seen that the drunken man, local bookstore owner David Denning, had arrived quite sober, and never actually drank anything. True, he acted more and more tipsy as the evening wore on, but the source of this intoxication remained a mystery. Next, he might have seen a schoolteacher named Oscar Dimsdale make his way down a short hallway to the downstairs loo alm
ost immediately upon arrival. And had this careful observer had need of the loo himself thereafter, he would not have found two neatly folded hand towels by the sink but only one. He then would have watched the arrival of an American researcher named Bethany, who carried a large handbag and spent several minutes flirting shamelessly with the precentor. And from there things would have gotten even more interesting.
—
Arthur checked his watch. Nine forty-five. He sipped his wine as Gwyn spoke about the manuscripts, but his eyes were focused on the host. Bethany laid a hand on the precentor’s forearm and tossed her hair back, letting out a loud laugh. Arthur didn’t know what she was saying, but he knew it was working. The precentor would not forget talking with Bethany tonight. As soon as she patted him on the cheek and moved on, Arthur nodded to David and made his own move.
“So kind of you to include me, sir,” he said, holding his hand out as he approached the precentor.
“Of course, my good man, of course,” said the precentor, and then turning to his sister, he added, “This is Arthur Prescott. He’s just completed the text for our new cathedral guidebook. It’s a bang-up job, Arthur. I’ve not had the chance to tell you, but I truly enjoyed it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Arthur. “It’s a shame it will be the only piece of the cathedral’s history left.”
“Why whatever can you mean?” said Teresa.
“Only that your brother has decided that the cathedral should sell off its history to the highest bidder,” said Arthur, slowly raising his voice.
“Arthur, I don’t—” said the precentor, but Arthur let him get no further.
“Our host,” he said waving his arm and turning to the nearest clump of partygoers, “thinks that Barchester should sell its very soul to a bunch of Americans who will no doubt put it on display in some place like . . . like Chicago and charge thirty dollars’ admission.” Chicago was the first American city Arthur could think of, and he spat the word at the precentor and drew the attention of a dozen or so guests with his little speech. He wasn’t sure exactly how much thirty dollars was, but it sounded an unholy amount.
“Mr. Prescott,” said the precentor calmly, “in the first place, I was not the one who proposed the sale of the manuscripts. In the second place, as you well know, their contents are being fully digitized and will be available to anyone free of charge, and lastly, if we do not raise some funds and quickly, there will be no cathedral. The north transept is in serious danger of collapse.”
“The cathedral is a house of God,” said Arthur as he watched Bethany disappear unnoticed down the hall, past the loo, and through the door into the precentor’s study. “Better that it should lose an arm than lose its very soul.” Bethany closed the door behind her. Now came the tricky part. Arthur had no idea how long Bethany would spend in the study. If she found the manuscript, she would replace it with a manuscript on the history of the kings of England—a manuscript that happened to be two inches thick, nine inches tall, and six inches wide and that had entered the party in her voluminous handbag. But Arthur had to continue being a distraction until Bethany was back among the guests. If she ended up having to do a thorough search of the study, that could take quite a while. It was, he thought, the flaw in the plan. But Bethany had insisted she could search the room quickly and that Arthur was as good at arguing as anyone in Britain.
“I would contend,” said the precentor, “that the soul of the cathedral lies in its very stones. Think of the lives of the men who raised that glorious structure. How many were killed in the process? For that matter, how many are entombed below the aisles and in the walls? The cathedral is sacred space and sacred ground and we owe it to the generations that have come before us and to those that will come after us to preserve it.”
Arthur completely agreed with this assertion, but his job tonight was not to agree but to contest. “But at what cost? Would you sell your heart to preserve your . . . your . . .”
“Worship is the heart of the cathedral,” said the precentor as Arthur fumbled for a metaphor. “It has been for a thousand years and, God willing, it will be for a thousand more. Worship. Not a pile of dusty old manuscripts.”
Arthur was discovering that, as talented as he was at disputation, the task was much more difficult when one agreed with one’s opponent. Luckily, Bethany slipped out of the study at that very moment, and he could tell by her smile that she had found something.
“I bow to your argument,” said Arthur, backing away from the precentor. His part was finished now. “Sell the manuscripts, sell the books, and let us all enjoy the smell and the feel and the history of glowing computer screens.”
“Wash all dis den?” said David, staggering past Arthur to take up his part in the drama. He poked the precentor in the chest as he spoke. “Are you selling the cathedral?” Arthur hoped he wasn’t overdoing it.
“You’ve had a bit too much,” said Arthur. “Suppose we get you home.”
David timed the flail of his arms perfectly. Teresa had just stepped up with a pitcher of Pimm’s and with one swoop he knocked it from her arms and sloshed half of it down the front of the precentor. It couldn’t have worked any better if Teresa had been in on the plot. David was supposed to have thrown a drink at the precentor, but this was even better. While everyone’s attention turned to the precentor, Arthur looked down the hall. Oscar had retrieved David’s coat and stood next to Bethany. Her arm hidden by the drapes of the coat, she slipped something from her handbag into the voluminous inner pocket. Oscar passed her a hand towel and she came striding forward from the hallway that led to the loo.
“Oh my goodness, let me help get you cleaned up,” she said, approaching the precentor.
“Sorry about that,” said David. “Praps a bit too much . . .”
Now Oscar stepped forward, holding out the coat. “Come on. Let’s get you home,” he said, slipping the coat over David’s shoulders.
In the meantime, Bethany was wiping up the precentor with the hand towel. “I know I have some wet wipes in my bag somewhere,” she said, opening the bag wide and holding it where the precentor could easily look in. She began pulling items out and setting them on the coffee table—a wallet, lipstick, keys, hairbrush. Finally she turned the bag upside down and the last few items tumbled onto the table, including a packet of wet wipes. By the time she had finished wiping up the precentor’s face, he was beet red with embarrassment, but he, and everyone else, had seen the entire contents of Bethany’s bag.
“I’m so sorry about this,” said Bethany. “I’m afraid he came with me and he ordered a whole bottle of wine with dinner and then I hardly drank anything because I’ve been a little under the weather lately and . . . well, I suppose I should help you walk him home, Oscar.”
A minute later the party was back in full swing and the four conspirators were hurrying across the close toward the cloister. No one spoke until they were all safely in the library. Oscar flicked on a light and they stood in a circle looking at one another in silence for a moment.
“Well,” said David, “that was fun.” Suddenly the tension was broken and all four burst out laughing.
“Did you see the look on his face when you spilled the Pimm’s?” said Arthur.
“What about when you told him to cut off the cathedral’s arm?” said Oscar.
“Uhm, gentlemen,” said Bethany, when the laughter had subsided, “don’t you want to know what I found?”
“Yes, yes,” said David. “Out with it.”
“It’s in your pocket,” said Bethany.
“Christ, I forgot,” said David. “I am sober, I promise.”
“Only a sober man could act that drunk,” said Oscar.
David reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a volume with no front cover. He laid it on the nearest table and for a moment the four just gazed at it.
“Have you looked inside?” said Arthur.
> “No time,” said Bethany. “I found it pretty quickly, just in among the books on the shelf behind his desk. I made the switch and got out of there. I didn’t want to leave Arthur hanging.”
“You do the honors, Arthur,” said Oscar.
Arthur pulled out a chair, sat down and slid the volume closer. Gingerly he turned over the first leaf. In a script that he guessed was late fifteenth-century the text began:
Beatus vir qui non abiit in consilio impiorum et in via peccatorum non stetit in cathedra derisorum non sedit
“Psalm one, verse one,” said Oscar, running his fingers along the text.
“Damn,” said David.
“So it is the missing manuscript,” said Arthur, “but it’s not an encrypted book of ancient history. It’s just what Gladwyn’s inventory called it—an ordinary Psalter. No illuminations, no—”
“You’re very trusting, aren’t you, Arthur?” said Bethany.
“I beg your pardon?”
“And you believe your first impressions. Have you noticed that? It was true with me, wasn’t it? You saw me in the chapter house and you thought I was beautiful and then we met and you thought I was annoying and that’s been me ever since, as far as you’re concerned—beautiful and annoying.”
“How did you know I thought—”
“And it’s the same thing here. You look at the first page and you assume Psalter.”
“I’m sorry,” said Arthur, “do you have a point?”
“My point is you have to look further than your first impressions, Arthur. It’s possible that I am more than beautiful and annoying, and it’s possible that this manuscript is more than a Psalter.” Bethany sat down next to Arthur and took the manuscript from him, slowly turning its pages.
“Wanting there to be a mystery won’t make it so,” said Arthur.
“Yes,” said Bethany, “but ignoring a mystery won’t make it go away. See.” She had turned about a third of the pages in the Psalter and she laid the book in front of Arthur. On the left side of the spread was the text, in Latin, of Psalm XXX. On the right page, Psalm XXXI began, but after the beginning of the third verse the Latin changed to incomprehensible groups of letters, each group nine letters long.
The Lost Book of the Grail Page 24