As she sat, McMillan stepped forward, holding a paperback, and smoothly sailed into what was obviously an oft-delivered talk. He explained how, after a career in journalism, he decided to write a novel. "I'd always been interested in ancient history, and how the past affects the present and future, so I started writing thrillers with an historian as the protagonist." He opened the paperback. "Now, before I answer any questions, I want to read a chapter from my latest novel, Judas Kiss. Let me describe the events leading up to it …"
He explained that, in the earlier chapters, Heckman raced across continents looking for a gospel written by Judas Iscariot in which the arch-traitor revealed that he was extra-friendly with Mary Magdalene. Indeed, he betrayed Jesus to the Romans because Jesus started shagging her as well and he got jealous.
Needless to say, the Pope doesn't want the legions of the faithful, or potential converts, to know that Jesus got nailed to the cross for nailing Mary. He assigns a mad hermaphroditic monk - working for the Vatican's secret service, the Ninth Bureau - to thwart Heckman. An evil secret society, founded by the sons of Judas Iscariot, called the Brotherhood of Satan, also wants to grab the manuscript and use it to rehabilitate the arch-traitor.
McMillan read out a chapter in which the bi-gender monk tries to kill Heckman on the roof of a train between Dresden and Prague, but is decapitate when the train passes under a bridge, leaving behind only a patch of blood and his rosary beads.
Julia wasn't interested in the chapter, the book or the series. She tuned out until McMillan smiled, closed the paperback and said: "I'm afraid that, if you want to know how the book ends, you'll have to buy a copy, or borrow it from this library if you must."
After a smattering of applause, he asked if there were any questions.
A beaky old woman sitting near the front gave him a rapturous stare. "One of the things I love about your books is the historical detail. You must do a lot of research."
The author beamed. "Yes, I do. I don't want to boast, but I can honestly say that I taught myself Ancient Hebrew and Aramaic to get close to the primary sources. It wasn't easy, but I'm glad I did. Any more questions?"
An elderly bald man in a skivvy stood up. "I've read all of your books, including Judas Kiss, and I'm a big fan. I think you do a better job of uncovering the truth than ancient historians. I mean, it's obvious that a prostitute like Mary Magdalene would have slept with Jesus. No wonder Judas got upset and betrayed him to the Romans."
McMillan brightened further. "Thank you. I don't want to brag, but I think that novelists can unlock truths that historians can't. Historians spend too much time worrying about whether there is enough evidence to support their conclusions. Novelists don't have that problem. We can use insight and imagination to illuminate the past."
The old man smiled back. "I agree. But there's just one thing I don't quite understand about Judas Kiss ..."
"What?"
"The monk's a hermaphrodite - so why isn't he a nun as well?"
Julia reflected that, if you write a silly book you've got to expect silly questions.
McMillan looked nonplussed. "Mmm, good point. I didn't think about that. I guess he had to choose one or the other, and preferred to be a monk."
Julia wondered if the old guy was going to be the loud, obnoxious know-it-all who surfaced at every Author Talk. But he sat down, looking faintly disappointed.
A man in his fifties, standing to the side, held up his hand. He had a full head of silvery hair and distinguished features. His fawn jacket, paisley waistcoat and green velvet trousers made him look like a diamond in a dustbin.
McMillan nodded towards him. "Yes?"
The guy had a well-cultivated English accent. "You say in your book that Judas Iscariot wrote his gospel in Aramaic?"
"Yes, I do."
"Surely, he would have written it in Hebrew?"
"No, most Jews at that time spoke Aramaic."
"True, but most Jews wrote in Hebrew because that was the written language of the Torah."
The novelist took a half-step back and glanced at Julia, as if blaming her for the guy's presence. "Sir, he had a choice, and he chose Aramaic."
A frown. "I thought you said you do scrupulous research."
A counter-frown. "I certainly do." McMillan looked around. "Any further questions?"
His inquisitor didn't give up. "Just one further matter …"
"What?" the author snapped.
"You also say that there was a love triangle involving Judas, Jesus and Mary Magdalene. The Bible doesn't mention that."
"It doesn't deny there was one."
"It says, very clearly, that Judas betrayed Jesus for 30 pieces of silver, not because Jesus slept with Mary Magdalene."
"The Bible was hardly going to portray Jesus in a bad light, was it?"
The distinguished-looking guy shrugged and lapsed into silence.
Many who attended Author Talks were budding writers hoping to be shown a short-cut to literary immortality. The youngest attendee - in his mid-forties - rose from his seat: "Are there any important rules a thriller writer should follow?"
A bright smile. "Yes, don't dawdle: put your foot down right at the start, and don't lift it. So don't let your characters stand around talking. That never works. And give your thriller an interesting setting." He made a sweeping gesture with his right arm. "I'd never set a novel in a place like this, because it's too dull. And always remember that writing a novel is a simple art that's hard to do simply. Why? Because we let our egos get in the way. When I write, I send it out of the room."
Julia realised, to her surprise, that his last piece of advice was the best she'd heard at an Author Talk.
"Thank you," the questioner said.
"Any more questions?"
Julia hoped the grumpy guy in the fawn jacket would return to the fray, but everyone stayed silent.
Julia stood, thanked McMillan for attending and joined the polite round of applause.
Most of the audience wandered out, including the grumpy guy, but about a dozen surrounded the novelist to compliment him on his novels and get him to sign copies they'd brought along.
Eventually, Julia shepherded all of the attendees out of the door and found herself alone with McMillan.
He said: "Thank you. I thought that went well, except for that cranky guy."
The author seemed to be blaming her for his presence. What was she supposed to do? Interrogate everyone who turned up. "I'm afraid there's someone like that in every audience."
A sigh. "I guess so. If only he saw how much research I do." He shook her hand. "Thank you, and goodnight."
He wandered off and she started turning off the lights.
CHAPTER TEN
The next day, a Saturday, the library was only open between 9 a.m. and noon. Julia and Gary were rostered to work.
About half-an-hour after the library opened, she was sitting at the borrowing counter, staring into space, when she heard a buttery voice.
"Excuse me."
She shook herself out of her revere and saw a silver-topped guy, in a tweed jacket, standing in front of her. He looked familiar. Then she remembered that he gave Tex McMillan a hard time at the Author Talk the previous evening.
"Yes?"
He held up a book. "I want to borrow this book."
"Do you have a card?"
"I'm afraid not. I just moved to this suburb."
"Then you'll have to become a member. The joining fee is $20, unless you're a pensioner, in which case it's zero. We don't offer frequent flyer points, I'm afraid."
He smiled. "I'll pay the $20."
"Alright, give me your name and address."
He said his name was "Ralph Finetree" and gave her an address in Bradfield.
She typed those details into the computer. "Do you have some ID?"
He showed her a driver's licence, which she barely glanced at, and handed her $20, which she stuck in a drawer.
"You can borrow now. Your card will be sent ou
t in the mail."
"Thank you". He handed her a book called "The Historical Jesus."
"You're interested in biblical history?"
"I was an Associate Professor in Biblical Studies at Sydney University, until I retired."
She'd always assumed academics were dry and dusty types. He was far from that. Apart from being good-looking and stylishly dressed, he had the air of someone who'd seen a lot and done a lot; he'd tested himself and not been found wanting.
"You must have retired early."
A smile. "Thank you."
"Why did you come to the Author's Talk last night?"
"Oh, just idle curiosity. I wasn't going to say anything until he criticised academic historians. Then I lost my rag, I'm afraid. He's entitled to write rubbish and call it fiction. He can even mess around with the facts, if he wants, to sell books. But he shouldn't pretend to know more than specialists in the field."
"I'm glad you turned up. You certainly livened up proceedings."
A gentle smile. "Thank you."
She swiped the book and handed it back to him. "I'm afraid our ancient history section is rather thin."
"True, but I've been looking around for this book. Thanks for your help."
"No problem. I hope to see you at a few more Author Talks."
A grin. "I'll try to attend."
He strolled off, leaving her mildly curious, because exotic guys like him rarely wandered into the library. He must have published numerous academic books and articles. With nothing better to do, she surfed the internet, looking for references to him or anything he wrote. She found none - zero. Strange. Maybe she lent the book to an imposter. If so, she didn't care.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Julia was a child, her parents took her to Mass every Sunday. However, her faith was already wavering when she was fifteen and her mother got cancer. It revived for a few years while she prayed for her recovery, only to nose-dive when her prayers weren't answered. After that, she only went to church to keep her father company.
That Sunday, at his insistence, they went to an early mass at St Augustine's, a sandstone church overlooking a harbour-side park. Her father lit a candle for his wife and they sat in a pew near the back.
The presiding priest was Father Xavier, a Filipino in his mid-fifties transferred to Australia because most local priests were either too old or in gaol for the standard crime. Slight and bald, he spoke halting English which Julia had trouble understanding. That was a blessing, because it meant his sermons washed over her.
That Sunday, while he sermonised about the "sacribises of our faber in heben", she mentally thumbed through her memories of Tom Birkett while idly scanning the congregation. Most were regulars. Her eyes were drooping when she noticed a luminous bald head on the other side of the church, a little further forward. Mr Cheshire? Surely not. She'd never seen him at this church before.
Tom Birkett tumbled out of her mind as the bald head turned, offering a profile. Yes, definitely Mr Cheshire.
Out of boredom, more than anything else, she kept a close eye on him. He sat with his shoulders hunched, staring down, showing little of his face. A few times, his shoulders quivered. Thought it was entirely out of character, he seemed to be crying. Wow. Next, he'd start levitating.
After the service, as everyone filed out and her father chatted with some friends, she raced after her fellow librarian, catching him at the bottom of the steps. "Hello Mr Cheshire."
He stopped and looked surprised, eyes suspiciously red. "Good morning."
"Umm, what did you think of the service?"
"Terrible."
"Why?"
"The priest speaks awful Latin. God couldn't understand him."
"You understand Latin?"
"Of course."
She couldn't help being nosey. "Do you go to church every Sunday?"
A wintery smile bathed in sunlight. "No. My parents took me to church when I was a child - I was even an altar boy. But I lost my faith a long time ago."
"Then why are you here?"
"I was trying to find it again."
She was surprised at his candour. "Did you?"
"No. I only believe in the devil."
Somebody - maybe the devil - played scales on her spine. Her mouth went dry. "Really?"
He suddenly realised that he'd said too much and frowned. "Yes, I will see you at work."
On that spooky note, he strolled off and disappeared around a corner.
Her father appeared at her side. "Who was that?"
She stopped her hands quivering and quieted the rumblings in her head. "Mr Cheshire. I work with him."
"You mean, he's a librarian?"
"Yes."
"Strange looking man. I haven't seen him at church before."
"He doesn't come often." She almost explained that Mr Cheshire only believed in the devil, but that would upset her father.
The church was situated at one end of the main street running through Bradfield. They strolled home past boutiques, restaurants and cafes while her father nattered away about the Ashes test being played at the Sydney Cricket Ground. She tuned out and pondered her encounter with Mr Cheshire. He was obviously a deeply troubled man. Was that because he murdered the old man in the library, or because life had become too much for him? Maybe his cat had died. Impossible to know.
To subdue the turmoil in her head, she ignored her father's chatter and studied shop-front dresses in the boutiques they wandered past. She was looking at the pleated ruff on a blouse when something brushed her arm. She looked up. A child with a mop of dark hair zoomed past on a kick scooter.
The boy looked familiar. Was he the little Asian boy who told her the old guy was dead, and maybe saw the murder? Quite possibly. Oh Christ.
"Stop him," she yelled.
Her father and several other pedestrians looked startled. The boy sailed on, oblivious.
Her father said: "Who?"
"The little boy."
"What little boy?"
She waved her finger at the fast disappearing child. "That one."
"Why?"
"Because ... because he's the little boy."
Shit. No point explaining. She dashed after the boy, dodging around pedestrians, dogs on leads and ridiculously wide prams.
The kid's left leg was pumping hard. But she was a good runner and gained ground. "Stop ... Stop ..."
As the child turned into a side-street, she glimpsed his profile and knew she was chasing the right quarry. She was also confident of catching him, until she turned the corner and saw the side-street plunged down-hill. The little boy was accelerating away. Jesus. "Stop ... stop ..."
The boy glanced over his shoulder, briefly slowed down, then seemed to recognise her and pumped his left leg even harder, rocketing down the hill.
"Stop ... Stop ..."
He zipped around a corner and she knew she'd never catch him. She pulled up, breathing hard. Bloody hell.
She trudged back up the slope to the main street, feeling disconsolate, wishing the little bugger was obese like the rest of his couch-potato generation.
Her father stood at the corner, looking perplexed. "What on earth was that about?"
Her breathing was almost normal. "I think that was the little boy who saw the old man get killed in the library."
"My God. And you let him get away?"
"I did my best."
"Are you going to tell the police you saw him?"
"Are you kidding? If I do, they won't give me a big hug."
CHAPTER TWELVE
On Monday morning, Julia strolled to work thinking about Mr Cheshire. She'd always thought him spooky. That feeling jumped several notches after she saw him monster little Russell for wiping his snot on a library wall, argue with the guy in the cafe and then sob in the church. It was now very easy to suspect he murdered the homeless old guy.
However, there was no point approaching the police, because she had no proof and couldn't even identify a motive. Further, if
Mr Cheshire discovered her treachery, he might try to murder her. He'd certainly complain to the Council that she'd engaged in bullying and harassment, which would ruin her career.
Despite that, she was dying to peel back the layers of mystery that surrounded him. Who was he? Where did he come from? How did he wind up at the Bradfield Public Library? His secrecy about himself just whetted her curiosity.
Fortunately, because Mr Cheshire and Bronwyn would be away that day, she would have a perfect opportunity to look through his personnel file. She slipped through the front entrance of the library and found the lights off. Good. She probably had at least fifteen minutes before Gary or Tom arrived.
She slipped into Bronwyn's office and locked the door behind her. Several times in the past, she had watched her boss unlock a filing cabinet drawer and take out her personnel file. Bronwyn kept the key in the bottom drawer of her desk.
Julia fished out the key and opened the filing cabinet drawer. A hanging file marked "Arthur Cheshire" was just behind one with Julia's name. Hand trembling, she laid it out on the desk and opened it up.
The pile of papers was a couple of centimetres high. The first document was a six-page pro-forma job application that Mr Cheshire filled out. It indicated he was born in London, was 56 years old, and obtained a Bachelor's degree in Library and Information Science, and a Masters Degree in Archival Science, from the University of London. His impressive credentials made her even more curious to know how he ended up working at the Bradfield Public Library. Bronwyn was the head librarian and she had no qualifications at all.
After graduating, he worked for almost thirty years at the Oxenfeld Public Library in Manchester, before coming to Australia. He had claimed, a few days ago, that he worked at a "wonderful library" in England. That obviously wasn't true because he worked at a community library.
He migrated to Australia three years ago and worked at the Coxwood Public Library in Adelaide, South Australia, for about two years, before moving to Sydney and joining the Bradfield Public Library.
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