by Holly Bell
Attempting to keep her footing and cross the remaining yards to Trelawney, Amanda was now further hampered. She was struggling for breath after asthmatic breath, the fumes biting. Her vision was fizzing before her. Trelawney took a run, jumping and grappling his way towards her. Finally closing the gap, catching her as she fell, he half-carried Amanda towards the tunnel. She put out her arm behind her, trying to grab Jonathan, coming up with a stumbling run. As she did so, Amanda caught sight of the Oracle, standing secure and stable upon her dais, her eyes shafting across the distance between them. The woman raised her hands then lowered them palm down. The ground of the hall was settling and reforming.
Jonathan had gained the ramp.
‘I’m all right,’ he gasped. ‘But I think the water could rise. We have to get up above!’
The uneven and rocking steps made the climb steep, the powdering rock swamping their lungs, as they gradually gained the ascent. Barely conscious, Amanda knew that there one more thing she had to do. As they made the top of the stairs Amanda, groped for her wand and murmured the words of the spell to let them safely back across the time boundary. The pulsing portal was the last thing she saw before darkness took her.
Chapter 35
The Clue
There was something in her mouth. Amanda felt spray in the back of her throat and began to cough, as the object was removed. She opened her eyes to see her inhaler in a man's hand. She looked up. Trelawney was supporting her, with her head on his left shoulder, as they sat on the stone floor of the stacks. Tempest sat unconcerned, cleaning his fur, but Jonathan was staring anxiously at Amanda. However, the inspector assured her,
‘Take your time, Miss Cadabra. We got out safely.’
With no more chalk dust or exertion, Amanda’s breathing soon returned to normal.
‘I’m OK,’ she told them presently.
‘Sure?’
‘Yes. I have to get Jonathan back to normal.’
Trelawney helped Amanda to her feet and over to a chair by the table.
‘Can you do it from here?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ She got out her IKEA pencil and unsheathed the wand within. She held it up and pronounced:
‘O Twantra Weoroldrow Vrifte, ime besidgi wou. Liefa adraelan eodha rifteunow. Liefa edhwiersk Jonathan Sheppard. Framth keaold brystioc dho keaold keoaoldes. Aswa gworsp pehyhtya maegal.’
They saw the Jonathan standing beside them move towards the Jonathan at the table, as if drawn by a magnet. The two merged, form into form. Amanda spoke another simpler spell, taking him from trance to sleep:
‘Cusslæpath.’
‘I’ll let him doze for a bit,’ she said to Trelawney, putting her wand away. ‘It was quite a traumatic experience for him.’
The inspector took a seat beside Amanda. ‘Indeed. Now … I heard the Oracle say, “Liver dew”. Was that her only answer?’
‘Yes, and she got pretty annoyed when I asked for more. In fact, that seemed to really set her off and start the whole cave rattling.’
‘So, is this a reference to some witch’s potion involving offal and moisture gathered at dawn, brewed at midnight under a full moon?’
Amanda smiled. ‘If there is such a potion, I’ve never come across it.’
‘Not even in one of those darkly arcane tomes of your grandmother’s?’
‘No … although … it might be on one of the pages Grandpa sealed or made invisible because he thought it was unsuitable. But no, you see, I don’t think that she was speaking in English at that point. She did keep switching between the two, and I think those words were Cornish.’
‘Lyver …’ Trelawney groped around in his memory. ‘I feel I should know this. It’s a simple word.’
‘Book,’ supplied Amanda.
‘Book. Wait. The other word. Not dew but du. Black or dark?’
‘I’d say black. There’s another word for dark.’
‘Black book then. Was she saying that Miss Gibbs was in someone’s black books?’ suggested Trelawney.
‘I don’t think we have that expression in Cornish. No, I think it was literal.’
‘A black book.’
‘Yes, and I think she meant one that’s here, in the library, because this seems to be a place that she can manipulate.’
‘One of the books that fell on Miss Gibbs, perhaps?’
‘Have you looked at them?’ asked Amanda.
‘Just quickly. I assumed that it was the weight of the books and shelves that was the instrument of death rather than any individual work being significant.’
‘Me too,’ she admitted. ‘But let’s say it is one of the ones that fell down. How many of them are black?’
‘We’ll see. We kept them all together back there.’ He gestured towards the crime scene.
‘How much time to do you have left before your arrest deadline?’ she checked.
Trelawney hadn’t wanted to bring that up. Adding pressure would not increase efficiency in so enigmatic a situation. Now that Amanda had asked, he didn’t need to consult his watch.
‘Eight and half hours.’
‘Gulp. Shall we wake Jonathan? He could help: tell us if there was anything special about any of those books.’
‘Good idea.’
Amanda drew out her wand once more and with a tiny movement towards their resting friend, uttered,
‘Awaekdenath.’
Jonathan opened his eyes and blinked a few times. He looked at Amanda.
‘That wasn’t a dream, was it?’
‘More a sort of vision. And thanks to your help, Jonathan, we got an answer of sorts: black book. We think it could be one of the books that fell on Samantha. If you’re up to it, the inspector is going to show us where his team has put them.’
‘Oh good. Yes, I'm fine. I actually feel rather refreshed. I must say I am looking forward to when those fallen books and files are released. Then I can catalogue and shelve them properly, as necessary,’ said the assistant librarian diligently.
‘I’m sure,’ agreed Trelawney, and led the way to the crime scene. There were large boxes of books and ring binders stacked up in the aisle. ‘Let’s take these back to the table,’ he suggested. The men hefted the cardboard containers back to the chairs, and Amanda joined them in looking through the stash.
‘Just black?’ confirmed Jonathan.
‘Let’s have a pile for dark too: dark grey, brown, blue or green. Just in case.’
They commenced. Most were beige, blue, red or green. Some had dust jackets to be checked under; some were ring binders in mottled grey. In the end, there were just three truly black books on the table before them. They each took one.
‘Understanding Seventeenth-Century Drainpipes by S P Outleigh,’ read the inspector, looking at the title, doubtfully.
‘About as inspiring as this one,’ replied Amanda, ‘Making Your Own Potting Shed – A Guide for Girls of All Ages, by Ina Woude and Natalie Tooley.’
They looked hopefully at Jonathan who seemed to be absorbed in the slender, leather-bound work in his hands.
‘Erm … there is a title on the front: Climb Every Mountain by Joey Crimpscale. But inside it appears to be a journal. Hand-written. Only … I don’t recognise the words.’ He handed it across the table to the inspector, who perused it, slowing turning the pages.
‘This appears to be in Cornish.’ He passed it to Amanda, who immediately began to study it. ‘Do you know anything about this book, Mr Sheppard?’
‘Not much. I mean, even though it’s one of mine.’
‘Yours?’
‘Well, only technically. It was in a box of volumes I was given by a friend who didn't have room for them. I stored them down here, meaning to sort through and give some to the library and some to charity. I remember the title, Climb Every Mountain, but I never looked inside the covers until just now.’
‘It’s a diary,’ said Amanda, reading. ‘The handwriting isn’t clear, as though it was
written by someone with poor eyesight or in bad light. Grandpa used to write like this when he couldn’t be bothered to put on his glasses.’
‘What does it say?’
‘It’s a … a journey, I think. Please give me a few moments, Inspector.’
‘Of course.’ He left her to read. ‘Mr Sheppard, can you recall who gave you the books?’
‘Yes, it was er ... Lyn … Lynford Warder. Yes, chaps used to call him Hoarder Warder because he never threw anything away. Then he moved or something, and didn’t have room, and distributed his excess to anyone who’d give it houseroom.’
‘And you did? Have houseroom?’
‘Yes, at the time. But when I moved to Sunken Madley and into The Elms, I didn’t want to start off by asking for space in the cellar or attic, especially when I couldn’t be sure at that time how dry they were. So, I asked Mrs Pagely if I could put them down here, until I could sort the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.’
‘Yes, I see. Do you have any contact details for Mr Warder?’
‘Erm … my word … well, I’m sure if I don’t, I can find someone who does. You think this journal might be important?’
‘It might, Mr Sheppard.’
Amanda looked up and remarked,
‘You know what’s odd about this journal?’
The men looked at her expectantly.
‘It’s written like I would write. I learned Cornish from my grandparents and then took exams for it, as I got older. But I’ve hardly used it conversationally for years. And this is how I’d write it now. But why would I want to?’
‘So someone either needed to practice their Cornish,’ suggested Trelawney, ‘or …’
‘It’s like Elizabeth and Edward and Latin,’ pronounced Amanda triumphantly.
‘Please do explain, Miss Ca … ah … you mean Queen Elizabeth I?’
‘Princess, as she would have been then,’ chimed in Jonathan, ‘and Prince Edward, Tudor monarchs to be. Yes, of course.’
‘As children, they spoke to one another in Latin,’ contributed Trelawney.
‘Yes! As a sort of secret code,’ finished Amanda. ‘So, what if that’s why the writer used Cornish? Because he didn’t want it to be understood by anyone else?’
‘Entirely plausible,’ agreed the inspector.
‘Wait, please …’ Amanda quickly flicked to the final pages and read for a moment in silence. ‘Yes … you see?’ She turned the book towards Trelawney, tracing the words with her finger. ‘Ev a wra ow mires – he watches me. Yma own dhymm – I am afraid. Let me see the last entry … yes! See? Ny allav vy gortos moy – I cannot wait any longer. And here’s the final sentence. Re gemerro an gwyns homma dhe weresyer – May the wind take this to … a helper. That's all.’ She raised her head, wide-eyed. ‘The poor writer was afraid for their life!’
‘I think we’ve found our clue, Miss Cadab…’ Suddenly he stopped and held up a finger for silence. Jonathan’s keen hearing had already spun his head in the direction of the stairs leading back up into the library. There was no sound, but Amanda had the overwhelming sense of a fourth person sharing their space, unseen, just around the first landing.
Trelawney softly put back his chair, stood up, and moved noiselessly across the stone floor. As he set a foot on the first stair, there was a sound of a door whooshing above. Trelawney bolted up the steps and out into the area behind the counter. There was no one to be seen.
Mrs Pagely approached.
‘Is everything all right, Inspector?’
‘Yes, but did you just see anyone come out of the stacks?’
‘Erm … no, Inspector, but then I’ve been reshelving.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Pagely. We’ll all be coming up soon.’
Trelawney returned to the basement. Amanda and Jonathan looked up at him enquiringly.
‘Did you see anyone?’ she asked.
‘No, and neither did anyone else.’
‘They must have been quick.’
‘I’m sure there was someone there,’ insisted Jonathan.
‘So am I, Mr Sheppard. Whoever it was certainly knows how to keep quiet and move stealthily. I was no more aware of his presence until now than you. Unfortunately, whoever it was now knows that we hold what could be a vital clue.’
‘But how does this connect to Samantha?’ asked Amanda.
‘How indeed? Time for some good old-fashioned police work,’ Trelawney stated with relief. ‘Miss Cadabra, please could you continue reading the journal. Mr Sheppard, let us set about locating your Mr Warder, if you would be so kind. But let us, above all, take our tasks out of here and into the daylight.’
Amanda and Jonathan fervently agreed.
Chapter 36
The Latin Connection
Trelawney placed a uniformed constable at the edge of the Situation Room. He didn’t want to risk any more information being overheard, as it must have been by whoever was lurking in the stacks.
Jonathan accessed his emails, looked through the contacts on his phone and was searching on the internet. Unfortunately, Lynford Warder was a self-proclaimed Luddite, who had no presence online whatsoever under his own name.
‘I know I have Warder’s number somewhere,’ Jonathan insisted. ‘It might be at home. Otherwise, someone still at Hertscourt University might have it.’
‘All right, Mr Sheppard,’ said Trelawney patiently. ‘Whatever helps you find his contact details.’
‘I’ll just nip home. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘Thank you.’
The inspector came over to where Amanda was sitting, immersed in the journal.
‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘I’ll say. In spades.’
‘Good. Please tell me what you’ve found.’
‘Right, so the writer is on an expedition with a guide. Just the two of them. At least, he doesn’t mention anyone else. They climb a lot. It’s very dangerous. See here,’ Amanda traced the writing with her finger as she did her best to translate:
‘“Today we set off at dawn. Luckily, the light was at just the right angle and illuminated a cave upon a very narrow ledge. I was and still am uneasy but very curious. I wondered, could this be it? It was a difficult and dangerous ascent, but we were more than rewarded. I cannot begin to describe the riches we found! Suddenly we were like brothers —’
‘So, both writer and guide were male then.’
‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’
‘Please go on.’
‘“Suddenly we were like brothers, celebrating, hugging one another, staring in amazement, handling the golden treasures like we could not believe they were real. We’re camping here overnight and made our evening meal. It was late when I began to notice his … falls? — Ah, “lapses” — into silence, like brooding. I have begun to feel uneasy again.
Then here’s the next entry.
“By morning he was bright and windy — breezy — and wanting to talk about what we will do with our find. I thought it must be treasure find — trove, I suppose he means — and we must report it. I wanted to photograph and record it all, but he explained some long-winded story about taking things slowly. It didn’t matter to me about getting money for it, it was the find of the century, it could shine all sorts of light on the past.
“The more I pressed for what I believed was a right course of action, the more strong – adamant — he became.”’
‘Sounds like the lust for gold got a grip on the guide,’ observed Trelawney.
‘Yes. The journal says they stayed there for two more days, discussing what to do … tension growing. The writer says there’s no way he could get back down safely without the guide. Finally, the guide agreed to leave it all in situ, take photos and go back to let the “Kehseydh” authorities at least in the “Lowarth” — which means garden — know what they had found. They planned to leave the next day. Then comes the final entry, where the writer expresses fear, says he can no longer wai
t and sends some message on the wind.’
‘Are there any clues as to location?’
‘There are no names that I can recognise. The writer only ever calls the man kevarwodher — guide —, and these place-names, they’re not in Cornwall as far as I know. But two names keep coming up. Here: Kehseydh and Bredeg. Oh, and Nans Breha, but I think that’s a spelling mistake. The closest word I know is “bregh”.
‘Are those all Cornish words?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do they mean in English?’
'Er … circumference, beautiful hill and valley arm. Only I’m not sure about that last one.’
‘And would you normally capitalise any of those?’
‘Not unless they were proper nouns.’
‘Is there a place called any of those things in Cornwall?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Me neither. Hm, let’s assume he was abroad then.’
‘Could these be translations from the language …?’
‘Of the country he was visiting? Indeed. We need a handy linguist.’
‘Lawley. Simon Lawley,’ Amanda said at once. ‘He’s a language teacher … Wait.’ A memory was stirring. There was some other connection with Lawley. If only she could see it. ‘Never mind. Yes, Lawley.’
‘He should still be at The Grange. Could you give them a ring, please Miss Cadabra? I’ll call up Jonathan and see what progress he’s making on finding his friend Warder.’
***
Ten minutes later, the Mondeo had just begun to sweep into the driveway of The Grange when Amanda abruptly spoke.
‘Wait!’
Trelawney brought the car to a halt.
‘Oh, I mean, “wait, please”. But I know what it is. Simon Lawley had a book – he was given a book that was hand-written in Cornish, but he couldn’t read it! So he gave it to a friend. What if that friend was this man, Warder? Who then gave it to Jonathan?’