by James Runcie
It was a noisy dinner, despite the relatively small number of guests, as the Dining Hall was something of an echo chamber. Sidney was seated between Kenrich Prescott, the Master of Gonville and Caius, and Sir Leslie Manning, and he had to lean forward to hear their guest of honour repeat the story of his brief incarceration.
‘I thought it was some kind of practical joke at first. I didn’t know what to do. I’m too old to start jumping out of windows.’
‘They are locked and alarmed,’ Ralph Mumford observed, ‘so I am afraid you would have had no joy there.’
‘Actually I’m not sure they were,’ said Manning. ‘The chaplain made quite a fuss when the head porter informed him that the alarms were off. He swore he had switched them on.’
‘But they’re on now?’
‘Oh yes. There was a great to-do about it.’
Ralph Mumford stood up. ‘Will you please excuse me for a minute? I’ll just check with the porters.’
‘He gets very anxious about these things,’ said Sidney as the librarian left. ‘In another life I think he must have been St Jerome.’
‘I thought you people didn’t believe in reincarnation?’ the Master of Caius asked.
‘It was a figure of speech.’
‘According to St Augustine, “What Jerome was ignorant of no mortal has ever known,”’ said Sir Leslie. ‘He is the patron saint of librarians. It’s his saint’s day at the end of the month.’
‘The gospel book is his translation,’ Sidney continued, ‘so I think Ralph feels he is as responsible as any archbishop in preserving our inheritance.’
‘Apparently Jerome had a terrible temper,’ the cathedral agent went on. ‘Is that something they might have in common?’
‘Ralph can be curt in matters of scholarship, though that is sometimes the Cambridge way, the abrupt dismissal of folly, but I don’t think he shouts unless he is very angry.’
‘Or when someone forgets to set an alarm?’
As soon as the librarian returned, and reported that all was in order, the party stood to say grace and settled in to a hot vichyssoise, followed by smoked salmon, cucumber sorbet, a venison stew and a blackberry and apple sponge that was washed down with four different decanters of port, madeira, and red and white dessert wine.
Given the nature of the dinner, and the forthcoming enthronement of Donald Coggan, the conversation resumed with a debate on Parker’s legacy and the Anglican tradition. How much, the Master of Trinity Hall asked, could the Church of England respond to the modern world while retaining its historic values?
The cathedral agent argued that the Church should not be distracted by modernity or reject its ancient language and ceremony. He detested the New English Bible and was worried that the next archbishop might make further reforms which would dilute the Anglican tradition.
‘You can’t discard history so easily. Take The Gospel Book of St Augustine,’ he argued. ‘When an archbishop touches the manuscript he is in communion with a series of oaths that stretch back to the saint. He is no longer an individual but part of the larger Christian body of both the living and the dead, supported by tradition and buoyed up by hundreds of years of devotion and faith.’
Kenrich Prescott was unimpressed, arguing that tradition was no guarantee of truth. He initiated a discussion on the concept of holy folly, and raised the idea that no scientist worth his salt could seriously believe in God. ‘There is no empirical evidence.’
‘Science is not the only truth,’ Sidney observed. ‘There can be poetic truth, metaphorical truth . . .’
‘But aren’t you supposed to believe that it’s all literally true?’
‘Not necessarily . . .’
‘Anglican hair-splitting.’
‘Perhaps faith can be as complicated and as detailed as a scientific experiment.’
‘Science deals in outcomes.’
‘As do we.’
‘But you do not have the empirical evidence. How can you believe in something you cannot judge?’
‘We can test our faith,’ said Sidney, ‘through prayer and through our lives. And we have the historical record of Jesus.’
‘That, too, is open to question, I would have thought. The gospels were written long after his life.’
‘Not that long.’
‘Who is to say they are not made up; that the whole thing is not a fraud? Even your precious gospel book could be a fake, couldn’t it, Ralph?’
‘I don’t think so, Master. Although we have commissioned a facsimile.’
‘A duplicate?’
‘For academic study. It preserves the pages of the original.’
‘Then your scholars won’t be studying the real thing.’
‘But they can be much more hands-on, and you can get away with so much these days. Some of the items tonight were facsimiles.’
The cathedral agent put down his glass of wine. ‘Do you mean to say that the book on display tonight could have been the duplicate?’
‘It could have been,’ Ralph Mumford smiled, ‘but it wasn’t. I can assure you.’
‘That’s a relief. We wouldn’t want the next archbishop swearing his oaths of office on a fake.’
‘No, we most certainly would not.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought that it would make too much difference,’ Kenrich Prescott continued. ‘Provide enough smoke and mirrors at the ceremony and people will believe anything.’
‘It is the most ancient of rituals,’ the cathedral agent concluded, ‘a fitting tribute to the sacred nature of the priesthood. If you choose to dismiss it then that is your prerogative. But I prefer a sense of the transcendent; to dwell in mystery. The earth alone is not enough.’
Sir Leslie then asked the Master of Corpus if he could go over a few details about the forthcoming enthronement service in private before his driver took him back to Canterbury.
‘It would be my pleasure. I’ve just received this rather fine book. I thought you might like to have a look at it. Fascinating stuff. It sheds new light on the Chalcedonian definition of faith . . .’
The two men retired to the Lodge and the Master of Gonville and Caius took their departure as his own cue to leave, saying that he had a few things to tidy up before the morning. There was, however, still plenty of time amongst those who remained for further conversation on the current state of medieval scholarship, paper conservation and the creation of facsimiles. And so it wasn’t until well after ten-thirty that Sidney was able to return to the library for his own private view of the great and sacred document.
Ralph Mumford undid the double-locked outer doors, climbed the stairs, and then used a second set of keys for the upper room. He switched off the burglar alarm and turned on the lights.
The gold of the illuminated manuscripts sparked into life as if awoken from slumber. Sidney was struck by the quiet beauty of the room, awed by its reverential stillness, the hallowed history of literacy and faith laid out before him.
It was not until the two men reached the far end of the library that the extent of the catastrophe was revealed.
The lock on the final display case had been forced. The vitrine was empty. The Gospel Book of St Augustine had been stolen.
Ralph Mumford checked all the other cases and the cupboard in which it was kept when not on display. He asked Sidney to test all the windows to see that none had been disturbed and that the manuscript had not been thrown down to an accomplice below.
‘I feel sick. It’s like a death,’ he said.
‘Let’s try and take stock.’
‘I don’t know what to do. How could this have happened?’ Ralph began searching through the shelves, as if the thief might have hidden the gospel book amidst them and was planning on collecting it at a later date.
‘Do you think it’s the cathedral agent?’ Sidney asked.
‘You mean he stole the book while he was locked in? But how did he take it out? We saw him at the dinner.’
‘He could have hidden it.’
&
nbsp; ‘I relocked the library. I checked everything.’
‘Even the gospel book?’
‘Yes. It was there.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, now, of course, I’m not sure of anything,’ the librarian replied. ‘I can’t even trust myself. I made a sweeping glance at the room. I know that. I didn’t go up to the cabinet and inspect it carefully, but nothing seemed amiss. The room had been well locked and the alarms were on. Julian is not as hopeless as everyone seems to think he is. Perhaps the book had already been stolen. But I am sure I would have noticed. I felt it this time, as I came into the room, in a way that I didn’t sense that anything was wrong a few hours earlier.’
‘Perhaps it’s because you’re with me, or that it’s late at night?’
‘But if it was stolen earlier that does beg the question: why on earth would the cathedral agent want to steal such a precious object that he can borrow any time he likes?’
‘Perhaps he wants it for himself.’
‘No proper antiquarian takes pleasure in a stolen book. They never feel it’s theirs.’
‘Perhaps he’s an improper antiquarian.’
‘The cathedral agent? I don’t believe it.’
‘Or he wanted to get it back for Canterbury?’
‘But then he would have to tell them and everyone would know that he had taken it without due process and they would have to return it. He would be a laughing stock.’
‘He left early,’ Sidney remembered.
‘To see the Master, and not with the book.’
‘You don’t suppose there could have been someone else hiding in the library?’
‘You mean that two people were trapped, and one of them kept on hiding? But where?’
‘There are no hidden doorways, secret drawers, loose floorboards, concealed alcoves or fake bookshelves?’
‘None.’
‘And I don’t suppose,’ Sidney continued, ‘anyone could climb the library steps and lie low on top of the stacks?’
‘They’d have to be quite an athlete. But in any case, when would they have been able to get out with the book? The only time would have been after I had locked up. As you saw when we came in, the library was as secure as when I left it.’
‘You don’t think it’s still here, do you?’
‘If it is, I don’t know how we’re going to find it. I just can’t understand it, Sidney. There are two mysteries. The first is how the theft was managed. The second is why anyone would want to do it. As you know, The Gospel Book of St Augustine is our most precious possession. Its loss endangers our ownership of the entire library and the Church of England will be unable to enthrone its next archbishop. But it is also far too famous to sell. If the thief takes it to an auction house or a rare-book dealer then any expert will be able to tell what it is straight away. There is no market in which it can be sold.’
‘I presume it’s insured?’
‘For £150,000.’
‘That doesn’t sound very much.’
‘You must be the first person to think so, Sidney. Up until now, the highest price paid for a medieval manuscript has been £90,000. A sum of £150,000 is a perfectly respectable amount for an object that is neither painting nor sculpture. In the past some of our Fellows had even suggested that we sell it. They’d rather have the money for something else. Wine, probably. But you can’t put a price on a possession until it’s gone.’
‘Would the thief know the insurance value?’
‘He would if he worked either for the library, the college or the insurance company.’
‘I suppose,’ said Sidney, ‘it could also be one of our friends in either Gonville and Caius or Trinity Hall, hoping to deprive us of the collection.’
‘You don’t mean the Masters?’
‘Not directly. But they might have arranged the theft. Corpus forfeits the collection and then, miraculously, the stolen volume is found and restored.’
‘That’s devious but possible,’ Ralph Mumford replied. ‘Although we still don’t know how anyone could have done this, either practically or morally.’
He kept searching through the stacks and on the shelves as if The Gospel Book of St Augustine had simply been misplaced. As he did so, he looked through piles of manuscripts that were waiting to be catalogued and found what seemed to be a rogue book without its dust jacket: An Illustrated History of the Coptic Church.
‘I’ve never seen that before. Goodness knows what it’s doing here. One book disappears and another one arrives.’
‘Perhaps one of the guests left it?’
The librarian was no longer listening. ‘I suppose I’d better check on the facsimile. It’s such a pity we didn’t put that on display instead. I thought of doing it, but then I would have been too ashamed to pass it off as the original in front of my scholarly friends.’
‘They would have been able to tell?’ Sidney asked.
‘At fifty paces.’ Ralph opened a series of cabinets without appearing to concentrate. ‘I wonder where it’s got to?’
‘You can’t find it?’
‘Extraordinary. Someone seems to have stolen both the original and the facsimile. Why would anyone want to do that?’
‘Perhaps they couldn’t tell the difference and wanted to be sure?’
‘That would involve a thief who had little knowledge of medieval vellum. It seems unlikely.’
‘Unless it was stolen to order. The bibliographical equivalent of a hitman.’ Sidney thought for a moment. ‘Perhaps the thief had other motives. It seems far-fetched, but perhaps it could be someone wanting to stop or delay the enthronement of the next Archbishop of Canterbury?’
‘A protest by someone who disapproves of Dr Coggan’s modernisation of the language of the Church of England and his hopes to ordain women? Then the suspects would have to include our own chaplain.’
‘Julian already had the keys. Perhaps he’s stolen the book and hidden it?’
‘But why would he do that?’ Ralph Mumford almost wailed. ‘He can’t have such a serious objection to the next archbishop. It’s ridiculous. You might as well accuse me! There is a history of librarians stealing from their own collections.’
‘I think you are just about the only person we can discount,’ said Sidney.
‘There’s the Master as well,’ the librarian replied. ‘He also has a key and could remove the book at any time.’
‘Surely, Ralph, we have to consider why the book was taken on this night rather than any other and if the theft was planned or opportunistic?’
‘Taken in the chaos, as people were leaving for the drinks, you mean? But if anyone did that, where would they hide it and how would they not be seen?’
‘Sir Leslie managed to lock himself in the library without anyone noticing.’
‘That was unfortunate.’
‘We’ll have to go and see him,’ said Sidney.
‘We can’t. If he’s not the culprit then he’ll know the book has been stolen and all hell will break loose.’
‘We could consult the police.’
‘I don’t think we want them involved just yet.’
‘But I can’t see us solving this case on our own, Ralph.’
‘It’s going to be bad enough telling the Master. I don’t want anyone else to know what’s happened. The Gospel Book of St Augustine is not on permanent display. We need to establish the timeframe during which it was stolen, who had what keys, and when and if the porters have seen anything suspicious. Good heavens, Sidney, it’s going to be a long night. It’s just as well you are staying.’
‘I should warn Hildegard that I might be late back tomorrow.’
‘No! You can’t tell anyone.’
‘Then how are we going to question people?’
‘We’ll start with the porters and then go on to Julian. Goodness knows, I was cross enough with him about the locking-up earlier in the evening. Now he’s going to feel the full force of my fury.’
Sidney established that
there were only three sets of keys: one belonging to the librarian (subsequently used and returned by the chaplain); one held at the Porters’ Lodge; and one kept by the Master.
He thought through the possibilities. Even though Ralph Mumford could easily have stolen the book when he went back to check on the alarm, why would he have needed to force the lock on the display case when he had a perfectly good key himself? And why would he want to take the manuscript in the first place, unless it was a complex attempt to frame someone else for burglary?
As for the Master, how could he have left the dinner without being seen and, like Ralph, what motive could he have for stealing a precious object that was already in his possession and which he could peruse whenever he chose?
Did he carry the keys to the library with him at all times or were they left in his study so that anyone could walk into the Master’s Lodge, pick them up, steal the gospel book and then return them as if nothing had happened?
Could the head porter have stolen the book during the dinner? But again, why would he have needed to break the lock on the display case and what could be his motive?
Could anyone have taken the keys from the Porters’ Lodge? Were they marked in any way to make them identifiable?
Sidney wondered if the chaplain might be culpable. Did Julian Wells lock the cathedral agent in the library on purpose? Perhaps it wasn’t an oversight after all, but a deliberate attempt to implicate Sir Leslie Manning in the theft and take attention away from himself? Did the chaplain then steal the gospel book in the brouhaha after the cathedral agent had been released? When exactly did he return the keys to the librarian? And what could his motivation be? Given the opportunity, Sidney felt that his colleague could soon be the prime suspect.
He then asked himself if Sir Leslie had deliberately trapped himself in the library. Could he have thrown the book out of the window to an accomplice in St Botolph’s churchyard while the alarms were off?