by Simon Raven
‘And what difference does that make to me?’
‘Think, Ive. Think yourself right into the part. Here you are, doing the October inspection, knowing that the last one was over two months ago. Your first inspection too, like I say. So although you still reckon it’s all really okay (for what could possibly go wrong in Lancaster College, Cambridge?), you decide to play it safe, and you get all officious. You say, “I think we’ll open up those oilskin bags and check the contents.” And I say, “Excuse me, Sir,” I say, “we only do that every six months, on account of it being bad for the books to be taken in and out, old and fragile as they are, and passed around and pawed at and in general exposed to the air.’ And the Third Bursar says, “Yes, that’s right, Ivor, every six months, in March and August. I saw them in August with Jacquiz, and that’s good enough.” And you say, “No, I’m new in this, and I want a look at what I’m responsible for. However delicate those books are, they ought to be taken out of those bags and checked more often, being as how they’re worth a stack of bread, especially if no one has been through the safe for nearly ten weeks.” Real busybody bippering, see, Ive, and the Bursar and me, we’re frightfully impressed at such conscientious behaviour, and then you open up those bags – open them, Ive and what do you find?’
‘Fakes,’ said Ivor, taking one out of the bag labelled ‘The Wandrille Georgics’. ‘Bad imitations that would fool nobody.’
‘Now look inside that book.’
‘Blank pages.’
‘Right. Probably intended as a commonplace book or diary. Something of the kind. Not exactly fakes or imitations, Ive, just books of the right size, thickness, and texture of binding to fool somebody who didn’t open up the oilskin bags. But you have opened them up; and now you say, “If this is ‘The Wandrille Georgics’, then I’m a wet fart”, or some choice expression of that kind, and you pass it over to the Bursar.’
Oh the shame, thought Ivor, oh the vile shame. He handed the volume he was holding to Len.
‘Something seems to have gone wrong, Bursar,’ he said.
‘Yes. Not bad. If you can only get it as natural as that on the day, we’ll be all right. Meanwhile, no point in over-rehearsing.’
Len replaced the dud Georgics in its oilskin, replaced both oilskins in the safe, then took the key of the safe from Ivor and locked it. Once more he placed the key of the safe in the money box, locked the box with its own smaller key, and put this in his left-hand breast pocket. He then took the wash-leather pouches which contained the genuine volumes and placed them in a blue British Airways grip.
‘And then the balloon goes up,’ said Len. ‘In theory, of course, it could have been an outside job. But the easy access evidently enjoyed by the robber, and the obvious knowledge displayed of administrative custom – like putting duds in the oilskins in the expectation of fooling people at all the checks till next March – all that indicates an insider at work. Who? Not honest Ivor, who scarcely knows his way into the place and hadn’t even got a key to the money box where the safe key is kept, seeing as how Jake never turned his keys in when he went off, and the Under-Collator has to hang on to the only set left to keep the place running day by day. All very amateur and gentlemanly, all very typical and upper class and congenial – if only sixty-five thousand quids’ worth of manuscript books hadn’t been pinched. So who had ’em? Obvious candidate: that nasty, ungrateful, scruffy little prole, the Under-Collator, Len. He’s been in there morning, noon and night, he has all the keys, and he knew that since the stolen books were examined in August, the bags that contained them wouldn’t – or shouldn’t – be opened again until March. Well, Len’s come unstuck, they all say: send for the boys in blue.
‘At which stage, up gets Len. “Mercy, kind gentlemen,” he cries, “I can prove it wasn’t me. Or at least, that it needn’t have been me. Who took off last September at a moment’s notice? Who’s at large in Europe with his dainty new wife, and nobody knows where? Who had all the keys? Gentlemen, I gave you the name of – Doctor Jacquiz Helmut.’
‘He’s a very rich man already,’ objected Ivor.
‘Rich men like getting richer. Or perhaps he just fancied the books because they were so pretty.’
‘Thin,’ said Ivor.
‘Very thin, Ive. But just thick enough to get Provost Constable’s ears twitching. What does he really want? He wants out for Helmut. The old puritan doesn’t give a damn for the pretty books, and now he sees his way to downing Jacquiz and finally ridding the college of his contaminating influence. So: “Let us all keep very calm,” says His Lordship, in his best King Solomon manner. “First, let us not call the police and make a nasty scandal. We want no publicity. Least of all do we want to look silly – as we certainly shall, if it turns out that our own chosen Collator has scarpered with this load of loot. Let us remember that traditionally this College settles its own internal affairs. Indeed, as Provost, I am the law within these walls, I am the Queen judicial Bee to buzz, and there are plenty of statutes to prove it.” ’
‘There are,’ agreed Ivor. ‘In theory at least the Provost can investigate and try any offence, even murder, committed within this College.’
‘So I thought,’ said Len. ‘And so this is what he says: “Let us tell ourselves,” he says, “that the books are probably beyond retrieving, and let us quietly disembarrass ourselves of the two men, in practice the only two men, who may have taken them, thus purging our beloved College of dishonour, greed, corruption and all that shit. The student Len we will unload on some grotty but well paying polytechnic (for who cares what Len may whip from a polytechnic?) lest he sue us for wrongful dismissal. As for Doctor Helmut, we can demand his resignation on grounds of incompetence, for whether or not he stole the books, it was his absolute responsibility to ensure they could not be stolen, and the system under which he administered the Chamber (a system which poor Mr Winstanley had not time to reform, so let’s have no bugger blaming him) was clearly a real turd-heap.”
‘And so, man,’ said Len, ‘a happy issue all round. Ivor sent for and covertly congratulated, for of course the Provost is shrewd enough to see his cute little prick somewhere in all this, and then triumphantly re-elected to his Fellowship in the New Year. Lousy Len, now with ample capital and the means of raising more, quietly easing himself out of the academic scene and living the good life, with the assistance of constant bulletins of advice from his friend, Ivor Winstanley.’
‘Why will you be needing that?’
‘I told you. Part of my price. I want to keep up the connection. You may not believe this, Ive, but I’ve got to be rather fond of you… What other beneficiaries? Oh yes, my lord Constable, of course, happy to have disinfected his realm of the worldly parasite, Helmut. Smiles all round, Ive man.’
‘Not on Helmut’s face.’
‘That Jake was smug. He could do with a bit of a jolt. And it’s not as if he’ll actually be charged or tried or jugged or anything of that. He’ll just have to resign. He will be…mildly humiliated.’
‘He’ll be totally destroyed. There will be rumours and much worse. No one in his world will ever give him reputable employment again.’
‘Like you just said, Ive, he’s a very rich man.’
‘He’ll be ruined as a scholar. It’s a damned shame, what you’re doing to him.’
‘What you are doing to him. What Constable is doing to him. I’m just…taking my chance when I see it.’
‘It’s…it’s the untruth of it all that tortures me. I may not amount to much as a man, Len, but the idea of falsehood victorious, even if it is only at the expense of a sod like Helmut…it makes me squirm.’
‘Your sentiments do you credit, Ive. Do we go ahead? Yes… or no?’
After a while, ‘Yes,’ said Ivor in a very small voice, and thought of the good days, not, after all, so very long ago, when he and Jacquiz had played Royal Tennis and walked home together though the Fellows’ Garden.
‘According to M R James’ story,’ said Marigold Helmut
, ‘the Canons of the Cathedral lodged in there.’
She pointed to a square and dismal edifice of grey–blue stone which bore the indistinct legend Femmes.
‘Things seem to have moved on since then,’ said Jacquiz. ‘But I expect that’s about right. They’d have a nice view over that meadow…and easy access to the cloister.’
‘“Ancienne Cathédrale Sainte Marie-de-Comminges”,’ Marigold read from the newly purchased green Michelin on the Pyrénées: ‘Entré: deux francs. How mean to charge people.’
‘I don’t know. The carvings in the stalls of the chancel are said to be magnificent.’
‘They get two stars in here. But they’re not what we’ve come for, are they, Jacquiz?’
‘We’ll have a look at them, of course. But no, they’re not what we’ve come for. They were done in the sixteenth century. They can’t, as the phrase goes, refer.’
Marigold and Jacquiz walked along the South wall of the Cathedral leaving the Femmes to their right. Jacquiz paid five francs for each of them (‘Goodness, sweetie,’ said Marigold, ‘our new Michelin’s out of date already’) to a guardian seated in a sentry box, and they were waved briskly on and into a small cloister.
‘This is the Pillar of the Four Evangelists,’ said Marigold, halting in front of it. ‘One carved at each cardinal point of the compass, you see. I can’t feel that they refer, poor puppets. What have we come for, Jacquiz?’
‘The Comminges, as their name tells us, were an important family in Saint Bertrand-de-Comminges. Remember that gravestone in Pau? “The family of Comminges of the Lordship of Saint Bertrand-de-Comminges.” That being the case, there will surely be some mention of them somewhere in this Cathedral. But it is important that we concentrate on monuments and so forth of the seventeenth century. We are concerned with Constance Comminges, the widow of Louis Comminges, who died and was buried in Pau. Constance must have come here from Pau to seek out her relations-in-law sometime in the middle 1650s. Comminges of before that date are of antiquarian interest only.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ said Marigold. ‘If you ask me, there’s a lot still to be filled in about that Louis Comminges, and it will help to know about his ancestors.’
‘Provided we keep our research priorities absolutely clear.’
‘Silly old don,’ said Marigold kindly.
She looked out from the South side of the cloister. Open arches in the wall gave on to fields and foothills.
‘Such a beautiful place,’ she said. ‘I wonder why M R James had to write such a horrid story about it. He was a silly old don too. A twisted old bachelor, obsessed by boys and medieval manuscripts.’
‘At least you will acquit me of boys.’
Marigold giggled. They passed along the Southern walk of the cloister, then turned left and up to its Northern side. This was lined by three sarcophagi, beyond the westernmost of which was a small door into the Cathedral.
‘Perfectly harmless, those sarcophagi,’ Marigold said. ‘Not at all fierce or devouring, like they sometimes are. M R James really did get this place wrong.’
They passed through the little door. Immense faces confronted Marigold, grinning and leering, one of then snarling at her, at first from among the others, then eyeball to eyeball, occupying her entire vision.
‘Jacquiz.’
‘I’m here, love.’
He grasped her hand. The snarling face receded to its place between two others; all three swam backwards and upwards, to become three of the corbels which lined the outside of the chancel screen.
‘Didn’t you see anything, Jacquiz?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I think I was a bit premature about M R James.’
‘Oh? Want to see the carvings in the choir?’
‘No more carvings for a while, sweet. Let’s just look around.’
‘All right. The ambulatory. If there was a family chantry or anything, it would have been in the ambulatory.’
‘Funny. That verger behind us, Jacquiz. By those steps, in the long gown. Just like the pretty gardener at Pau.’
‘What pretty gardener?’
‘The one in the old part of the cemetery.’
‘I never saw him. Only you did. Where’s this verger?’
‘Gone up the steps, I think. There’s a sort of raised chapel up there, the new Michelin says. What a hideous picture. Why is it behind the altar?’
‘It’s all about the Saint. This is his mausoleum.’
‘Oh dear. More carving. But this time…unobtrusive, I’m glad to say.’
She sighed with relief.
‘Fifteenth-century. Long after Saint Bertrand died.’
‘I dare say that accounts for it. That verger’s watching us.’
‘Good, I’m going to make an inquiry. Where is he?’
‘Just round the corner where we’ve come from.’
‘That’s not a verger. It’s a priest.’
‘It was a young verger. In one of those long gowns with a high collar.’
‘It’s a young priest in a dark suit and a dog collar. Bonjour, M’sieur le Curé. Peut-être vous pouvez m’aider. Est-ce qu’il y a un tombeau de la famille Comminges?’
‘A vault, sir,’ said the young priest courteously. ‘You will allow me to introduce myself. I am the Abbé Valcabriers. Not an officiating priest of this Cathedral, simply a resident here in the town. But of course I take an interest in this beautiful building.’
‘We thought you were a verger,’ Marigold said.
‘The custodian is away today – attending his granddaughter’s wedding in Luchon. I undertook to stand in for him, madame.’
‘The Comminges vault,’ said Jacquiz impatiently.
‘Sealed since 1656. We don’t really mention it, certainly not to strangers. But since you already know of it, you may see the entrance, if you wish.’
The Abbé Valcabriers led the way round to the North of the ambulatory, then westward along the North screen of the Chancel.
‘There.’ He pointed to the last Chapel in the ambulatory. ‘The Chapel of the Virgin. The tomb of Hugues de Châtillon, who made notable Gothic additions to the Cathedral. And at the East end of the tomb – in the wall there – the entrance which you seek.’
A very low doorway in the wall…or what had been a doorway. Now it was sealed by a marble slab which fitted exactly into the frame. Only the lintel protruded. Below this, some words engraved on the marble. Words indecipherable in the dimness. Jacquiz lit a match.
‘“La Famille Comminges”,’ he read aloud before the match went out.
‘They say that before it was sealed,’ said the Abbé Valcabriers, ‘there was a much more elaborate inscription. Going into the historical glories of the family. They fell on bad times, you know. “La Famille Comminges” was all that was left to be said when they blocked that doorway.’
‘There’s a bit more than that though,’ said Jacquiz.
‘Just the formal declaration of closure.’
Jacquiz struck another match.
NUNC EST CLAUSUM HOC SEPULCHRUM
IN SAECULA SAECULORUM
AMEN
MDCLVI
‘“Now this sepulchre has been closed,”’ he translated, ‘“forever and ever. So be it. 1656.” ’
‘I told you. A formal declaration.’
‘Sounds more like a prayer. That “Amen”; as if to say “Let’s hope so at any rate”. There’s even more, in smaller letters.’
‘Since you are so determined, let me save you from exhausting both your matches and your eyesight. The sentence in smaller letters reads: “Noli aperire ne surgat Constantia.” ’
‘“Don’t open it”,’ said Jacquiz, ‘“lest come forth Constance.” ’
There was a long silence.
‘You are interested in country legends?’ said Valcabriers at last.
‘Particularly in this one.’
‘I will show you a…local chronicle. A rare volume.’
‘Thank you. B
ut we have rooms booked at Saint Girons. We must return there this evening. How long will it take me to read this chronicle?’
‘Such of it as pertains to the Comminges – to study it properly four or five hours. But you may take the book to Saint Girons. I can see you are a man who respects books.’
‘I will bring it back tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow or later. It makes no difference. Please wait in the cloister. I shall bring it to you there in ten minutes.’
Just for the look of the thing, Ivor Winstanley had decided to open up the Chamber of Manuscripts for an hour each morning and afternoon on the two days during which Len would be in London. On the afternoon of the first day, an undergraduate in a blue College blazer and a crested College tie, a rather unusual tenure these days, arrived in the Chamber five minutes before Ivor meant to leave.
‘My name is C A A Symington, sir,’ the undergraduate said. ‘A Freshman this term. Son of F A A Symington of ’forty-six.’
‘How do you do, Symington,’ said Ivor, shaking hands. ‘I remember your father well.’
As prim and proper as you are, Ivor thought; not but what I’d sooner have you than some horror in leather trousers and a sleeveless vest.
‘My father told me,’ said Symington, ‘that there was a marvellous book in here. The St Gilles Breviary. May one ask to see it?’
Ivor began to sweat. Just like his father, Ivor thought: a dim little man of no importance always getting in somebody’s way – taking ten minutes to make up his mind what kind of sherry he wanted from the Buttery when five more people were waiting.
‘I’m afraid the key is in London,’ Ivor said. ‘I’ve only taken over very temporarily from Doctor Helmut, who is on Sabbatical leave. So naturally I leave all the details to my Under-Collator – who is presently in London on business.’
‘Never mind, sir’ said Symington. ‘I can come another day.’
‘The trouble is,’ said Ivor hoarsely, ‘that the St Gilles Breviary has become very delicate and brittle…since your father’s day. It is no longer to be taken out and shown,’ he said wildly, ‘without a special order from the Provost.’