The Sacred Combe

by Thomas Maloney

  ‘Hello again,’ she said, now serious and businesslike, ‘and welcome to the combe.’ She ushered me into a large, dim entrance hall with a chequered stone floor that rang and swished beneath our feet like the floor of a church. The cold air was filled with the rich, sweet scent of pine, and, glancing upward, I saw a huge branch of that tree hanging in space above our heads. It was suspended from the banisters, slightly tilted from the horizontal like a huge hand raised in blessing (or warning, you are thinking, but it seemed optimistic). The only light was from a rectangular lantern window in the distant ceiling, which the branch largely obscured.

  Miss Synder laid my coat over her arm and stepped into a deep, shadowy alcove on the left, which, from the sound of her softly knocking on it, evidently contained a door. A man’s voice said, ‘Come in,’ faintly, and Miss Synder stepped back into the hall, motioned me forward with a reassuring smile, and walked away across the flagstones to another door, through which she disappeared. With a flutter of apprehension in my stomach I stepped forward, felt around in the darkness for the round doorknob, turned it and entered the room beyond.

  It was a square room, a study, with a towering ceiling and one of those spectacular front windows filling almost the whole of one wall and admitting a flood of pale light. There was a busy, newly-lit fire in the grate behind a heavy brass guard, and the wall facing me was a wall of books: several thousand, I suppose, on shelves that reached to the ceiling and to which a long, slender ladder was fixed on rails. A man rose from his chair behind a desk on which a few books and papers were neatly arranged, advanced round it and stood before me, gazing at me intently: this was Arnold Comberbache.

  He was a man of about seventy, with smooth, taut skin, finely lined only around his eyes, and faintly speckled here and there with liver spots, like an autumn leaf that has turned gold but is still sound. The slightly drawn-back set of his mouth gave him a pained expression that, I was to discover, rarely left him — not physical pain, perhaps, but the pain of having made a mistake, of having to start some task over again. His white hair was combed neatly back, darkening to a steely grey at his collar. He wore a thick herringbone jacket over a pullover, shirt and tie — the fire could not hope to warm that absurdly high space.

  I introduced myself and he seemed pleased, perhaps because I had a deceptively scholarly look, with my slim, angular face, steel spectacles and tightly curled hair, and the bulky green jumper knitted by my aunt.

  I told him about finding his advertisement in Gibbon. ‘It had probably been on quite an adventure before it reached the Charing Cross Road,’ he said, chuckling, ‘since I left it, along with all the others, outside a charity shop not twenty miles from here. You will better appreciate my ruse, I hope, once I have explained the precise nature of the work.’

  He rubbed his hands, in anticipation, perhaps, or to warm them. ‘M’Synder had her doubts,’ he added, wryly. ‘Did you not M’Synder?’ That industrious lady, who had just stumped in through the open door carrying a full coal scuttle, set it down by the fire, gave a sardonic smile without turning to her employer, and walked out, closing the door behind her.

  ‘You have an impressive library,’ I said. The doctor narrowed his eyes for a moment as if confused, then followed my gaze up to the packed shelves behind him, and smiled.

  ‘Yes, I’ve developed a rather acquisitive habit with books over the years,’ he said, and turned towards a second door opposite the window. ‘Unfortunately for you, all my ancestors did the same. Let me show you the seat of your labours.’ He pulled open the heavy door slowly and motioned me forward. So occurred the second of my revelations of place.

  5

  My first glance through the doorway revealed two vast windows overlooking a perfect lawn, white with frost. I advanced into a much larger room, looked around, and back, and up. What I saw was books: I was standing in a cathedral to the glory of books.

  There was a fireplace at each end of the room, nearer the window side, with a narrow green carpet running from one hearth to the other, perhaps twelve yards, in front of the windows. Above each fireplace hung a large and age-darkened portrait in a heavy frame. A gallery with slender iron railings, reached by a spiral stair in the corner, ran along the long back wall and part of another wall at half height, and near the centre of the dark oak floor stood a huge folio table. Two iron chandeliers hung from the distant, ghostly expanse of coiling plasterwork, and a squat leather armchair stood at each window.

  With the exception of the objects so far mentioned, it was all books — eighteen thousand of them, I later learned. I dropped my wondering gaze from the shelves to the face of my employer, who was smiling his pained smile.

  ‘Welcome to the library of Combe Hall,’ he said, in a low voice, ‘which has been two hundred and thirty years in the making.’ He strode out to the long carpet and turned to look back fondly at the shelves, his thumbs hooked into his belt. ‘It was established by my ancestor, Hartley Comberbache, in seventeen seventy-two. This room had been the banqueting hall, but Hartley, as you might guess from the look of him, did not hold many banquets.’

  He nodded towards the weird portrait, which showed a man of forty turning hastily from a mass of papers, looking over his shoulder at the viewer, as though his work did not allow him time to sit formally. His face was thin and bloodless, his dark hair swept back into an untidy tangle behind his head, and he wore a plain coat over a creased and yellowed collar.

  ‘That is Sarah, his wife,’ added the doctor, indicating the other portrait. I cringed at his words, but recovered in a moment. Sarah Comberbache was depicted in half-profile, her head tilted slightly forward and her eyes lowered in contemplation. She wore a blue velvet dress with a high collar of dark lace about her throat. Neither husband nor wife looked happy, and now the one was destined to stare across at the other in a state of eternal distraction, never again to take up his pen, while she looked away. Now that I realised his true object, the intensity of Hartley’s gaze seemed strung along the room from one end to the other, high above our heads, radiating anguish.

  ‘I’m afraid the library does not take advantage of the latest technology — there is no computer, and light and heat come and go more or less as nature commands. The collection, however, as you can see, is in excellent order, and three centuries of correspondence and other papers are neatly filed here.’ He indicated two long shelves of box-files in the folio table. ‘It was my mother’s hobby for several years. “So,” you are asking yourself, “why am I here?”’

  The look of wonder had not left my face. ‘Why, indeed,’ I said. The doctor lowered himself slowly into the armchair near the portrait of Sarah. I stood by the table, my fingertips poised on the cool mahogany, waiting for his reply.

  ‘You are here because one item of correspondence is missing. Or rather, it is here, in this room, but I can’t read it because I don’t know where the damned thing is — and I would like you to try to find it.’ He leaned back in the chair and gazed at me.

  ‘How do you know it’s here?’ I asked.

  ‘A sensible first question,’ he replied, flicking his hand towards me like a teacher to an attentive pupil. ‘I know because the item is not missing by accident. A few years ago I discovered that it was put in safekeeping by my great-uncle, who, sadly, was not a very enlightened man. To put it plainly, the stuffy old fool hid it because he thought it indecent.’

  ‘What is it?’ was my next question.

  The doctor smiled, knitting his veined hands. ‘It is just a letter, addressed to that gentleman.’ He pointed to the painting. ‘I will tell you more about it in good time. For now, it is enough to say that it is an important part of my family’s history, and, perhaps, something more — a valuable document in itself.’

  I walked to one of the windows. Its deep sill formed a seat of grey stone which might have accommodated six or eight people, and on which lay a few flattened and faded cushions. Outside was a narrow stone terrace and the top of a short, steep slope which dro
pped to the sunken lawn. High walls were visible to left and right, and at the end of the lawn a number of trees loomed faintly in the mist.

  ‘And you think your uncle hid this letter in a book?’ I asked.

  ‘I know he did. And so you begin to see the task before you.’

  I sank onto the window seat and looked up at the towering shelves. ‘Presumably you have some idea where to start,’ I suggested, hopefully.

  The doctor now laid his hands on his knees and sighed. ‘Here we come to the crux of the matter. My great-uncle Hartley — he bore the same name as his great-great-grandfather, you see, which might go some way towards explaining this miserable business — my uncle was one of that incomprehensible breed who are fond of puzzles. And he boasted to his unfortunate wife — I have found her diary — that he had hidden the letter in an “indeducible” location. A riddle designed to have no solution.

  ‘If we are to believe the old prune, we cannot deduce the hiding place — the book — from the subject of the letter; nor can we deduce it from the originator of the letter, or its recipient. Nor from Uncle Hartley himself, his opinion of the letter or any other of his characteristics. Neither from the date of the letter’s writing, nor the date of its hiding — other than that the book must have existed at that time, of course. But it has no particular characteristic to connect it to the enterprise. Furthermore — and now you will realise the full extent of my uncle’s obsession — neither does the book have a particular absence of connection to the enterprise. That, too, would narrow the search.’

  I frowned. ‘So,’ I began, slowly, ‘it is just a book — one among thousands.’ The doctor nodded. ‘And therefore,’ I went on, ‘since we cannot deduce it —’

  ‘We must search them all,’ he said, triumphantly. ‘Yes! Or rather you must — I’m an old man. I cannot stay on my feet for very long, I’m not much good at bending, and ladders prefer the tread of youth.’

  I gave a sour little chuckle — it was not quite what I had expected. ‘It sounds rather —’ I hesitated.

  ‘Repetitive?’ suggested the doctor, looking particularly pained. ‘It will be, certainly. Tedious? Perhaps, but consider this: you will become intimately acquainted with one of the finest private libraries in the country. The collection is priceless, and extends into almost every branch of civilisation.’ He had leaned forward in his chair, and there was a quiet enthusiasm in his voice. ‘I don’t expect you to search like a robot — there will be distractions and digressions, and there may be many other intriguing finds along the way. I will be here, in my study, ready to discuss anything of interest.’

  Then he gave a mischievous smile. ‘You did say that you were interested in many things, did you not?’ I grinned sheepishly. ‘Well, here they are!’ he cried, rising from the chair and raising his arms towards the shelves. ‘Many, many things!’ I looked at him in astonishment. He still held his arms aloft, and waited for me to respond with a wild look in his eyes that seemed half jubilant, half beseeching.

  ‘Alright,’ I said, firmly, rising also. Here, if anywhere, was a standard to flutter over my field of battle, to raise my eyes from the mire of panic. ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, with a sigh, holding out his hand, which bore a heavy gold wedding ring, and shaking mine slowly. ‘Good, good, good.’ Then he narrowed his eyes to twinkling cracks. ‘But the missing letter is your primary mission — don’t forget. Be diligent!’

  ‘How will I know it, if I find it?’

  ‘A long letter dated seventeen seventy — you will know it. But bring me anything that looks interesting — letters, receipts, notes in the margin, anything.’

  ‘And where shall I begin?’ I asked.

  ‘You must decide that,’ he replied, quickly, as though he had already considered the matter. ‘If I tell you to start at one end or the other, it might condemn you to weeks of extra work. You do not yet know how the library is arranged, so you are not tempted to calculate, to deduce. I will not give you a tour of the collection — not yet — though I will answer any questions you may have. You must choose where to start the search.’

  ‘I must condemn myself,’ I muttered, looking from one wall to another. ‘Then I will start there.’ I pointed to a great narrow bookcase nestled in the corner, between the right-hand window and Hartley’s portrait. It was four feet wide and sixteen feet high. ‘I will start at the top.’

  ‘The top left of the whole collection, one might say,’ observed the doctor, coolly. ‘Yes, why not? You will have to bring the ladder from the other side. There is also a roving shelf roving about somewhere, and you will find various other contraptions to help you.’

  He went to the door of his study, but turned back to me as he grasped the handle. ‘We will have many a talk, Mr Browne, I am sure. I have questions, as you do, and look forward to getting to know you: I receive few visitors.’ He threw open the door. ‘But for now,’ he cried, theatrically, ‘to work!’

  The door slammed shut, and I was alone in a silent, cavernous room. So began my first day at the sacred combe.

  6

  I carried the slender ladder, which was surprisingly light, across to my chosen bookcase and hooked it onto the brass bar that was bolted to the top shelf for that purpose. I grasped it with both hands and gave it a shake: it seemed secure. Then I stepped away, and decided to have a look around.

  The neatly aligned ranks of spines invited, rejoiced in my wandering gaze. Here and there it was drawn to a long, uniform frieze of colour — a reference work in many heavy volumes, a journal or a testament to some individual’s furious and exemplary prolificacy — but mostly the books were not at all homogeneous: slim and stout, tall and short, leather and board nestled together in that purely visual jumble that characterises a particularly well-organised library.

  Every shelf bore a number on a little circle of brass, but there were no subject labels, or stickers on the spines. A few oversize shelves of double or triple height held huge books that looked like they contained maps, drawings and engravings — atlases, folios of anatomy, archaeology, architecture and art. Standing back, I realised I could not see any recent books, by which I mean those with very brightly coloured or glossy spines — only the occasional yellowed dustwrapper or glimmer of gilt punctuated the subdued, almost organic collage of tan, russet, navy and faded green.

  The few incursions into this vertical realm were made by the windows, the fireplaces, and three closed doors beneath the gallery. One led to the doctor’s study, as we know. There was a second door at the other end of that long wall, and a third next to Hartley’s fireplace. Hanging on a hook in the deep alcove of this last door I found the ‘roving shelf’ — a stout wooden tray, much worn, grooved, and ink-stained, which slotted snugly onto the front of any shelf and proved invaluable in my search.

  Thus equipped, I made my way gingerly up the ladder, which creaked at every step. It was steeply angled and by the time I reached the top vertigo was nudging at my stomach. I gripped the rungs tightly and remembered M’Synder’s advice that I bring a head for heights — perhaps I could learn one. The very first book on the top shelf was Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler in a single stout volume, once green, perhaps, now brownish, with five raised bands on the spine. I laid it on the roving shelf (still gripping the ladder with one hand, of course), opened to the title page and slowly added up the roman numerals of the date: sixteen hundred and seventy-six. It was the oldest book I had ever handled. I gently leafed through the thick, rough-edged pages, but there were no loose papers. I slid it back into place. The next book was the same work, in two taller, slimmer volumes with wrinkled spines, published in eighteen eighty-eight. The next was the more modestly titled A Book on Angling by Francis Francis. You get the gist.

  After half an hour on the ladder I climbed down for a rest in the armchair, having progressed about a third of the way along the first shelf. I rubbed my cold hands and looked out of the window. The mist had almost cleared but the garden still lay froze
n in the bluish shadow of the hills. Only the wooded valley-slopes, rising steeply behind, were now bathed in pale sunshine — great pines and cedars standing out like green jewels on the wintry grey mantle of oak and beech.

  I had been working for another half an hour or so, and had nearly finished the top shelf, when the doctor returned.

  ‘What do we have tucked away up there?’ he asked, leaning back against the table. Angling, boating, shooting, I told him. He grimaced. ‘Many of those would have been Uncle Hartley’s, I should think — not that it matters to our search, of course.’

  He watched me examine the last few books, then invited me to follow him to the kitchen for coffee. ‘One shelf down,’ he said, cheerfully, ‘two hundred to go!’ He opened the deeply recessed door by the fireplace, which led into a panelled dining room of surprisingly modest size, with French doors onto the garden. The table was large enough for eight, but only four chairs were drawn up to it. We passed on through another door into a dim corridor.

  ‘There are the facilitates, should nature call in one way,’ said the doctor, pointing to a door, ‘and here is the kitchen, should it call in another.’

  I had half expected ‘M’Synder’ to be bustling about in an apron, but there was no sign of her. The kitchen was a cheerful patchwork of form and function — it retained some of its Jacobean grandeur in the high ceiling from which various chains and ropes still hung, the great iron stove, now cold, the huge Belfast sinks and the high-up mullioned windows, but to these were added an odd collection of modern, or at least twentieth century, conveniences. A big electric oven and refrigerator each looked like they had seen a couple of decades.