by Davis Bunn
“Not on your life.” She pushed him eagerly. “Hurry!”
The tunnel was as fetid and grubby as the cellar. With every crawl forward, his hands and knees sank in a boggy mire inches thick. The one advantage to the cold was that it lessened the smell. Or so he tried to convince himself. Brian tried to keep from thinking what might have grown in the centuries of icy grime. But Cecilia did not complain as she followed behind, so he pushed on in silence.
Twenty feet forward, however, he halted with a groan. Cecilia demanded, “What’s the matter?”
“Dead end.” He felt the edges, pushed hard, could only moan in defeat, “A stone wall.”
“I thought we were headed toward the property’s border,” she said. “We must be below the estate’s outer wall.”
“We’ll have to back out,” he said. “I don’t have room to turn around.”
The return trip seemed ages longer. The frigid goo worked its way up his trouser legs with each backward shuffle. Brian had long since lost feeling in the tips of his fingers. With vast relief his feet finally slipped over the edge of the opening. Brian eased himself upright and banged on the floor with one foot, then the other, to work the crud out from around his shins. His socks and shoes were filled with sludge. He turned the flashlight back to the cellar and observed, “You look like you’ve crossed the Everglades on your hands and knees.”
“Never mind that.” Shovel in hand, Cecilia was already sliding her way across to the opposite wall. “Shine that light over here.”
“What are you looking for?”
She paused long enough to give him a look reserved for extremely dumb questions, then began scraping long swaths down the mire-encrusted wall. Brian hefted the screwdriver and went over to help.
On her sixth sweep, something clanked beneath Cecilia’s shovel. Eagerly they attacked the wall. This time, the aperture was larger, beginning at the floor and rising almost four feet high.
Brian found himself too breathless to speak as he slipped the screwdriver through the ring and waited as Cecilia gripped the other end and wedged her foot against the wall. She nodded, and together they pulled. The door did not budge. They took a firmer grip, nodded again, and heaved.
The portal creaked and groaned and fell with a resounding boom. Brian sent the light cascading down the tunnel, then turned back to her grime-streaked face. “This is incredible.”
“Go on, go on,” she cried, pushing and prodding him impatiently through the door. Cecilia stepped in behind him, keeping one hand on his back and walking so close he could hear her excited breathing.
The tunnel was tight and fetid, but rose to a stone-lined peak so that Brian could angle his shoulders and walk upright. On and on it went, making two narrow turnings, and finally ending before another door. This one took several hard punches from both their shoulders before finally groaning open. When it gave, it spilled Brian onto the dusty floor. The flashlight clattered from his hand and rolled across the stones. His head began thundering from the rough treatment, and he was slow rising to his feet. By the time he was upright, Cecilia had picked up the light and walked to the chamber’s far end.
“What is it?” She did not look up. All he could see through the gloom was the top of her head and the grime in her hair. “Cecilia?”
When she raised her gaze, it was to reveal wonder-filled eyes. She breathed, “Come over here.”
Thirty-two
STILL IN HIS PAJAMAS AND HOUSE SLIPPERS, ARTHUR OPENED his front door, took in their grimy forms, and immediately realized, “You’ve found it!”
Gladys’s voice echoed from the kitchen, “Found what, dear?”
“Call Trevor,” Brian said.
“Put on your oldest clothes,” Cecilia added.
“And we need a ladder,” Brian said.
Gladys appeared in her robe, gaped at them, and demanded, “Whose pigsty have you been rolling around in?”
“Never mind that,” Arthur barked and headed back down the hallway to the phone. He picked up the receiver and began stabbing at the phone. “Whose bright idea was it to make the numbers so small only a child can dial?”
“Let me do that, dear.” Gladys hurried back to join her husband. As she dialed, she cast another doubtful glance to where they waited in the doorway. “I’m afraid I can’t invite you in.”
“No problem,” Brian assured her. “But I’d love a cup of tea.”
“Trevor? Hello, it’s Gladys. I’m sorry to bother you so early, but Brian and Cecilia are standing in my doorway dripping the most horrid green slime all over—”
“Here, give me that.” Arthur took the receiver and shouted, “We’ve got an emergency on our hands! Get over here fast!”
Then he slammed the receiver down.
Gladys protested, “No need to be rude, dear.”
“Nonsense.” He gave one and all a fierce grin. “I merely gave him a neat summing up. Now, where are my galoshes?”
“In the cupboard, where they always are.” To Brian and Cecilia she inquired, “Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
“I’ll put on the kettle and make some toast.” She hurried away. “Don’t you dare come any farther.”
Arthur’s head popped out of the back room. “Percy and his assistant stayed over last night at the Red Lion Inn so they could continue with the cataloging this morning. Should we give them a call?”
Brian felt the dried mud on his face crack as he smiled. “Absolutely.”
Gladys objected, “Shouldn’t we find out what all the fuss is about before we go waking up the entire world?”
“Nonsense!” Arthur was busy crashing drawers and doors in his bedroom. “One look at their faces tells you everything you need to know!”
Gladys seated them in the foyer and fed them bacon sandwiches and mugs of steaming tea until Percy and Gerald and Trevor and Molly clattered down the drive. It was only when Brian rose back to his feet that he realized just how weary he was and how much his head hurt.
“My dear boy,” Arthur observed, “You’ve gone all green.”
“It was that bacon,” Gladys fretted. “The butcher assured me it was fresh.”
“I’m fine,” Brian said. “Just tired.”
“Then we’d best be off,” Arthur declared, marshaling his troops. “Here,Trevor, give me a hand with this ladder.”
Together they marched down the drive. At the turning to Rose Cottage, however, Cecilia halted Brian with a touch on his arm and the words, “Look who’s by the gates.”
Standing just outside the entrance to his property, Hardy Seade fumed alongside a butter-yellow Bentley. Brian called out, “Get out of here, or I’ll call the police.”
Hardy Seade stiffened as though slapped. “This road is public property!”
“Then I’ll have you arrested for loitering,” Brian shouted, his pulse punching hard knots of pain through his forehead.
The man’s face went purple as he shouted through the gates, “What utter nonsense are you talking about now?”
“Come on, you lot,” Arthur pressed. “He’s a nuisance and nothing more.”
“I heard that!” The man was almost dancing in place. “Tomorrow morning you’ll see how much of a nuisance I can be! Mark my words, this time tomorrow you’ll all be on the street where you belong!”
As they trooped through the front door of Rose Cottage, Brian caught sight of Hardy giving the Bentley’s fender a savage kick.
The kitchen seemed overly cramped with all of them inside. Brian and Arthur manhandled the ladder into place, then with Gerald holding the top, they made their way down into the stone-lined cellar. Five flashlights flickered and scattered light about the grime and gloom. Gerald was the last down, and he instantly pulled a camera from his pocket and began flashing pictures.
When Percy walked over to the smaller opening and peered inside, Brian warned, “You’re going to ruin that nice suit of yours.”
“It’s all I brought with me from London.” The words b
ounced and echoed about the stone cubicle. “Never mind. Where to?”
“This way.” Brian led them down the taller tunnel, feeling the thrill tighten his chest all over again. They entered the chamber, and Brian turned back to watch their expressions as they passed through the ancient portal. To his immense satisfaction, Percy and Gerald looked utterly stunned.
Percy walked straight up to the front altar and said, “Do you have any idea what you’ve uncovered?”
“Suppose you tell us.”
“A secret medieval chapel,” Gerald breathed, pointing his own flashlight at the peaked stone roof. “I’ve read about them, but never seen one before.”
“That’s because so few of them survived,” Percy said. To the others, he explained, “Some very early monasteries built hidden chapels that the brothers could retreat to in times of turmoil. Armies, battles, and brigands passed with tragic regularity. The monks would bring in their texts, their chalices, and the sacramental pieces, and wait out the troubles.”
Gerald thunked his hand upon a narrow portal behind the altar. “My guess is this would lead on to the crypt.”
“It does,” Brian affirmed. “Shelves filled with bones and rags.”
“Only three of these underground chapels are known to exist throughout the length and breadth of the British Isles,” Percy breathed. “And none of them are as intact as this. It’s our good fortune that no one has been down here for centuries.” He glanced back to where Brian and Cecilia stood holding hands by the entrance. “I suppose the chapel was empty?”
“Not entirely,” Brian said, glad he had held the best for last. He asked Cecilia, “Do you want to do the honors?”
“It’s your discovery,” Cecilia replied.
“But it’s under your cottage.”
Her eyes widened, and as the power of Brian’s words hit home, she bit a trembling lip and whispered, “My cottage.”
“That’s right.”
Percival exclaimed, “Will you please make up your collective minds before I burst from the strain?”
Reluctantly, Brian released her hand and walked forward. He fumbled beneath the altar’s stone top for the catch he had spotted, and once more a corner of the altar top popped open.
“I say,” Arthur exclaimed, moving forward. “You’re getting rather good at this, aren’t you.”
Brian lifted off the lid and pulled out the two items. Everyone crowded forward. Brian cast a look back to where Cecilia watched him; then he unwrapped the top item and stepped back.
“Oh my dear sweet word,” Percival breathed. “Gerald, your camera.”
“Step back, please, everyone.” With shaky hands Gerald focused and began shooting pictures.
Percy’s hands were no steadier than Gerald’s as he pulled off the tattered cloth covering. He blew softly at the dusty binding, then lifted the book’s cover. He did not seem to mind in the least that the jacket came away in his hands. He set it to one side and ran one finger down the first page. He looked up, but seemed incapable of focusing on Brian as he declared, “This is the monastery Bible.”
Trevor crowded in beside him and exclaimed in a shaky voice, “Look at the illuminations.”
“They would have spent years on this work,” Percy agreed, turning back another page, then another. “Years and years and years.”
“Take a look at what’s underneath,” Brian said.
The vicar and the auctioneer gave him an astonished look. “There’s more?”
“We saved the best for last,” Brian affirmed.
“Give me a hand here, please.” Gingerly Percy and Trevor slid the book to one side. Underneath was not another book, but a rather slim box. One whose inlaid surface had dimmed until it was scarcely possible to see that gemstones had been set into the surface, in the shape of a cross.
Percy spent a long moment staring at the surface and tracing a trembling hand around the edges, before saying softly, “Gerald, if you please.”
The young man understood instantly, for he reached into his pocket and handed over a pocketknife. Percy unfolded the blade and delicately fitted it into one side as his assistant continued to take pictures. Cautiously Percy pried open the lid, set it aside, and breathed, “I am well and truly amazed.”
“What is it?” Trevor demanded.
Percy gently lifted out what appeared to be a cloth-wrapped bundle. “This is the reason I have spent my entire life dedicated to the past.”
Percy held up the cloth’s top facing so that Gerald could snap another picture, this one of jewels sewed with what appeared to be solid-gold thread, again making the form of the cross. “What this is,” Percy repeated, his voice none too steady, “is every historian’s dream. The discovery of a lifetime.”
He finished unfolding the cloth, and lifted up the tiny contents for Gerald to photograph. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a Book of Hours.”
Thirty-three
“WHEN THE GREAT WILLIAM ARRIVED IN 1066,” PERCY explained, “he seeded this land with a number of habits born and bred in his native France. The square Norman towers you see on many of our oldest churches are an adaptation from medieval French bell towers. The habit of praying the hours—I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across that practice.”
“On the contrary,” Trevor demurred, glancing with pride at Cecilia. “The whole town is aware of it.”
“How extraordinary. Well, those patrons who could read would carry with them miniature texts known as the Book of Hours. When the bells chimed, they would then read from them a short prayer or spiritual poem, directing their thoughts momentarily toward the divine.”
They were gathered in Gladys’s spotless dining room, all thoughts and concerns of the grime they tracked in momentarily forgotten. They were seated in a cramped little circle, all save Gerald, who was busy talking softly at the hall phone. Percy fondled the rotting fabric with its jewel-stitched embroidery and continued, “It will take some very careful investigation to know anything for certain. But I would like to hazard a guess, if you will permit me.”
“Go on, out with it, man,” Arthur commanded. “This isn’t the examination board at Cambridge you’re facing.”
“Very well, then.” The auctioneer took a long breath, touched for a tie that was no longer there, then said, “My guess is that this belonged to a member of the royal family.”
The table emitted a collective gasp. Percy nodded his agreement. “William made Knightsbridge his first capital, as you know. And only someone of his standing would have been able to afford such an elaborate text.”
Percy picked up the book itself, which was only slightly larger than his hand. “I would venture to suggest that this was never actually used. The cover and the box and the ornamentation you see here on the cover, not to mention the illuminations themselves.” He swiveled the book around so Brian could see the page, which showed a woman in a long robe, kneeling beneath a tree, from which sang a dozen golden birds. “Look here, you see how brilliant these colors remain? This indicates that the illuminators used not dyes, but precious metals and ground-up gemstones. These birds, for example; I would wager they are actually gold leaf, and the green of the tree might well be crushed emeralds.” He set down the book and declared, “All this suggests that the book was designed as an offertory from the king to his first monastery in the kingdom.”
Gerald settled the receiver back into the phone and appeared in the doorway. “It’s all arranged,” he announced. “They should arrive in under two hours.”
“Good show.” Percy turned back to Brian. “With your permission, I have arranged for an armored car and a security detail to transport this to safety. You’re under no obligation to deal with Christie’s, of course. But I would urge you to let us stow this in the company vaults until you decide precisely what course you wish to take.”
There was a moment’s stunned silence, then Brian ventured, “This is valuable?”
“My dear sir, this find is absolutely priceless.” Percy could no
t keep his hands off the book. “There has not been one of these on the open market in over a decade. Once authenticated, I would hazard to say it could fetch five million pounds, and possibly much more.”
Brian turned to Cecilia and felt her shining gaze down to the core of his being. He looked back to Percy and asked, “Could you loan me a million dollars?”
The flurry of explanations and strategies rose to such a point that Arthur had to stand and shout to be heard. “I say, one moment please. Quiet!” He waited for silence, then continued, “That’s better. I hate to put a damper on everyone’s fun, but I regret to inform you that money alone will not be enough to retain Castle Keep.”
“He’s right,” Trevor worriedly agreed. “The time for receiving bids has closed.”
“Good grief, I forgot,” Percy said anxiously. “Today’s the day of that auction nonsense, isn’t it?”
“It’s not nonsense, but it is this afternoon,” Brian said. Then he turned to Arthur and asked, “What do we do?”
“A frontal attack’s no use,” the retired commander declared. “The council’s lined up with the enemy. Thick as thieves, that lot.”
“This is not good,” Percy fretted. “Not good at all.”
“Quiet, man.” Arthur commanded. He pondered a long moment, his entire face furrowed. Then he straightened and demanded of his former peer, “You have connections within the Ministry of the Interior, don’t you?”
“Of course, but what—”
“And friends in the antiquities departments of various museums?” Arthur pressed on.
“Of course!” Trevor’s cry pushed him to his feet. “Arthur, you continue to astound me.”
Percy looked from one man to the other. “Sorry, you’ve lost me there.”
“We must plan a flanking maneuver!” Arthur’s jaw jutted out, ready for the assault. “If we manage to have this manor and its grounds declared a historical monument, what happens to the plans for their ruddy lab?”