The Lost Book of the Grail

by Charlie Lovett

  “Yes, sorry,” said Arthur. “My mind wandered for a moment.”

  “Wandered,” said Bethany. “It took a hike.”

  Arthur thought for an instant about telling Bethany that his grandfather’s name was on the board, but even though they were cohorts in the search for the Book of Ewolda, he still didn’t want her knowing his suspicions about the Grail. For now, he would, as his grandfather had asked, keep the Grail and anything not directly pertaining to the search for the manuscript secret.

  “Sorry, what were you asking?” said Arthur.

  “I was asking where Mr. Naylor hid your precious manuscript.”

  “That,” said Arthur, “is a very good question.”

  —

  “I’m afraid I’ve some . . . difficult news, Arthur,” said Gwyn sternly as the two were just passing into the water meadows the following Tuesday morning.

  “The cathedral is to be turned into flats,” said Arthur. “And the manuscript collection used for wallpaper.”

  “It’s not quite to that point yet,” said the dean. “This is more to do with you personally. One of the canons has insisted that we get the new guidebook to the designers by the end of the month. He seems to think we are missing out on tourist dollars by not having an up-to-date guide. So that means I really must insist that you deliver the text to me by the end of next week.”

  “It’s the precentor, isn’t it?”

  “It doesn’t matter who it is,” said Gwyn, “I agree. It must get done.”

  “Very well,” said Arthur. “I may well be on the way to discovering the story of our founder, but if you insist on a half-written guide I shall endeavor to provide it.”

  “Arthur, you are always on the verge of discovering the story of our founder. And you had better do more than endeavor. The chapter are insistent that if the manuscript is not delivered they will pass the assignment to someone else and demand the advance back.”

  “Who else could do it?” said Arthur. “No one else could do it.”

  “I’m sure Oscar could be persuaded to step in,” said Gwyn.

  “Oscar would never do that to me.”

  “He wouldn’t be doing anything to you, but he might do something for me.”

  “Oh, my Lord in heaven.”

  “Please don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Arthur.”

  “I didn’t take his name in vain—only his address.”

  —

  “Nothing!” said Bethany as Arthur stepped into the library.

  “Good afternoon to you, too,” said Arthur. Bethany’s equipment stood idle, there was no manuscript on her stand awaiting digitization, and if her unkempt hair was any sign, as Arthur had come to suspect that it was, she was extremely frustrated. Arthur could not judge her mood by her eyes, as these remained hidden behind the screen of her laptop.

  “I took a break from work to see if I could find out anything about Henry Albert Naylor. I’ve been searching for two hours and I’ve got nothing. No obituary, no publications. It’s like this guy was intentionally trying to avoid having a digital footprint.”

  “Yes, a lot of people did that in 1946,” said Arthur.

  “Oh, ha-ha-ha,” said Bethany. “You’ve no idea how frustrating it is when you can’t find what you’re looking for.”

  Arthur could not prevent himself from laughing out loud. “I’ve no idea? Really? I’ve been trying for years to find out something about St. Ewolda, and you’ve given up after two hours? Never was a generation so addicted to instant gratification.”

  “My generation is not that removed from yours, Arthur,” said Bethany, closing her laptop and leaning back in her chair. “Just because you act like you’re from the same generation as Henry Albert Naylor doesn’t make it true. And yes, I understand that research is usually fruitless and that sometimes you never find what you’re looking for. I’m not an idiot and I’m not a brat, I’m just, at this moment, annoyed because I wanted to impress you and now I can’t.”

  “I keep doing that, don’t I?” said Arthur.

  “What, being an ass?”

  “Something like that. I’m sorry. And I certainly understand the frustration of the researcher, but I think this is one case in which I can help you out.” He walked across the library to Oscar’s desk and ran his finger along a group of thick volumes, bound in black cloth, that filled two shelves behind Oscar’s chair. He pulled out one of these tomes and opened it on the desk. As soon as the pages fell open a musty smell filled the air. Arthur usually paused to savor this smell, slightly different for every book, but today he flipped quickly through the pages until he found what he was looking for. “Here you are,” he said. “Henry Albert Naylor. I guess today books win.”

  “You like that, don’t you?” said Bethany crossing the room to see the book that Arthur now turned around for her. “Lecturing and winning, the two favorite occupations of Mr. Arthur Prescott. So what is this?”

  “Crockford’s Clerical Directory for 1941,” said Arthur. “It’s a list of all the clergymen in the U.K. with short biographies.”

  “Why 1941?” asked Bethany, pulling up a chair to the other side of Oscar’s desk.

  “Last edition published before Naylor died in 1946. Died or stopped being the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s. Because of the war, I suppose; it didn’t come out again until 1947.”

  “A book, eh?” said Bethany.

  “Who would have thought?” said Arthur.

  Bethany leaned over the open volume and read:

  NAYLOR, Henry Albert, Hogglestock, Barsetshire.—St. Laz. Ox. B.A. (2nd cl. Lit. Hum.) 1924, M.A. 1926; Deac. 1927, Pr. 1928. C. of Uffley Dio. Bst. 1929, R. St. Cuthbert’s, Dio. Bst. 1937, Canon Bchr. Cathedral 1938, R. Plumstead Episcopi 1938.

  “Does this mean anything to you, Arthur?”

  “With thousands of listings, Crockford’s does use a few abbreviations.” Arthur spun the book back around. “Let’s see what we can make of this. Henry Albert Naylor, born in Hogglestock, Barsetshire. That’s just a few miles out past the university. Went to St. Lazarus College, Oxford, where he earned a second class in Classics, so he’s competent but no genius. Got his bachelor’s degree in 1924, his master’s in 1926. That would put him in one of the first classes after the Great War. He was too young to fight, lucky boy. Curate of Uffley in the Diocese of Barsetshire. That’s southwest of here not more than fifteen miles or so. Then in 1937 he becomes rector of St. Cuthbert’s, we knew that, but look at this. In 1938 he becomes a canon of Barchester Cathedral and rector of Plumstead Episcopi.”

  “Sounds like he was a busy man.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Arthur. “St. Cuthbert’s is a tiny parish, and even in those days not many people lived in that part of the city. And Plumstead Episcopi—let’s just say Plumstead Episcopi would be a good place to hide a manuscript.”

  “What is Plumstead Episcopi?” said Bethany. “Is that a church?”

  “It’s a rural parish,” said Arthur, turning back to the shelves behind Oscar’s desk. “With a lovely little parish church. I wouldn’t want to bore you with a lecture, so I’ll just show you this.” Arthur took a slim booklet off the shelf and handed it to Bethany.

  “A History of Plumstead Episcopi by Arthur Prescott,” said Bethany. “OK, Mister Church Historian, suppose you save me the trouble of reading what I’m sure is a scintillating narrative and just tell me why Plumstead Episcopi would make such a good hiding place.”

  “It had a rather lovely rectory,” said Arthur. “Georgian construction. But the parish itself was sparsely populated. The first two rectors of the last century chose to live in town rather than in the isolated surroundings of Plumstead, and during the Great War the rectory was used to billet soldiers who, I’m afraid, did not treat the place well. It was pulled down in the 1920s and the parish subsumed into the neighboring parish of Ullathorne, but since the l
iving had always been in the hands of the cathedral chapter, there has been a tradition since then that a member of the chapter is made rector of Plumstead Episcopi. The only real duties that come with the title are seeing that the church doesn’t fall down and holding a service there once a year—usually it’s a sort of summer festival. Most people who go just want to see the inside of the church—it was restored by George Gilbert Scott in the Victorian Gothic style.”

  “And since the church is only unlocked one day a year, you think it wouldn’t be a bad place to stash a mysterious manuscript.”

  “Certainly if I were Henry Albert Naylor on the night of February 7, 1941, and I were looking for a place where a manuscript would be safe from both prying eyes and Nazi bombs, I might have whisked it off to a church to which only I had the keys and which was nearly always closed. Naylor died in 1946, but the books and manuscripts weren’t returned to the cathedral library until after the repairs were completed in the early fifties. Maybe he hadn’t told anybody about the manuscript.”

  “But did he die in 1946 or did he just stop being rector of St. Cuthbert’s?”

  “Looks like he died,” said Arthur, who had pulled another volume of Crockford’s off the shelf. “He’s not listed in the 1947 volume.”

  “So how do we get into the church at Plumstead Episcopi? I’m not waiting until some summer festival. Who’s the rector now? Couldn’t we just ask him for the keys? You can tell him I’m some sort of Victorian Gothic fanatic and that I’m only here for a few more weeks and I’m dying to see the church.”

  “Is it really just a few more weeks?” said Arthur.

  “Arthur, focus. We are hatching a diabolical plot here and you’re asking about insignificant details. Who is the rector of Plumstead?”

  “We’re not getting the keys from the rector,” said Arthur.

  “Why not? Is it someone you know?”

  “Someone I have tried, without success, to avoid whenever possible. The current rector of Plumstead Episcopi is the precentor.”

  —

  Arthur lay awake that night thinking. He had gone back to the library after dinner and looked in a copy of Crockford’s Clerical Directory from just before his grandfather’s death in 1992. There was the biography:

  HARDING, Charles Edward, Barchester, Barsetshire.—Ch. Ch. Ox. B.A. (1st cl. Lit. Hum.) 1933, M.A. 1935; Deac. 1936, Pr. 1938. Chap. RAF 1938–1945, R. St. Cuthbert’s, Dio. Bst. 1946, Canon Bchr. Cathedral 1958, R. Plumstead Episcopi, Dio. Bst, 1964. Ret. 1980.

  Arthur’s grandfather had served as a chaplain in the Royal Air Force during the war and then become rector of St. Cuthbert’s, eventually adding the same posts (canon of Barchester Cathedral and rector of Plumstead) that Henry Albert Naylor had held. Had Naylor passed the manuscript on to his grandfather? And if so, why hadn’t his grandfather told Arthur anything about it? He considered dismissing the similarities in the two men’s careers as coincidence, but the summer before his grandfather had died, Arthur had again mentioned his discovery about the similar yew trees in Barchester and Tennyson.

  “Of course it could be a coincidence,” said Arthur, trying to prod his grandfather into telling him more about the Grail.

  But the old man only answered with his typical enigmatic smile, “There are no coincidences.” Was he trying to tell Arthur something? Did he know that one day Arthur would learn about the manuscript and Naylor’s connection to it? That he would discover that Naylor and his grandfather had shared not just the post at St. Cuthbert’s, but the one at Plumstead Episcopi—a position now held by the precentor?

  Arthur wondered what it was about the precentor that bothered him so much. True, there was plenty to dislike—from his clammy handshake to his air of superiority to the way he had mistreated Oscar. But there had always been something else. The day he had met the man, Arthur had felt instantly averse. He had no doubt it was the precentor who was agitating to sell the library’s manuscripts, the precentor who suddenly demanded Arthur turn in the text for the guidebook, the precentor who was responsible for all that was wrong with the cathedral. Arthur knew this was a completely unfair assessment—after all, over the years the precentor had brought ritual back to cathedral worship, he had revitalized the choir program, and he had supported the dean in many of her efforts, even, in spite of his disdain for the design, in the attempt to rebuild the Lady Chapel. But whether Arthur’s assessment was fair or not, he took what he knew was unjustified pleasure in making it. At the root of the problem, he decided, was that the precentor always seemed to be saying one thing and meaning another. “Good afternoon, Arthur” meant “I’m sitting in your usual spot because I am better than you, now get some work done on that damned guidebook.” “Good evening, Arthur” meant “You have no place in this cathedral if you stubbornly refuse to believe in God.” And “It’s a lovely day” invariably meant “There is something about this day that I know and that you do not and that I will not be telling you.” Yes, the precentor, Arthur felt sure, was a man who kept secrets. And what better secret than the lost manuscript of Ewolda—perhaps the manuscript that had convinced Gladwyn, and Arthur’s grandfather, that Barchester was the resting place of the Holy Grail. But if the precentor had discovered such a secret in the locked church of Plumstead Episcopi, he would hardly take kindly to a request by the lazy, ignorant, pagan Arthur Prescott to provide the key. What’s more, if anyone, and especially Arthur, with his interest in the history of the cathedral, asked for the Plumstead key, the precentor would immediately smell a rat, and would no doubt move the manuscript to a . . . what did the Americans call it . . . a secure location.

  Just as Arthur was drifting off to sleep, it occurred to him that all his musings about the precentor and his grandfather and the lost manuscript and the Grail were irrelevant. He could not go gallivanting about the countryside looking for ancient secrets. He had to produce a text for the new guidebook in less than ten days. There was no question of allowing someone else to do it. The cathedral had advanced Arthur five hundred pounds for the work, and that money was long ago spent on books. Arthur couldn’t afford to pay back the advance, and besides, after all the work he had done, he desperately wanted to be the one to write the guidebook. So he would have to set aside all thought of adventures with Bethany and produce a manuscript of his own.

  VII

  THE QUIRE

  The quire was built in the Decorated style in the second half of the thirteenth century. Bishop Samuel Giffard, who began the rebuilding of the original Norman structure, is buried in the quire aisle. Although some of the woodwork was damaged or destroyed during the Civil War, many of the carvings, and particularly the misericords, date from the late thirteenth century and are thought to be the work of a single craftsman.

  1280, Barchester

  Adam Lyngwode stepped back from the wood to admire his work. The face of the woman was beginning to emerge from the oak—not as close a likeness as he wanted but recognizable. Certainly the hair that streamed from the side of the head could belong to no one but Clarice. It had been a cold winter in Barchester, and though a fire burned nearby, the stonemasons seemed constantly to surround it, warming their hands. Adam felt cold to his core, yet somehow his fingers could still carve. Over the years, they had memorized the motions needed to peel back the layers of wood and reveal the figures within.

  Adam had come to Barchester almost ten years ago, when Bishop Giffard had decided to pull down the old Norman quire and replace it with a new, higher, lighter structure in the latest style. The bishop had given Adam a test—build and decorate an oaken chest to hold the cathedral’s growing collection of manuscripts. The result had been both practical and beautiful—a solid locking chest, inscribed around the top with the opening verses of the Gospel of John. The bishop had been impressed, and Adam had moved to Barchester, where he joined masons, glaziers, carpenters, and others. For the past decade, they had worked to achieve the bishop’s vision for t
he new quire. For some time now, Adam had been working on the carvings for the quire stalls. He had created arches over the canons’ seats that echoed the design of the clerestory windows, carved biblical scenes for the pew ends, and fashioned elaborate figures to separate each canon’s stall from the next. For the last few months, he had been engaged in his favorite part of the entire process—carving figures for the misericords. Because these images would rarely be seen, he was allowed considerable leeway in crafting them. Today he was, with the special permission of the dean, working on a portrait of his wife.

  Although Adam was a lowly craftsman, becoming friends with the new dean, who had been installed two years ago, had proved simple. He had observed how, whenever the bishop was on the work site, he and the dean argued incessantly. Adam rarely followed the argument, but he had no doubt that the dean loathed the bishop. A few months ago, he had asked the dean to come look at his latest misericord carving. The dean had seemed exasperated at this request, but had complied nonetheless. Adam had pulled back the cloth that covered the carving to reveal the figure of a scowling man with batlike wings and ears. In one hand he held a book, but his other hand was raised as if in command. In place of a human hand he had the claw of a raptor.

  “Is that . . .” The dean leaned over to inspect the carving more closely. “Is that the face of the bishop?”

  “Is it?” said Adam. “Must be a coincidence. I can change it if you like.”

  The dean turned to Adam with a wide grin. “No need to change it at all,” he said. “Nor is there any need to show this to His Lordship.” From that day forward, Adam and the dean were fast friends. At least once a week the dean would stop by to inspect Adam’s latest carvings. On one such day, three months ago, he found Adam in tears, still working but unable to hide his emotions.

  “What troubles you, my friend?” said the dean.

  “My wife, Clarice, is taken ill,” said Adam. “Her fever will not abate and she grows weaker by the hour. She is with child and I fear by the time I return home this evening I shall have lost two whom I love.”