Ave, Nennius! Lewis transmitted. The gentlemen turned his head, spotted Lewis, and stifled a yawn.
Ave, Lewis. He took out his watch and looked at it in a rather pointed fashion, as Lewis came to his table and removed his hat.
“Your servant, sir!” said Lewis, aloud. “Dr. Nennys? I believe I had the pleasure of your acquaintance at Mr. Dispater’s party, some weeks ago.”
“I believe you are correct, sir,” said Nennius. “Pray have a seat, won’t you? The boy’s just bringing a fresh pot.”
“Too kind of you,” said Lewis, as he settled into a chair. He held up the folder containing the parchments, waggled his eyebrows in a triumphant manner, and set it down at Nennius’s elbow. “I believe you collect antiquities, sir, do you not? If you will do me the kindness of examining these papers, I believe you will find much to engage your interest!”
Don’t lay it on with a trowel, for gods’ sake, transmitted Nennius, but aloud said merely, “Indeed? Let us see.”
He opened the folder and studied its contents, while a waiter brought another pot of coffee and a fresh cup and saucer for Lewis.
“Would you be dining, sir? Cake or something?”
Lewis felt the pangs of appetite. “Have you any apple pie?”
“Yes, sir,” said the waiter, “bring you a nice one,” and withdrew.
“We-ell,” said Nennius, “very interesting … some prime examples here. Private correspondence, notes, what appears to be a script page or two …” He lifted out one parchment, and pursed his lips in annoyance as it brought two other pages with it, glued together by fruit filling. “Rather a lot of work for the conservators, however.”
Lewis spread out his hands in a gesture of apology. “At least we have them. Before I made the contact, she was using them to light the boiler. Poor old fellow! I expect he’ll have apoplexy when he finds out. Still, ‘History—’”
“‘Cannot Be Changed,’” said Nennius, finishing the statement for him. “So somebody ought to profit from it. Eh? Not a bad job overall, Lewis.” He closed the folder and studied his nails as the waiter brought a sturdy-looking little apple tart and set it before Lewis. The waiter left, and, as Lewis was happily breaking into the crust with a fork, Nennius said, “Still, they’re pulling you out. Sending you down to the Chilterns.”
“Mm! Lovely country thereabouts,” said Lewis, noting in satisfaction that no red letters flashed in his field of vision. He had another mouthful of pie. “What’s the quarry, pray?”
“If it really exists, it’s a Greek scroll or codex that would be anywhere from three thousand to seventeen hundred years old,” said Nennius. “On the other hand, it may be a fraud. The sort of thing that would be cobbled together and sold to an impressionable young Briton on a grand tour. Your job’s to find it—which may in itself be a bit tricky—and obtain it for the Company, which may be more difficult still.”
“And determine whether it’s authentic or otherwise, I assume,” said Lewis.
“Of course, of course.” Nennius took out a calfskin folder nearly identical to the one Lewis had given him and deftly switched them. “Your directions and letter of introduction are in there. Scholar wanting employment, highly recommended, encyclopedic knowledge of all things Greek and Latin, expert curator of papyrus, parchment, and et cetera. The gentleman in question has an extensive library.” Nennius smiled as he said the last word.
“Sounds easy!” said Lewis, not looking up from his pie. “Hours of browsing through a splendid classical library? Now, that’s my idea of a posting!”
“How nice that you bring your customary enthusiasm to the job,” Nennius drawled. “Though we don’t believe your specific quarry will be in the library, in fact. More likely hidden in a box of some kind, somewhere in one of the tunnels. Perhaps in an altar.”
“Tunnels?” Lewis knitted his brows in perplexity. “Wherever am I being sent?”
“West Wycombe,” said Nennius, with just a trace of malicious amusement. “To the estate of Baron leDespencer.”
“Ah,” said Lewis politely, lifting another forkful of flaky pastry crust.
“That would be Baron leDespencer, Sir Francis Dashwood,” said Nennius. The bit of pie fell off Lewis’s fork.
“I beg your pardon?” he stammered. Looking around hastily, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Surely you don’t mean that fellow with the, the, er—”
“Notorious hellfire club? I’m afraid I do, yes,” said Nennius in a leisurely fashion, taking a sip of his coffee.
“But I’m a Literature Preservation Specialist,” said Lewis.
“So I understand. And Dashwood has one of the most extensive libraries of pornography, both ancient and modern, in the world. I know of some operatives who’d positively leap at the chance to have a peek at it,” said Nennius. “You ought to have ample time, whilst you’re searching for the scroll. Which is something entirely different, by the way. It may, or may not, contain an account of the rituals performed during the Eleusinian Mysteries.”
“But we know all about the Eleusinian Mysteries!” said Lewis. “I attended them myself! And managed to record them, I might add.”
“Yes, but your old holiday holoshots aren’t the sort of thing the Company can sell to wealthy collectors,” Nennius pointed out. “He’s expecting you on the fifteenth. You’ll do famously, I’m quite sure. Good day, sir. You’ll excuse me, I trust; I have an engagement at the Cocoa Tree.”
He rose, took up a silver-headed walking stick, and strolled out, leaving Lewis with the check.
In the dim gray hours of the fifteenth of the month, Lewis stepped down from the coach, caught his valise as the coachman threw it down to him, and looked blearily around at High Wycombe.
Its appearance lived up to its reputation as the capital of the British chair manufacturing industry.
There was a tavern that looked as though its interior was dark paneled, low beamed, and full of jostling upholsterers clutching leathern jacks of ale. It did not look as though it might be open and serving breakfast, however. Lewis sighed, and started the trudge to West Wycombe.
In spite of his worries, his spirits rose as he went along. The road was good, free of mud holes, the country rolling and wooded, beautiful in the brightening air. The dawn chorus of birds began. When the sun rose at last, it struck an answering gleam from a curious feature high on a hill: what appeared to be the steeple of a church, surmounted not with a cross but with a golden ball, like an echo of the sun itself.
How charmingly neoclassical, Lewis thought to himself, and was surprised, on accessing his database of local information, to discover that it was in fact St. Lawrence’s church, and had been “restored and improved” by Sir Francis Dashwood himself.
The birds sang on. The autumn meadows were full of gamboling hares, and fleecy sheep, and the occasional prosperous and happy-looking shepherd. Rose brambles were bright with scarlet fruit. When the great house came into view at last, that too was all sunlight and peace: a great Palladian mansion of golden stone, trimmed with white.
Lewis scanned the countryside for suspicious-looking altars, standing stones, or at least a wicker man or two. There weren’t any. No black hounds watched him from behind trees, either. Only, as he entered the park and started down the wide, pleasant drive, an elderly pug limping along on its solitary business stopped to regard him. It coughed at him in a querulous sort of way, and then lost interest in him and wandered on through drifts of fallen leaves.
At the end of the drive Lewis came to the tremendous entrance portico, Greek Revival looking strangely comfortable in its setting. Within, like an immense lawn jockey, a statue of Bacchus towered beside the door. Bacchus too looked comfortable. Lewis smiled nervously up at him as he knocked.
He gazed about as he waited for someone to open the door; there were panels painted with representations of scenes from classical literature, including one of Bacchus crowning Ariadne. Lewis was studying it with his head craned back, mouth agape, when the d
oor was abruptly opened. He looked down and found himself being regarded by an elderly gentleman, far too well dressed to be a butler.
“You’re not the postman,” he said.
“No, sir. Your servant, sir!” Lewis removed his hat and bowed. “Lewis Owens. Is Lord leDespencer within?”
“He is,” said the gentleman. “Owens? You’d be the librarian?”
“I hope to be, sir,” said Lewis, drawing forth and offering his letter of introduction. The gentleman took it and waved him within in an absentminded way, as he broke the seal and perused the letter’s contents. Lewis slid past him and set down his valise in the Great Hall.
He scanned but was unable to pick up any currents of mortal agitation, only a droning like a well-run beehive, and fragments of mortal thought: … Just get them geraniums potted … it doesn’t hurt quite so much now; I shall be better presently … he asked for jugged hare special, and here you’ve gone and used up all the … damn, however shall I get that grease spot out? … I could quite fancy a cup of chocolate just now … see, he put all his money in barley futures, but …
Lewis tended to become enthralled by mortal dramas, however ordinary, so he was startled from his reverie when the gentleman said, without warning:
“‘Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo—’”
“‘Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua,’” responded Lewis automatically.
The old gentleman smiled at him. “I see your patron is not mistaken in you. My apologies, young man; the last candidate Sir Francis considered for the post was something of an impostor. Paul Whitehead, sir, at your service.”
“Whitehead, the author of Manners and other celebrated satires!” Lewis cried, bowing low. “Oh, sir, what an honor—”
They were interrupted at this moment by the butler hurrying in, hastily rearranging his cravat.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Whitehead—so sorry—is the gentleman a friend?”
“I think it likely,” said Mr. Whitehead, looking dazed. “You have, in fact, read something of mine? Good God, sir! And here I thought myself quite forgotten.”
He drew breath to laugh and coughed instead, a hard, racking cough. John hurried forward to take his arm, but he held up his hand.
“I’m quite all right. Never mind, John. Come along, Mr. Owens; Sir Francis will be delighted to see you.”
He led Lewis through splendid rooms, all done in a rather old-fashioned Italian Renaissance style and perhaps with too many statues to be in the best of taste.
“My understanding was that the library was in some disarray,” said Lewis delicately.
“Well, it ought to be properly catalogued,” said Mr. Whitehead. “We never got around to it; and now that so many of the books from Medmenham have been conveyed over here—why, it is in a sad condition.”
Lewis cleared his throat. “That would be the, er, famous abbey?”
“Of the monks of St. Francis of Wycombe.” The old man rolled his eyes. “Famous, is it? I daresay. For a secret society, we had an extraordinary number of tattlers. Not that any of them are up to much lechery nowadays. But there it is: ‘In the days of me youth I could bill like a dove … tra la la la.’”
They emerged from the house into wide garden acreage, in which the neoclassical theme continued: temples, arches, and yet more statues, crowded around a lake. In the near foreground, however, a small and somewhat wobbly-looking pavilion of pink silk had been pitched on the lawn.
As they approached it, Lewis heard a man’s voice saying, “I shouldn’t do it, Francis. You will almost certainly have your left hand cut off by the Grand Turk.”
“Bad Francis,” said a child’s voice.
“I believe you’ve found your librarian, Francis,” said Mr. Whitehouse, leading Lewis around to the front of the pavilion. Inside, seated on a Turkish carpet, were two tiny children, a dish of quartered oranges and sweetmeats, and a man in late middle age. He wore a dressing gown and a turban.
“What?” he said. “Oh. Pray excuse me; we’re being Arabs.”
“Quite all right,” said Lewis.
“May I present Mr. Lewis Owens, Sir Francis?” said Mr. Whitehead, not without a certain irony. “Mr. Owens—Lord leDespencer, Sir Francis Dashwood.”
Further introduction was delayed at this point, because the little boy lunged for the sweetmeats and crammed a fistful of them in his mouth quick as lightning, occasioning the little girl to scream shrilly, “Papa, he went and done it after all!”
“And may I present my children? Francis and Frances Dashwood.” Sir Francis clapped twice, and a nurse came from the portico. “I name them all after me; so like the Roman custom, don’t you think? Take them back to the harem, Mrs. Willis. Fanny, remember your manners. What must we do when we meet infidel gentlemen?”
The little girl drew a curtain over her head, then rose to her feet and made an unsteady curtsey. The nurse scooped up the baby, levered the goo ball of sweets out of his mouth with a practiced hand, and bore him away despite his screams of rage. The little girl followed her, tripping only once on the trailing curtain.
“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Owens?” said Sir Francis, indicating the carpet beside him. Mr. Whitehead had already gone to the portico and fetched himself a garden chair.
“With gratitude, sir,” said Lewis, crawling awkwardly into the tent. Sir Francis offered him the dish, and he helped himself to an orange quarter. Seen close to, Sir Francis looked nothing like a notorious rake and blasphemer; he had a good-natured face, with shrewd eyes and none of the bloated fogginess of the habitual drinker.
“Here’s his letter,” said Mr. Whitehead, handing it to Sir Francis, who held it out at arm’s length and peered at it.
“Why, sir, you come to us highly recommended,” he said after a moment. “It would appear you are quite the scholar.”
“Dr. Franklin is too kind,” said Lewis, doing his best to look abashed.
“And you’ve some experience restoring old papers! That’s an excellent thing, for, you know, some of my library is exceeding rare and, like mortal flesh, prone to crumble with age.” Sir Francis tucked the letter into his pocket and gave Lewis a sidelong look. “I suppose you were, er, advised as to its nature?”
“Oh.” Lewis blushed. “Yes. Yes, my lord, I was.”
“I don’t imagine you’re a prudish young fellow; Franklin would scarce have sent you if you were inclined that way. Mr. Williams was a sad disappointment, yes indeed; let us hope his successor fares better.” Sir Francis took up a piece of orange and bit into it.
“I expect you have heard stories, of course,” he added.
“Er—yes,” said Lewis.
Sir Francis chortled. “Most of them are wildest exaggeration. Yet we had some rare times in our day, Paul, had we not? Good food, good drink, good company. Taste the sweets of life, my boy, whilst you’re able, for all too soon we fade like summer flowers.”
“Too soon indeed,” said Mr. Whitehead with a sigh. “Albeit a firm belief in eternal life in the hereafter is a great comfort.”
“Quite so,” Sir Francis agreed, looking solemn. “Still, we’re not entirely withered yet, hey? I was thinking only the other evening, we really ought to have another ‘Chapter Meeting’ with some of our brother monks.” He winked broadly at Lewis. “Quite a bit of fun, and really nothing of which to be ashamed. Paul knows of a respectable house with the most agreeable, good-natured girls—charmers all, discreet, free of the pox, but with a certain amount of intellectual furniture, you know.”
“Ah! Like the hetaerae of Ancient Greece?” Lewis inquired.
“Exactly!” said Sir Francis, and seized his hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Just so. And, after all, in men of our years, good conversation hath its virtue, too. Not that I expect a young man to believe me.”
He popped a sweetmeat in his mouth and crawled out of the tent on hands and knees. “Come along,” he said briskly. “We’ll show you the library.”
Lewis found himself employed. It cou
ldn’t have been easier; he had a pleasant room, was free to keep his own hours, and had a place at Sir Francis’s table. On his second evening in residence he had a difficult encounter with a dish of syllabub that proved to contain gooseberries, but managed to ignore the flashing lights and keep smiling at his host’s witticisms.
And the library was a treasure trove.
It was true that a great deal of it consisted of erotica, inclining to the eclectic rather than the perverse. Lewis found a splendid copy of the earliest translation into English of the Kama Sutra. And the library certainly needed putting into order: Gulliver’s Travels jostled for shelf space with books on the Kabbalah, or on architecture, or Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, or Ovid’s Amores. There were indeed a couple of fairly ancient scrolls and codices: a second-century copy of Euripides’ The Bacchae, and a copy of Aristophanes’ The Frogs that was nearly as old.
There were a few fakes, too, most notably a work on alchemy purporting to have been written by Aristotle; these were well done, clearly by a someone who had had access to a cache of very old papyrus and knew a few tricks for compounding period-formula inks. Lewis recognized the hand of a certain forger active in the last century, who had worked from the Eugenikos manuscripts. This unknown Russian was quite a celebrity in the faked document trade; Lewis, noting that Sir Francis had traveled to Russia in his youth, suspected that he may have been sold a number of phonies from the same artist.
At the end of a week, he sat down at his artfully concealed field credenza and sent the message:
The Year's Best SF 25 # 2007 Page 66
