He waited until they were out of sight before turning to me.
‘You knew all the time I wasn’t with the group,’ I said, trying to stand up. ‘Oh, ouch.’
‘Of course, madam. We are always given a count at the start of a tour, so we don’t lose anyone. You had paid for admission and your audio guide, and the group was small; I saw no reason why you shouldn’t tag along. In any case, your accent isn’t quite … are you Canadian, perchance? No, don’t try to stand up just yet. You’re quite pale, you know.’
‘I feel pale. No, I’m American, not Canadian, but I’ve lived in England for a long time. When I go home for a visit they all think I sound as English as can be, but here, no one is fooled. I think I could stand up if I could lean on you for a little while.’
‘Better not, not just yet.’ He leaned over and looked closely into my eyes, but so impersonally that I couldn’t take offense. ‘Probably no concussion; though one pupil is a bit smaller than the other.’
‘They’re always that way. Don’t know why.’
‘Ah. Do you have a headache at all?’
‘No. Nearly everything else hurts, but not my head. And these slacks will never be the same again.’ I looked ruefully at the growing blood stain on one knee. ‘I haven’t had a skinned knee since I was ten. I don’t suppose there’d be a Band-Aid anywhere – I mean a plaster, or whatever they call them in France.’
‘In whatever language, yes, we do have them. We’ve rather a complete first-aid kit, in fact. We sometimes have to deal with rather serious injuries, since it can take quite some time for proper medical help to arrive. Your colour’s coming back a bit. Take my arm, and we’ll go and tidy up your scrapes.’
I wasn’t terribly surprised to be handed a small glass of brandy when I had sat down in the spartan but well-equipped first-aid room. After all, this was for centuries a Benedictine monastery, though it was now occupied by a new group of monks and nuns, the Jerusalem Community. And religious communities through the centuries have offered hospitality, including medical care, to strangers. I drank the restorative while the guide competently patched me up.
‘There. Feeling better?’
‘Much, thank you. I’m confused, though. Plainly you’re an Englishman, and not a monk. How did you come to be guiding tourists in this place?’
He stood and brushed off the knees of his pants. ‘Have you ever heard of Peter Abelard?’
I had to think a minute. ‘As in Abelard and Héloïse? Of course I’ve heard of them, but I’m afraid my knowledge is pretty sketchy. He was a medieval monk, and she was a nun, and they had a love affair, and he got excommunicated or something.’
Peter grimaced. ‘The usual misinformation. About the only thing that’s accurate about the popular story is the time frame, although “medieval” is a fairly broad range.’
‘All right, then, set me straight. I would just as soon sit a while before I have to negotiate all those stairs. Unless you have to be somewhere.’
‘My duties are done for the day. I do a little guide work because I enjoy it, and the community here has been very kind to me. I like to return the favour. My real work is in Avranches, at the Scriptorial.’
I looked blank.
‘You don’t know the area?’
‘I arrived last night. I’ve seen the Mont once, fifty years ago or so, but from the mainland. I’ve never actually been here before in my life.’
‘All right, then. We’ll begin at the beginning. Which was somewhere in the early eighth century, at least according to legend.’
‘Right. You told us about that on the tour. The archangel Michael poked the bishop in the head and told him to build a church here. I have to say I doubt the archangel’s understanding of construction problems. I never saw a less likely place to build anything more massive than a good-sized dog kennel.’
Peter smiled. ‘Well, perhaps Michael had more pressing matters on his mind, like fighting the devil and all the armies of Hell. At any rate, Bishop Aubert, as ordered, built the church, or technically an oratory, a small chapel for prayer.’
‘Yes, well, I know that bit. Can we accelerate the narrative a bit? The church was built, it was added onto and torn down and rebuilt, and so on and so forth, and became the home of a Benedictine abbey.’
‘And that’s really important. The Benedictines, as you may know, were great collectors of books and manuscripts. In their heyday the abbeys were centres of learning, with large libraries and large scriptoria where the books were copied. Even after the invention of the printing press made the work of the copyists less and less important, the abbeys still collected books, because reading was a vital part of the Benedictine Rule.’
‘Have we left Abelard in the dust somewhere, moving so rapidly through the centuries?’
‘Not at all. We’ve passed him by only about three hundred years, and we’re coming back. Abelard, who was a fascinating character, was many things. Yes, a monk, after his enemies had him castrated.’
I made some little sound.
‘Yes, that bit doesn’t always make its way into the pretty love stories. You should read a book about him sometime; you might be surprised by the real story. Not, of course, that we know all of the real story. The man died in 1142, and accounts from that long ago are spotty and unreliable. However – yes, we’re getting there at last – we do know that among his other talents, Abelard was a writer of considerable ability, and also a composer.’
I smacked my knee, and ignored the smart. ‘Of course! O Quanta Qualia!’
Peter gave me a quizzical look. ‘Madam, I have misjudged you.’
‘No, you haven’t. I mean, I really am ignorant about Abelard. I just happen to know he wrote a hymn called O Quanta Qualia, and I don’t even know what the Latin means, because I’ve only ever sung it in English, and I don’t think it’s a very exact translation, but I’m a great fan of Dorothy L. Sayers, and that was her favourite hymn, only of course she sang it in Latin, she learned Latin when she was three or something like that …’ I ran down.
‘Yes. Well, you may not know that he wrote a great many other songs, and not only hymns. His love songs, presumably written for Héloïse, were said to have been the toast of Paris in the twelfth century.’
‘Well, now, I love music, and the tune of O Quanta Qualia is very singable; it doesn’t sound ancient at all. I wonder if I could buy a collection of those love songs anywhere.’
‘No.’ It was a flat, unequivocal reply. ‘You can’t buy a collection of them because they no longer exist. Nearly all his music, save that one hymn, has been lost.’
‘Oh, what a pity!’
Peter was silent. I looked up at his face.
‘There’s more to the story, isn’t there? You started all this by saying something about a scriptorium?’
‘Scriptorial. It’s a museum in Avranches – that’s the nearest town of any size – which houses all the Mont-Saint-Michel manuscripts, all that are left, anyway. The Abbey was closed during the French Revolution and the manuscripts, fortunately, were sent away instead of being destroyed. Among those manuscripts are three copies of works by Peter Abelard.’
‘Music?’
‘No. Theological works. The amazing thing is that they’re there at all.’
‘You mean because the revolutionaries … no, that’s not it, is it? I’m getting there. I may not have his life story right, but I’m certain he had run-ins with church authorities. So why would his writings be preserved in an abbey?’
He looked at me with approval. ‘Spot on. They must have been unusually liberal in their outlook to have not only acquired his works, but copied them.’
His eyes were alight with the zeal that’s common to a lot of people in diverse situations. The collector looks that way when a rare prize seems within his grasp, the gambler when the long shot is about to pull it off. And the scholar …
‘You think the abbey might have collected his songs, as well. But you said the Scrip … what is it?’
> ‘The Scriptorial.’
‘Yes. That they have only three of his manuscripts, and they’re theological treatises.’
‘Yes, and that’s why I think it’s possible that …’
He trailed off as though afraid to finish his thought aloud. So I finished it for him.
‘You think they might still be here, and you intend to look for them.’
FIVE
Peter looked around and put a finger to his lips.
‘Oh, c’mon. There’s nobody around. Anyway, you don’t propose to go around tearing down walls or digging up the stones of the floor. Do you?’
‘No, of course not, but do please keep your voice down. The acoustics in here are very odd; voices project in some places.’
‘Not here. Peter, I’ve heard concerts in a lot of places. I know what a live space sounds like. This room is dead. Why are you so worried?’
‘You are too perceptive, madam.’
‘You can’t keep calling me that. My name is Dorothy. And the question stands.’ All right, I’m a curious person. Or nosy, if that word seems more appropriate.
‘I’m not sure why you want to know, but the answer is simple. The Jerusalem Community has been very kind to me, but there are rules about what I do here. I show people around and answer questions. Nothing more. I am, of course, not allowed into the monks’ and nuns’ private quarters, unless by invitation. And I am very specifically not allowed into the parts of the Abbey that are closed to the public. Some of them are dangerous, you see.’
‘Hmm. Because they are so old. Old enough to be interesting. What sort of time period are you thinking about?’
He held up his hands in the classic gesture of frustration. ‘Madam, this is a ridiculous conversation. The idea that there might be any hidden manuscripts is a foolish notion, born of a deranged mind.’
‘My name is Dorothy. Mrs Martin, if you simply cannot bring yourself to use a first name. And your mind is obviously not deranged, so what put the idea into your head?’
I could see him debating about whether or not to continue the struggle. Something about my expression must have told him I wasn’t going to stop asking awkward questions, so he gave in. ‘Very well, madam – Mrs Martin. I’ll tell you the whole story, but not here. Are you staying on the Mont, or in the village?’
‘Where the hotels are, and you catch the shuttle? If that’s a village, I’m a French peasant, but yes, that’s where I’m staying.’
‘Good. We ought to be able to find a private place to talk there. Can you walk to the shuttle, do you think?’
‘Probably. If I sit any longer I’ll be too stiff to move at all. Onward and – er – downward.’
I’ll never know how I made it. Without Peter’s strong arm I couldn’t have done it. How I hate the limitations imposed by advancing age! When I was a kid I lived on roller skates in the summer, and skinned my knees almost daily. I had scabs on top of my scabs. And I picked myself up from the sidewalk and skated off with never a thought to the pain. Muscles never ached, joints never refused to work.
Sayers’s Lord Peter once remarked that he envied the young not for their hearts, but for their heads and stomachs. I envy them their joints.
Somehow I hobbled to the shuttle, where my obvious disability landed me a good seat, even though the tram was now crowded. The rain had stopped, a watery sun was trying to poke through the clouds, and the tourists had proliferated like ladybugs on the first warm day of spring.
‘It’s lunch time,’ said Peter when we disembarked, looking not at his watch but at the crowds seated at the outdoor cafés. ‘Is your car here?’
‘I don’t have one until my husband gets here, later this week. I’ve been travelling by train.’
‘Oh. Then we can’t drive into Avranches for lunch.’
‘No. But we could buy ourselves some sandwiches somewhere and eat in my room. If it’s privacy you want, we couldn’t do better. If it’s gourmet food, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.’
‘I’ll eat anything.’
‘Let me treat.’ I handed him a wad of Euros. ‘But you’ll have to do the foraging. I can make it to my room, but not a step farther. I’m here’ – I pointed to my hotel – ‘room 104. And I’ll eat anything, too, so long as it’s filling. I’m starved.’
The shops looked crowded. I reckoned I’d have enough time to wash up and change into clean clothes before he came back, though not time for a lovely relaxing bath. I doubted I could get out of a bathtub, in any case. That would have to wait until Alan came along, with his assisting arms. With a sigh, I climbed the stairs to my room, feeling about a hundred years old.
When Peter returned and came in the door that I had left ajar, he found me on the bed, propped up with pillows. He looked a little embarrassed.
‘I’m far too old, and you’re far too young, to create a compromising situation. Sit down and let’s see what you’ve got.’
He had found some lovely baguettes stuffed with ham, and some with cheese. There was a little tin of pâté and some biscuits. There was a bottle of white wine, nicely chilled, and plastic wine glasses, and finally an assortment of pastries of the sort only the French seem able to produce.
I dug in, and after a moment, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich, said, ‘Okay. We’re private. I’ve been thinking, and I’ve come up with some conclusions. First, you’re a student of either music or theology.’
He took a swig of wine. ‘Both, actually. Liturgical music and hymnody.’
‘At Oxbridge?’
‘Exeter. Do you know Exeter?’
‘I’ve been there. Years ago. Lovely cathedral, though I don’t like it as well as my own, at Sherebury.’
‘Yes, you have a fine cathedral, and not a bad university.’
I rolled my eyes. Academic snobbery is universal. ‘It’s a good one, and you know it. Especially the art college. But never mind. You learned something at Exeter that made you hare off to France in the middle of term time, infuriating your professors and probably costing you quite a lot of progress towards your degree. A doctorate, I assume?’
‘Yes. And the research here counts in as part of my work. I’m working principally at the Scriptorial, of course.’
‘Ostensibly.’
‘No, I am, truly. They have a few books of chants and the like, music that was used in their daily offices. But I take your point. There are far richer sources of medieval music elsewhere in Europe.’
‘And online. Don’t look so astonished. I have managed to limp into the twenty-first century, and I do know how to use a computer. I was looking up something else in the British Library, hit the wrong icon, and found myself looking at a page from an old missal, illuminated capitals and all. So you came here specifically to look for Abelard’s music. Not at the Scriptorial, but at the Abbey.’
‘All right, yes! Dorothy, how do you do it? I haven’t admitted that to a living soul.’
‘People talk to me. I don’t know why.’
‘You knew most of it already. I don’t know how.’
‘I taught school for over forty years. I learned a few things about reading faces. Children are sometimes more open than adults, but not always.’
‘Your own face is open, you know. I could see the moment you started to work out what I was doing.’
‘Yes, I’ve been told I must never, never play poker.’ I finished my neglected sandwich and spread some pâté on a cream cracker. ‘So we’ve established what you hope to do. How are you going to go about it?’
‘There’s the rub. I’d planned to have the help of a friend, an archaeologist.’
‘Ah. Who would have had ideas about where such things might be buried.’
‘Or just hidden. He’s quite a clever chap, really. But he can’t come, after all. Some silly excuse about his girlfriend.’
I hid a smile. ‘It’s plain you’re not in a serious relationship.’
‘Can’t be bothered. Far too constraining. And this chap’s defection leaves me in a
n awkward position. I had counted on him to have some ideas about where to look. I admit I hadn’t fully grasped how huge the Abbey was, or how complex. I’ve no idea even where to begin. I’ve been trying for days to phone him, to see if I couldn’t get him to come for at least a day or two, to point me in the right direction, but he isn’t answering his phone.’
The girlfriend again, I thought with a private smile. I wondered if they had eloped. ‘And I suppose you can’t ask anyone at the Abbey, anyone in the Community, I mean.’
‘I don’t think they’d be much help, to tell the truth. The Jerusalem Community has been in residence for only a few years, and the history of the Mont would hardly be their chief concern.’
‘No, I imagine not. But isn’t there an archivist or someone?’
Peter studied the pastry he was holding. ‘The fact is,’ he said finally, ‘I’m not keen on telling the Community what I’m looking for.’
‘Peter!’ Penny’s story came roaring back into my ears. ‘You’re not planning to steal whatever you find! If you find it!’
He put the pastry down with enough force to shatter its fragile layers. ‘Of course not! What do you take me for? Steal from a monastery? Those people are doing a great deal of good! They work in the village, you know, earning their daily bread and spreading their concepts of charity and love. I wouldn’t think of defrauding them of anything!’
Well, that might be true, or it might not. He sounded sincere, but the best crooks have that art. And somebody had been stealing manuscripts. Or manufacturing them. I wasn’t yet ready to introduce the subject. I finished my pâté and looked at him over the top of my glasses. ‘Then what are your plans?’
The Missing Masterpiece Page 4
