The Unburied

by Charles Palliser

  Dr Locard seemed to reflect for a moment and then asked: ‘Tell me, Dr Courtine, was Pepperdine’s correspondent as uninterested in the Anglo-Saxon period as he seems to assume?’

  ‘Oddly enough, Bullivant did some very valuable work on Anglo-Saxon, finding and publishing some important materials.’

  ‘So it is odd, is it not, that Pepperdine should refer to the manuscript as something which would not interest him?’

  ‘You appear to have an idea about that. May I ask what it is?’

  ‘Simply that we should take into account the question of whom Pepperdine is addressing and what his motives might be. Scholarship is competitive at least as much as it is collaborative – rather as a game is. You play to win but you have to obey the rules.’

  ‘Are you suggesting he invented the manuscript?’ I asked in dismay. ‘That he found nothing?’

  ‘Oh no. That would be to break the rules.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I don’t understand your point.’

  ‘It is possible that the reference to the manuscript was the bait for a trap whose purpose was to lure Bullivant into coming to the town and wasting his time and his money looking for it in the wrong place. Time and money that might otherwise be devoted to his scholarly rivalry with Pepperdine.’

  It was odd to hear of such devious tactics from a man of the cloth, but I thought of such practices in my own field and accepted that he was right in principle. ‘But Pepperdine said that he had not examined the manuscripts down here. So even if you’re right, Bullivant would not have bothered to search them.’

  ‘Let us consider the letter more closely.’

  We followed Quitregard up the stairs and then he returned to his duties. Once we were back in the Librarian’s Chamber, Dr Locard laid the letter out on his desk and we bent over it together.

  ‘Pepperdine’s words – it would be the work of many days, or even weeks, to examine them and not worth the labour – clearly imply’, I said, ‘that he has not searched downstairs.’

  ‘But his words are not definitive on that point. I suggest that Bullivant was expected to notice the equivocation.’

  ‘You mean that he was intended to assume that Pepperdine had done so and was trying to hide the fact?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  With dismay I realized the force of what he was suggesting.

  ‘And since’, he continued, ‘the manuscripts on the upper floor have been catalogued – except for a few which have at least been examined – and the one you are seeking has never been found, it must be downstairs if it is anywhere.’

  His logic seemed irrefutable. I had only three days for my search and so it would be a matter of luck if I happened upon my quarry. I could not hide my dismay.

  ‘I wish I could offer you some help but my assistants and I are struggling to keep abreast of the work we already have.’

  ‘You’ve been very generous with your time,’ I muttered. ‘I doubt if I’ll find it, but I can comfort myself with the reflection that if I do, then I’ll deserve all the more credit given the conditions down there.’

  I was beginning to walk towards the door when he said: ‘On further reflection, since we will soon start sorting out the material downstairs, nothing will be lost if I spend part of tomorrow morning looking through it with you.’

  I turned back. ‘That would be most extraordinarily generous of you,’ I replied.

  ‘Very well, then, that’s settled. I have a Chapter Meeting at eleven – as always on Thursdays, alas – but I am free for a few hours beforehand. Shall we start at half-past seven, which is when the Library is opened on Thursday mornings?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘In addition, I will put one of my assistants at your disposal. I can’t spare Quitregard – which is regrettable because he’s worth an army of Pomerances – but I can lend you that somewhat inadequate young man. He has just arrived, by the way, for I noticed him skulking in one of the bays just now. I will introduce him to you.’

  We left the room and passed back into the main gallery where we found a tall thin youth standing in one of the embrasures and staring out of the window. He started as we approached and turned towards us a long bony face which seemed to have been vigorously pinched into shape during its making. I thought of it as a Viking head and face – raw and empty except that in the eyes was visible the pain of being young.

  ‘Allow me to present my second assistant, Pomerance,’ Dr Locard said.

  We shook hands and he stammered that he was honoured to meet me.

  ‘Please provide Dr Courtine with every assistance,’ the Librarian said.

  ‘I will do my best, sir.’

  ‘That’s not quite the same,’ Dr Locard said with a smile at me.

  I took leave of him and thanked him again. Then my helpmate and I descended with a couple of lamps and, in a state of profound discouragement, I gazed around me. It was possible – indeed, likely – that somewhere in here was an ancient folio that could overturn most of what was accepted about the ninth century. If Grimbald were vindicated then his account of Alfred would be beyond impeachment by the sneering iconoclasts who had dismissed as Leofranc’s anachronistic and self-interested fabrications the king’s passion for the education of all classes, his curiosity about Islam and Moorish culture, his interest in wind-mills for draining marshlands, and so on.

  The chances were small but the reward was great, and inspired by this reflection, I started searching through piles of dusty manuscripts. Young Pomerance was not very helpful since he knew no language but his own and lacked the palaeographic expertise required even to spell out the letters of old manuscripts with any facility. But I found his services useful for bringing down great cobwebby bundles of parchment and paper, and cleaning them up a little before I looked at them.

  Pomerance left me after a couple of hours, saying it was time for him to go home for his dinner. When I slipped out at one o’clock Dr Locard was not visible but I nodded to Quitregard who smiled back. Just as I was descending the steps outside I encountered a lady coming up them. She was tall and slender and, though only a few years my junior, she was still a beautiful woman with fine features and large grey eyes. She reminded me of someone – though I could not at that moment think who it was. We exchanged the smiles of strangers who suspect that they are linked in some way and are therefore likely to meet.

  Wednesday Afternoon

  I went to the most respectable of the inns I could see among those in the High-street – the Dolphin – and had a quick luncheon. I returned to the Close through the Old Gatehouse on the north side and as I passed it I glanced in through one of its little mullioned windows and saw a big schoolroom in which about twenty boys were seated. It must be a part of Courtenay’s Academy. At the sight, it all came vividly back to me – the fizzing of the gas-standards, the smell of chalk and slate. With a sigh for my own long past schooldays I hastened on around the Close, exercising that most important faculty of the historian’s resources: the imagination. At the end of the Close I stopped and reflected. It was from the old house before me, which had been Burgoyne’s but had become the New Deanery, that the Dean had hurried a few minutes before his death. And then he had gone or been forced into the Cloisters – without doubt through this very door. I was so intent upon imagining the scene and wondering if I dared risk trying to read the inscription, that I failed to realize that someone was standing in front of me and attempting to attract my attention. It was the young Sacrist and he was with another and much older man also clad in clerical garb.

  ‘I do beg your pardon, Dr Sisterson,’ I said. ‘I was lost in my thoughts. I was trying to see the events of that day in September 1643 when this precinct earned its place in the pages of infamy.’

  ‘A novel mode of procedure,’ the other man commented drily. ‘It would save a historian a great deal of tiresome research.’

  Dr Sisterson laughed and said: ‘Dr Courtine, this is Dr Sheldrick, our Chancellor.’

  We shook h
ands. When I mentioned my College, Dr Sheldrick said: ‘You must know my young cousin, the Honourable George de Villiers who is an undergraduate there. He is reading for the Classical Tripos.’

  ‘I know of him, of course, but my own school is the historical.’

  ‘I’m fully aware of your work and reputation, Dr Courtine,’ he said rather crushingly as if he was rebuking me for it. ‘I am something of a historian myself.’

  ‘Indeed you are, Chancellor,’ said Dr Sisterson. He turned to me: ‘Dr Sheldrick is writing the history of the Foundation. In fact, the first fascicle has just been published.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ It occurred to me that it was odd that Austin did not mention this work as one of the sources for the story of Burgoyne. And even odder that Dr Locard had not done so either, though I recollected that he had referred dismissively to the efforts of amateurs. Then I remembered that Dr Sisterson had mentioned Dr Sheldrick’s work when I had met him in the Cathedral. ‘So you mentioned last night.’ I turned to the older man. ‘I believe I noticed the reception to mark its publication that you gave last night?’

  There was an odd silence. It seemed that I had raised an awkward topic. ‘I should so much like to read your history, Dr Sheldrick,’ I said quickly. ‘Does it cover the period of Burgoyne and Freeth?’

  ‘It goes down to the end of the thirteenth century only,’ Dr Sheldrick replied.

  To my surprise he did not offer to give me a copy – the merest courtesy between scholars.

  ‘Dr Sheldrick has, however, written a draft of the next fascicle which covers the Civil War period,’ Dr Sisterson said. ‘In fact, I have it in my possession since he has kindly asked me to read it and give him my humble advice.’

  ‘I await its publication with the keenest interest.’

  Dr Sisterson glanced at his colleague. ‘I wonder if I might lend it to Dr Courtine?’

  ‘I see no reason why not,’ he answered rather ungraciously.

  ‘I have it in my office,’ Dr Sisterson told me. ‘Have you time to accompany me there now?’

  I expressed my willingness and my gratitude to both gentlemen. We took leave of Dr Sheldrick and walked towards the Sacristy.

  ‘The Chancellor is a little preoccupied today,’ Dr Sisterson said as soon as the other man was out of earshot. ‘There was a rather unfortunate episode last night during ...’

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but can you tell me the identity of that lady?’

  The woman I had seen as I was leaving the Library just before luncheon had been walking along the other side of the Close on a course convergent with that of Dr Sheldrick and at the right-angle where they met, she had stopped to speak to him.

  ‘That is Mrs Locard,’ he said with a smile. ‘An awfully pleasant woman and a great friend of my wife.’

  ‘And of Dr Sheldrick, as far as I can judge.’ I added rather naughtily: ‘He is actually smiling.’

  Dr Sisterson looked back and laughed and we walked on. ‘You are quite right. It is impossible not to like her.’

  In the next moment we were in the Sacrist’s office where he handed me a thick sheaf of manuscript which I could see was written in a very neat though somewhat inelegant hand.

  I could not resist saying, ‘I wonder why Dr Locard did not mention Dr Sheldrick’s work when I asked him about the history of the Foundation this morning?’

  Dr Sisterson smiled and wagged a finger at me playfully. ‘Now, now, Dr Courtine. You mustn’t try to tempt me into indiscretion.’

  I laughed and, thanking him for the fascicle, tucked it under my arm and took my leave. By two o’clock I was back at work in the dusty undercroft. It was not long before Pomerance reappeared and gave me half an hour of his time but he was so clumsy and forgetful that he was more trouble than he was worth and I was relieved when he went off for his tea.

  At about three o’clock Quitregard came down to tell me that Dr Locard wondered if I would care to come up and take a cup of tea with him. I accepted, relieved to get out of the dusty atmosphere.

  The Librarian stood up when I entered his room. A pot of tea and two cups and plates were on his desk beside a dish heaped with sandwiches and another filled with cakes.

  ‘Since we were talking of Freeth this morning,’ he said, ‘you might be interested to see his portrait.’ He indicated a canvas hanging near the window and I crossed to look at it.

  ‘It was executed a few months after he became Dean.’

  To my surprise the face was not that of an ambitious and unscrupulous man but sensitive and even delicate. I turned to the Librarian: ‘If you had told me this was Burgoyne, I would not have been surprised. This is the face of an aristocratic scholar rather than a worldly sensualist.’

  ‘Unfortunately Burgoyne never troubled himself to have his likeness taken, or if he did, it has not survived. But Freeth was a man of considerable merit, despite his weaknesses. He was able and industrious and did much for the Foundation. What has survived of Burgoyne is not his image but his scholarly work.’ He indicated a row of volumes in the ancient book-press. ‘That is his edition of certain Syriac manuscripts – still the authoritative text. But, on a very different note, let me show you one of the Library’s more ambiguous treasures.’ He crossed to a glass case against a wall, unlocked it and withdrew a large vellum document. ‘What would you say this is?’

  I looked at it carefully, anxious not to make a stupid blunder. It looked like a medieval deed engrossed on vellum in a fine Chancery hand. ‘It’s surely a legal instrument of some kind and dates, I would say, from the early fifteenth century.’

  ‘Indeed. Well, Treasurer Burgoyne wanted to raise money to save the fabric of the Cathedral which was then in a very poor way. He conceived the idea of suppressing one of the institutions of the Foundation in order to pay for it.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘It was a college of vicars-choral. A school of church music which trained boys and young men not merely for this cathedral-choir but also for the choirs of other cathedrals. Burgoyne managed to win a majority of the Chapter over to this but Freeth opposed him and characteristically refused to accept defeat. He and my predecessor in this office – a man called Hollingrake – made an extensive search of the Foundation’s ancient records and a week or two later produced a document which frustrated Burgoyne’s design. (Please help yourself to the sandwiches and cakes, by the way. My wife made them. ) This was the document you are holding now – the original deed of endowment dated 1424.’

  ‘So I was right!’ I could not help exclaiming.

  Dr Locard paused for a moment and then resumed: ‘The deed endowed the Foundation with a nearby manor comprising a handsome dwelling and a number of farms for the support of the college. But it stipulated that if the college were suppressed the land should be sold and the proceeds put at the personal disposition of the Dean of the day. Freeth had no difficulty in persuading the old Dean to confirm that in that event he would take the money and put it to his own use. So Burgoyne’s proposal was rejected after all.’

  ‘How strange that the terms of the endowment should be so generous to the Dean.’

  Dr Locard smiled. ‘Strange indeed. You have not perceived that the document is a forgery?’

  I felt my face flush. ‘Of course, but it’s a very convincing one.’

  ‘That’s because it was, presumably, copied from an original document. The forger merely added – in very respectable bad Latin – a clause investing title personally in the holder of the office of Dean.’

  ‘Does the original document exist?’

  He smiled. ‘The best proof of a forgery is the original on which it is based. Since it would have proved this to be a counterfeit, you can be sure that it was destroyed.’

  ‘Do you suspect that Hollingrake was the forger? Incidentally, these cakes are quite delicious.’

  ‘When Freeth became Dean he gave Hollingrake the office of Treasurer – a generous reward since it permitted him to enri
ch himself. But I’m afraid that Freeth led the way in that regard for, ironically, he made use of the forged deed to close down the institution, sell the land and pocket the proceeds.’

  ‘After his bitter opposition to Burgoyne? What a greedy hypocrite! How could the other canons have agreed to such a thing?’

  Dr Locard gazed at me with mild curiosity. ‘I assume that Freeth found a way to quiet their consciences.’

  It took me a moment to understand what he meant. ‘They were bought off?’

  ‘Freeth became a very wealthy man. He was now the owner of a considerable acreage of land and a handsome manor-house a few miles from the town. He was able to be generous.’

  ‘And Hollingrake?’

  ‘Strangely enough, the records of Chapter meetings show that there was open ill-will between the two men so I suspect that they fell out over the division of the spoils.’

  ‘How sad that posterity lost the college of music.’

  ‘It would not have survived the Protectorate anyway in view of the hostility of the Puritans to church music. In fact, it continued to exist in a reduced form for it shrank to become the choir school, occupying the same building on the north side of the Upper Close – the Old Gatehouse.’

  ‘I saw it this afternoon on my way back from luncheon at the Dolphin.’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ Dr Locard exclaimed. ‘Did you take your luncheon there? I’m sorry to think of you living like a commercial traveller. My wife and I would be very pleased if you would do us the honour of dining with us while you are here.’

  ‘That would be a very great pleasure.’

  ‘Are you here with your wife, Dr Courtine?’

  ‘No, I’m not. She’s ... That is to say, no I’m not.’

  ‘How long do you plan to stay?’

  ‘Only until Saturday morning. My niece and her family expect me that day.’

  ‘Until Saturday? That is very soon. But I rather think that my wife and I have no engagement tomorrow evening.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’

  ‘I will ask her later this afternoon and send you word immediately.’