by James Runcie
Could further people not previously considered have been hiding in the room or have gained access afterwards?
And why did the thief take both the original and the facsimile?
All these questions needed to be answered, but the central problem was common to all. What would anyone want with a manuscript that was impossible to resell and could never be shown by a collector, even in secret, for fear of betrayal? What was the point of stealing such an object?
Could there be a reason that lay beyond its financial value?
The chaplain’s college eyrie was a cross between a don’s room and a vestry, filled with books and gowns, a prie-dieu before an image of Christ and the Virgin Mary, and an eclectic mix of images on the walls. There was a reproduction of a Matthew Paris manuscript showing a trip to Jerusalem and a thirteenth-century portrait of an elephant in the Tower of London; icons both ancient and modern; a framed photograph of a Greek patriarch and a letter pinned to a corkboard outlining a future trip to Mount Athos.
Julian Wells was a High Anglican who took a dim view of any modernisation in the Church of England, disapproving of the ordination of women, colloquial liturgical language and the ascent of informality. He believed in ritual, mystery and the pomp of birettas, bells and smells. Although he wouldn’t be drawn into any direct criticism of the next archbishop, he admitted that he was anxious about any descent into the rigorous simplicity of a new puritanism.
Once the chaplain had been appraised of the situation (and had recovered), Ralph Mumford asked whether he had locked up properly when Sir Leslie had been trapped; that there could be no possibility of the man engaging in some kind of trickery to let himself in and out of the building.
‘None at all. I can’t think how this has happened.’
‘How did the cathedral agent behave?’
‘He was perfectly charming. He was only agitated when the porters rescued him.’
‘And where was he at the time?’
‘By the windows.’
‘And they were locked?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Although the alarm was off.’
‘Only for a short time. I got confused about the system just before we all left; but it was a matter of moments.’
‘Long enough for the cathedral agent to open a window and drop the book down to an accomplice?’
‘Possibly. But if he did it then, I’m sure that someone would have seen him. There were still eight or nine people left in the room. I don’t see how he could have done it. And besides, didn’t Ralph check when he locked up for a second time? The gospel book was still in its rightful place.’
Sidney suggested, once more, that they might have to bring in Geordie.
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said the librarian. ‘We still haven’t told the Master. Things tend to escalate when the police arrive.’
‘A crime has been committed.’
‘You don’t suppose it could be a misunderstanding, or that it’s someone with a grievance that can be addressed without recourse to prosecution?’
‘We’ll have to interview everyone who was at the dinner.’
‘That would mean making the crime public.’
‘I can’t see any alternative.’
‘We could ask the guests to keep the news to themselves.’
‘I don’t think we can rely on seventy people to keep the theft a secret. One of them is the editor of a national newspaper.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Daily Telegraph.’
‘I see what you mean.’
Before he did anything else, Sidney visited the chapel. He wanted to pray, and also to check if, in some mad way, the thief might have had an ironical sense of humour in hiding the gospel book there.
It was a fine building, dating from 1822, in the English Perpendicular style, although the floor was Elizabethan and some of the stalls seventeenth century. A single candle burned in the sanctuary lamp; the altar was dressed in Trinity green.
Sidney searched the cupboards by the entrance and in the vestry and organ loft. Then he made his way into the nave, looking amidst the pews and under the blue cushions in the Fellows’ stalls. He proceeded to the chancel, and even had a look beneath the altar. He was just about to kneel down to pray when he felt the presence of another.
He turned to see that the chaplain had been watching him. ‘I didn’t do it, Sidney. I don’t know how any of you could think that I might have been capable of such a thing.’
Sidney took the train home on the Saturday and apologised to Hildegard for his late arrival. She was busy, she said, and barely spoke, only asking if she should give up worrying about him and walk the dog since it was clear that no one else was going to do it.
Now he’d returned, Sidney decided not to force an argument but to change into his civvies. After a revitalising bath, he dried himself and got dressed, only to notice that the favourite pair of cashmere socks he had intended to wear that day had shrunk in the wash. He was annoyed but knew that he could not express any irritation because Amanda had given them to him for his birthday. If he complained he would, at best, be informed that he could have handwashed them himself if they meant that much to him, and at worst, it would lead to an unnecessary row.
Hildegard had already set their daughter to work on piano practice for her Grade Three exam: scales, arpeggios, a Scarlatti minuet, a Witches’ Dance and a Spanish ballad which seemed to be about the death of a donkey.
When Sidney finally came downstairs he noticed that there was a vase of sweet peas on the kitchen table. He had not seen them when he had left the day before. He remarked that it was late in the year for them and that he didn’t think they had any left in the garden.
‘We don’t. Rolfe brought them.’
‘I suppose his wife used to grow them.’
‘No. He does. He’s the one with the green fingers. But now he’s going to put them to use on the piano. He wants to brush up his playing. I offered to help.’
‘I’m sure you did.’
‘What is that supposed to mean, Sidney?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Hildegard.’
‘You only call me by my full name when you are cross with me. What are you insinuating?’
‘I said it was nothing.’
‘If it was nothing, don’t speak. I have done nothing wrong, Sidney. If I called you to account for all your whereabouts and misdeeds, we’d be here for ever.’
‘My conscience is clear.’
‘And so is mine.’
Hildegard started to check that everything was in her handbag, taking out objects one at a time and then putting them back. Sidney had never quite understood the process and was just about to make light of the situation when he thought better of it.
‘I must go,’ said Hildegard.
‘Where?’
‘To teach.’
‘I thought people had to come here for their lessons?’
‘Rolfe has a piano. It makes a change. You’re not the only one who can leave the house in a mystery.’
‘I thought you had decided to stop seeing him?’
‘I changed my mind.’
‘You never told me that.’
‘I didn’t know I had to. Really, Sidney, it doesn’t matter. By the way, you need to telephone Amanda.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s her father.’
‘Has his condition deteriorated?’
‘He’s dying.’
‘Does she want me to go and see him?’
‘I said I didn’t know when you would be back. You can’t go now, as it’s your turn to look after Anna. What about Thursday?’
‘I said I’d go back to Corpus.’
‘Then you’ll have to decide what matters most, won’t you?’
Hildegard left with a brief, and what Sidney took to be an automatic but unmeant kiss on the lips. Anna hardly helped the domestic mood by continuing with her dogmatic vegetarianism. It wasn’t that Sidney minded the idea,
but his daughter had hitherto disliked every single vegetable known to humanity apart from buttered carrots.
‘How can you be a vegetarian if you don’t like vegetables?’ he had asked, only to be told by both wife and daughter to shut up.
There was also the question of his daughter’s preparation for the eleven-plus. Because Hildegard taught Anna the piano (and her friend Rolfe von Arnim now appeared to be teaching her the flute) it was left to Sidney to take over certain aspects of the homework, not least, mathematics and verbal reasoning. And so, that evening, while they were waiting for his first attempt at a nut roast to bake, Sidney devised a missing-word game on a library theme which enabled him to keep thinking about the case while secretly recruiting his child into his investigation – the jumbled words were Library, Villain, Forgery, Fake, and even Gospel, which he was proud to see that Anna got immediately.
Despite this success, Sidney still felt curiously lonely, both at home and in the world. Perhaps it was the destiny of a priest to be an outsider (as Jesus was, he reminded himself) and if he did ‘belong’ somewhere, then he would be guilty of membership of a club that excluded others. It was therefore his task to be ‘at large’, to be as inclusive as possible, even if it meant that both his identity and his loyalties were always going to be stretched.
Waiting for Geordie’s arrival in the Prince Albert, with Byron by his side, he listened to the everyday conversation of those around him: a man was saying that he preferred small women – ‘half-pint jobs’ he called them – because they normally had more of a sense of humour. It made up for their deficiency in height. Another was boasting that it would be a long time before his children received any money because his family had a history of longevity: ‘much to their disgust’.
Geordie was quiet on arrival, but he had been subdued for a few months now, both after Helena’s rape case and his temporary suspension. Sidney also suspected that he was still worried about his wife’s cancer scare, even though Cathy had recently been given an all-clear and was suggesting a recuperative holiday in North Wales. Good news was not, however, something that Geordie ever quite trusted; like life itself, it could never be relied upon to last. He said he was ‘counting the days until his retirement’ which, at the age of fifty-four, was far too young. Had he really had enough or was he just jaded?
Sidney decided to find out how possible it might be to revive his friend’s interests by telling him about the theft of the gospel book. He did so on the condition that any information provided was treated in confidence.
‘Yet another locked-room mystery,’ Geordie replied.
‘It seems that way.’
‘Then you just have to establish when the library was locked and when it wasn’t. These crimes are nearly always about timing and distraction; either the book was not stolen when everyone thinks it was; or the utterly convincing alibi is a fake. Like magicians, the criminal has to mislead the audience. It’s your job, Sidney, to study the whole thing from backstage rather than out front. Are you ever going to inform the police officially or are you just going to carry on as usual, chatting away to me as if nothing is wrong until I have to come in at the last moment and save the day?’
‘As I’ve already said, we’re not planning on reporting anything just yet.’
‘Even though a crime has been committed.’
‘We are trying to pretend that it’s been “mislaid”.’
‘I’m sure people will believe that.’
‘Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding? No one can sell the gospel book. It’s hard to see what anyone could want out of it.’
‘Has anyone asked for a ransom?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘That’ll probably be next.’
‘You’ve known such a case before?’
‘I’ve experienced just about everything, Sidney. When I’ve seen the lot it’ll be time to retire.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t go on about that.’
‘And then it’ll be a few short steps to the grave. Once your parents have gone, the sky feels a whole lot lower. You’re lucky you still have yours.’
‘Amanda’s about to lose her father.’
‘I presume you’ll be taking the service.’
‘It’s the least I can do.’
‘These days, every time I see a hole in the ground I think I might as well get in it. Save everyone the bother.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a much-loved man.’
‘It doesn’t feel that way, Sidney.’
‘I think we have to stop being so grumpy. Cheerfulness is an underrated virtue.’
‘Well you can “cheer me up” by getting another round in. Are you busy? I’m not planning on letting you go just yet. You can tell me what makes this book of yours so valuable.’
‘That may involve religion.’
‘It’s not too late,’ said Geordie, ‘and there’s always hope. Isn’t that your mantra?’
Despite a thorough search of the library, Ralph Mumford confessed that they were going to have to tell the Master and delay their plans to take The Gospel Book of St Augustine to Canterbury for the enthronement. He also asked Sidney’s advice on what they might offer as a replacement volume for the ceremony should the worst come to the worst.
‘We have Augustine’s own Confessions, of course, and his commentary on the Gospel of John. We also have Gregory the Great’s Homilies and MS 361, his De Cura Pastoralis, but I don’t suppose the new archbishop could take an oath on that. What about MS 33, The Glossed Gospels of Mark and John? These are twelfth century, possibly from St Albans. They are larger and more richly illustrated.’
‘But they are only two gospels, rather than four, and they are five hundred years too late.’
‘We do have a whole Bible, MS 48, twelfth century, also from St Albans. It has double, triple and quadruple columns of sixty-three lines. The Book of Lamentations is headed by a fine table of the Hebrew alphabet. Eton College has something very similar. And the initials to the gospels, I think on page 205, contain illustrations of the evangelists’ emblems. Isn’t it marvellous?’
Sidney turned the fragile pages. The intricate Latin text had been written by a small hand, dark ink on vellum, with occasional illuminations. He found a half-length figure of Christ holding a book with a silver sword across his mouth.
‘Do you really think they’ll accept it?’ he asked.
‘That depends if the cathedral agent has seen the original book before. Is there any chance he would think that most medieval manuscripts look alike? He has never been to an enthronement and we’re only likely to run into trouble if one of the clergy is an expert. Are you going yourself, Sidney?’
‘I think so.’
‘And would it worry you if we provided a substitute?’
‘Not if it is a Bible. If the archbishop takes an oath on this, then it surely counts?’
‘But does it? If you swear on a fake are your vows valid?’
‘It’s not technically a “fake”. It’s just not what people think it is. It’s still a Bible.’
‘There are others that I could think about: new additions.’
‘I thought the Parker bequest was one complete set. What do you mean by “additions”? Have there been “subtractions”?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘You have made some substitutions?’
‘Parker’s son did it all the time.’
‘That doesn’t excuse it, Ralph. And I think it means that books are missing after all. How many?’
‘Four. But no one knows that yet.’
‘So you think. How did you get away with the recent audit?’
‘There was a bit of sleight of hand, Sidney.’
‘You mean a cover-up.’
‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’
‘Your rivals might. They only have one more to go and then, if they find out, the collection is forfeit.’
‘Exactly. Which could implicate someone from Caius. They
stand to benefit the most.’
‘Then we had better go and see the Master. Do you think he knows already?’
‘About the theft? He certainly does if he’s done it; and if he has, then he’s only one book away from inheriting the whole lot. That would be a disaster for Corpus. What did you think of him, Sidney? That’s partly why I put you next to him.’
‘He seems too irascible to be a criminal.’
‘Do you think he could be responsible?’
‘He could have delegated the task, and he did leave the dinner early.’
‘Do you think that’s what he meant by “tidying up”?’
‘Would you like me to go and see him, Ralph? I don’t think I am ever going to be one of his greatest friends, but I’ll see what I can get out of him if you like.’
The next day Sidney made his way down King’s Parade and into Trinity Street where he turned through the Gate of Humility, passed the Porters’ Lodge and crossed Caius Court before finding himself, just beyond the chapel, in the Master’s Lodge.
Kenrich Prescott’s rooms were decorated as a nineteenth-century cabinet of curiosities, filled with Victorian taxidermy, Ancient Greek heads, several anatomical figures and a model of the double helix, as if it had been staged by the admissions tutor as a prompt for questions to prospective undergraduates.
It was made clear, very early on, that this would not be a long meeting. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon, Archdeacon,’ the Master began. ‘Has someone died?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘I’m afraid you’re too late to convert me.’
‘It’s not that. I need your discretion.’
‘I am used to providing it.’
‘You cannot tell anyone that you know what I am about to say to you.’
‘Intriguing. Very well.’
‘The Gospel Book of St Augustine has been stolen.’
‘I know.’
‘How?’
‘Ralph Mumford telephoned.’
‘Already? He didn’t tell me he was going to do that.’
‘I don’t think he could wait. Perhaps he doesn’t quite trust you . . .’
‘But . . .’
‘He thinks I’m behind the whole thing.’
