The cloisters, on a gustful April morn
Had he been reading those lines anywhere else in Barchester, he might not have thought twice about them, but he read them sitting beneath a “world-old yew-tree, darkening half the cloisters.” He had spent months after that day searching through photographs of English cathedrals, looking for a yew tree in a cloister. When he was old enough to travel, he eventually visited every medieval cathedral in England—not one had a yew tree in the cloister. But even before he confirmed that only Barchester matched Tennyson’s description, even before he had read another line of poetry on that summer’s day, he knew. Sprawled beneath that world-old yew tree he knew that this was no coincidence. His grandfather was right—somehow Barchester and the Grail were inexorably linked. When he showed the passage to his grandfather that evening and told him what he thought it meant, the old man only smiled mysteriously.
Arthur turned from that familiar spot back into the shelter of the cloister walk. By the time he reached the library there was a spring in his step—a spring that immediately fell flat when he saw the morass of wires, computers, tripods, and cameras that took up the entire far end of the room. The cathedral library had found a new constituent, thought Arthur, and he wasn’t at all convinced that was a good thing.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Prescott. Nice day at work?” Bethany had her hair pulled back and was wearing a worn pair of jeans and a crisp new T-shirt bearing the crest, such as it was, of Barchester University. The ponytail did little to restrain the wisps of hair around her forehead. “Took me all morning to finish setting up, but I’m really getting down to it now.”
Arthur sighed wearily. Not only would he not have the peaceful dimness of the library to himself, he would be subjected to the clicking of Bethany’s camera as an incessant reminder that the world of the book was being eroded in his very presence.
“How long are you going to be here?” he said with an audible sigh.
“Wow, way to sound welcoming.”
“I’m not trying to be unwelcoming; I’m just seeking a piece of information.”
“Judging from the number of pages I’ve gotten done this afternoon, because like I said I spent the whole morning setting up and then went to the refectory—is that what you call it, or is it just the café? Anyway, I had this ploughman’s lunch thing with, I have to tell you, the best cheese I have ever put in my mouth. And my grandmother lives in Wisconsin.”
“I’m sorry,” said Arthur, interrupting when she seemed about to take a breath, “but does this have anything to do with my question?”
“How long am I going to be here, right. I think I can probably digitize an average of about two manuscripts per day, and there are eighty-two manuscripts so I guess that’s forty-one days.”
“There are eighty-three manuscripts,” said Arthur firmly.
“No, there are eighty-two manuscripts. The first thing I did when I got here was count them.”
“I have been working at Barchester Cathedral Library since before you were born,” said Arthur harshly, exaggerating his point. “I have examined the collection in detail and I keep a copy of Bishop Gladwyn’s inventory of 1894 in my desk at home. There are eighty-three manuscripts.”
“You want to count them?” said Bethany, as if she were challenging him to arm-wrestle. “I have the Barchester Breviary on the stand in front of my camera, and eighty-one volumes were in the chained library.”
“Fine,” said Arthur, dropping his satchel on one of the few tables not cluttered with coils of wire and empty canvas equipment bags. He crossed to the manuscript case, where the chains that had once attached to the books still hung from the underside of each shelf. His mood completely ruined and all hope of either work or relaxation before Evensong lost, he began to count.
“No,” said Bethany, who had somehow moved directly behind him without his noticing. “Aloud, so I know you’re not cheating.”
“Why on earth would I be cheating?” said Arthur.
“Because you like to win arguments,” said Bethany.
Arthur could not, in good conscience, dispute this assertion, so he started over. It was unnerving to stand here counting aloud like a schoolboy while she hovered over him. She seemed taller than when they had met and he could feel her breath on the back of his neck.
“Is it necessary that you stand quite so close?” said Arthur.
“I need to see what you’re doing, don’t I?” said Bethany. “You were at the end of the first shelf and you had reached twenty-eight.”
Arthur shifted his weight so that he was an inch or two farther away from Bethany, but it did no good. Now she was breathing on the side of his head—practically right into his ear. It was all he could do to remember what number came after twenty-eight.
“Shall I help you?” said Bethany, giving Arthur a gentle shove, which was all it took for him to stumble to the side and allow her to step forward. “I believe the number you’re looking for is twenty-nine.” She continued to count the manuscripts, slowly and distinctly, as if she were teaching numbers to a toddler. Arthur would have liked to leave her there—simply walk out with his bag and head home, where he might do a little work in peace—but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. In his mind, this was now a battle for control of the library, so he stayed where he was, growing more exasperated with each crisply enunciated number.
“I have peripheral vision, you know,” said Bethany. “Just because I am accurately counting eighty-two manuscripts, doesn’t mean I didn’t see you roll your eyes just then.”
“You were on number sixty-five,” said Arthur, crossing his arms against his chest.
“Plus the Breviary means sixteen to go,” said Bethany cheerfully.
“Seventeen to go.”
But she was right. When the total reached eighty-two and there were no more manuscripts left to count, Arthur dropped his arms from his chest in puzzlement. He wasn’t even bothered by the smug look on her face, the almost taunting sparkle in her eyes. This was no longer a contest; this was a mystery.
“There’s one missing,” said Arthur softly.
“I didn’t take it.”
“No,” said Arthur, “I know you didn’t. It’s just . . . it’s odd. I’m sure Bishop Gladwyn listed eighty-three. I have a copy of his inventory at home. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.”
“If you had a digital image of it on your phone, we wouldn’t have to wait until tomorrow,” said Bethany.
“Yes, well, my phone is . . .”
“Anyway, we should go get it. We have to figure out what’s missing.”
“Do we?” said Arthur.