“Come, come, Mr. Prescott, it’s a mystery. Don’t you enjoy a mystery? When I was a kid I read those Petunia and Priscilla mysteries. Did you ever read those? Probably not, because you were a boy. I loved those books. That’s when I first knew I wanted to go to England. Petunia and Priscilla lived next door to each other in two thatched cottages in this little village and they solved . . .”
“Miss Davis.” Arthur had meant to say her name sharply, but somehow it came out softly.
“I was doing it again, wasn’t I?” said Bethany.
“Digressing,” said Arthur.
“Sorry. But you really should read Petunia and Priscilla—after we solve the mystery.”
“We?”
“You obviously need help if you can’t even count on your own,” she said.
“I shall consult Bishop Gladwyn’s list when I get home this evening,” he said. “Now, as you have wasted the precious hour I had reserved for work in the library, I will excuse myself and go to Evensong.”
“We didn’t waste anything like an hour,” said Bethany. “And besides, you like talking to me. It allows you to be righteously indignant and that’s your favorite state of being.”
“It is most certainly not my . . .”
“You see,” interrupted Bethany. “There you go again.”
“I really must go, Miss Davis,” said Arthur. This young woman was most infuriating. Thank goodness she was no longer pestering him about the Grail. Perhaps her mind flitted from topic to topic as rapidly as her conversation, and her interest in the Grail was long forgotten. And at least she was . . . no—push all such thoughts from the mind. She is a nuisance and nothing more. But as he hoisted his bag over his shoulder, Arthur couldn’t help stealing a look back at Miss Davis, who had returned to her work. She was leaning over a manuscript and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. A beautiful nuisance, he thought, and he shook his head and turned away.
“I suppose you’re still not interested in joining me for Evensong,” said Arthur, pausing in the doorway, but not daring to look back at her.
“Not exactly the first date I had in mind,” she said. He waited for her to add a laugh to this comment—or anything to indicate she was being facetious—but all was silence behind him.
Arthur felt an unfamiliar hot glow creeping up his neck to his cheeks and muttered, “Another time, then,” before rushing down the stairs.
—
He had nearly regained his composure sitting in the quiet of the quire waiting for Evensong to begin when he looked up to see Miss Davis, whispering to one of the vergers as if they were old friends. Arthur closed his eyes and tried to banish all thought of her by playing in his mind the music of William Byrd he would be hearing the choir sing in a few minutes. Arthur had been particularly looking forward to this evening, as the Byrd second service was one of his favorites. During breakfast that morning he had listened to his CD of the Lazarus College Choir singing it. But even those Renaissance tones could not distract him from the conversation taking place a few feet away. He opened his eyes, the music stopped, and the verger was leading Miss Davis to the far end of Arthur’s pew. She looked at Arthur and gave a slight nod, then slipped into the pew and took a seat. Arthur could not see her without leaning forward and looking down the row of worshippers, which he was not about to do, and he certainly couldn’t speak to her from that distance with the service about to start. But why had she come? Why, when he had issued her a perfectly civil invitation, had she refused him and then come on her own? She had annoyed him before, but this was the first time she had seemed actively rude.
The service was ruined. Distracted by Miss Davis’s presence, Arthur could not keep his mind on the Byrd. By the time he could extricate himself from the middle of the pew, she had disappeared. Never mind, he thought. He had a meeting with the BBs that night and would be in civilized company once again.
—
Arthur’s mood brightened considerably when he got home and saw that the post contained a parcel from Christie’s. He did not often buy books at auction, but he had had some modest success lately, and although he knew what the package contained, unwrapping it brought him the sort of excitement he once felt on Christmas morning. Inside was a small book bound in green cloth. The condition was far from fine, but Arthur liked how the well-worn cover felt smooth to his touch. The spine was faded from sunlight, and the words Idylls of the King were just visible. This was the 1859 first edition of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s earliest collection of Arthurian poetry.
Arthur had a later edition of the book already on his shelf upstairs, but this copy was special not only because it was a first but because it had been owned by Robert Gladwyn. If anyone knew more about Barchester, its medieval history, and its possible connections to King Arthur and the Holy Grail than Arthur Prescott, it had certainly been Bishop Gladwyn. Several months ago Arthur had, for a mere two hundred pounds, bought at a small provincial auction house a pair of worn notebooks in which Bishop Gladwyn had kept notes on a wide variety of topics, including the history of the cathedral. Arthur had hoped, when he placed his bid, that the notebooks might contain Gladwyn’s thoughts on the Grail, and he had not been entirely disappointed. Although he had read through much of Gladwyn’s official correspondence in the cathedral archives, holding those notebooks, and knowing the bishop had owned them, had made Arthur feel more connected to Gladwyn than ever before.
He carefully removed the rest of the brown paper wrapping from the Tennyson volume, opened it to the half title, and gazed at the simple inscription in the familiar hand: “Robert Gladwyn, July 11, 1859.” The auction catalog had stated only “with the ownership signature of Robert Gladwyn, later Bishop of Barchester,” and Arthur was thrilled to see the addition of the date. July 11 was publication day for Idylls of the King; Gladwyn had bought his copy on the first day it was available. Once again, Arthur felt a surge of connection to the long-departed bishop, who had not even been a bishop when he inscribed this book. How often had Gladwyn reached for this volume and reread the words of the poet laureate? Although Arthur preferred Tennyson’s The Holy Grail and Other Poems, he knew that the Idylls had been a big part of the resurgence of interest in Arthurian legend in the nineteenth century, and in writing it Tennyson had certainly referred to the same 1816 edition of Morte d’Arthur that Arthur owned.
Arthur opened the book to “Elaine,” and read the familiar first lines:
Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat,
High in her chamber up a tower to the east
Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot;
Which first she placed where morning’s earliest ray