Might strike it, and awaken her with the gleam.
“High in her chamber”—like me in my library, Arthur thought. He loved the old-fashioned style of Tennyson’s poetry, and he trembled to think that Gladwyn may have lain in his bed at the bishop’s palace on a cold night and read these very words; the unique combination of ink and paper that now caused him to murmur verses aloud may have done the same for the good bishop. With a shiver, Arthur closed the book and took it upstairs to give it a place of honor in his study. One day, he thought, he would donate both Gladwyn’s notebooks and his copy of the Idylls to the cathedral library. The library had, after all, been largely built on donations—from benefactors who commissioned manuscripts to bishops, deans, and canons who, over the centuries, had generously filled the shelves. Arthur would be proud to be part of that tradition.
Just before he left for the cathedral, where Oscar would be hosting the BBs in the library anteroom, Arthur slipped his photocopy of Bishop Gladwyn’s inventory of the cathedral manuscripts into his jacket pocket. Oscar should know, he thought, that a manuscript was missing. Tonight was not the time for a formal inventory, but it might be worth looking over Gladwyn’s list with Oscar to see if either of them saw a title he did not recognize from the collection.
—
A few minutes before seven, Arthur arrived at the library and stepped into the anteroom, where Oscar had already set out two bottles of wine and lit a fire. Except in the hottest days of summer, there was always a chill in this windowless room with its thick stone walls, and the fire made the place feel more like a cozy study and less like a dank dungeon. The host was not in evidence, so Arthur poured himself some Pinot Noir and settled into one of the Gothic armchairs in front of the fireplace.
Since he was early, Arthur decided he would read through Bishop Gladwyn’s inventory to see if anything stood out—anything that might be missing. He had read about halfway down the first page and found nothing but familiar titles when he heard the door open behind him.
“Our host is in pursuit of crisps,” boomed David as he stepped into the room. “I passed him as I was coming down the High Street.” He picked up the bottle of Pinot, examined the label, and poured himself a glass. “Though it is beyond my understanding how anyone could eat crisps with a wine this fine.”
“We all have our peculiarities,” said Arthur, rising to greet his friend. “I like crisps; you like women.”
“And I suppose you think we consume them at the same rate?”
“Something like that.”
“Ah, gentlemen, I see you’ve started already. Excellent.” Oscar bounced into the room with a bag full of crisp packets. Though only Arthur ever ate crisps and he always ate Salt & Vinegar, Oscar laid out an array of flavors on the table next to the wine.
“Roast Chicken?” said Arthur. “Prawn Cocktail? Is it a special occasion?”
“You might say that. Now let me catch up with you gents on the wine front and you can tell me about your latest bibliographical adventures. Arthur, how are you getting on with our new tenant?”
“You mean the blasted woman who is digitizing all the manuscripts in my library . . . our library. She is becoming increasingly annoying by the hour. I couldn’t get a bit of work done this afternoon. She picked a fight with me and then she made me count the manuscripts.”
“She picked a fight?” said David.
“I think we all know which one of you is more likely to have started a fight,” said Oscar.
“So you’ve met her,” said Arthur.
“The dean was nervous about giving her a set of keys—”
“Too right!” interrupted Arthur. “I would be, too.”
“So I let her in every morning before I go to school. She starts early. Sweet girl.”
“She may be sweet in the morning,” said Arthur, “but by the afternoon she’s soured. She insisted that there were only eighty-two manuscripts when I know Bishop Gladwyn’s inventory lists eighty-three, so she made me count them—out loud!”
“She made you?” said David.
“Yes. And she stood right next to me the whole time—breathing on my back, shoving me in the side—the gall of that American. She was, what do they call it in the faculty manual, ‘invading my personal space and engaging in unwanted contact.’”
“Methinks,” said David.
“Methinks, too,” said Oscar.
“You thinks what?” said Arthur, abandoning for once his usual grammatical precision.
“We thinks the gentleman doth protest too much,” said David.
“What are you saying? That I like her?”
“More than like, I’d say,” said Oscar, “judging by the color of your face at the moment.”
“There is a difference between the blush of anger and the blush of affection,” said Arthur.
“There is indeed,” said David, “and I, more than anyone, am attuned to that difference. I suppose no man in Barchester has made more women both affectionate and angry than myself.”
“And what is your diagnosis?” said Oscar.
David looked closely at Arthur’s increasingly reddening face.
“Affection,” he said emphatically. “Though he may be angry at himself for feeling it.”
“Oh, you two are insufferable,” said Arthur. “I have no more affection for her than I have for . . . for . . . bookless libraries. Besides, it’s against the rules to discuss our personal lives.”
“So you admit that your relationship with Bethany is part of your personal life?” said David.
“I admit nothing of the sort. For God’s sake, I’m old enough to be her father.”
“Hardly,” said Oscar. “She’s twenty-six and you’re forty.”
“How do you know she’s twenty-six?” asked Arthur, who found himself oddly disturbed that Oscar should possess a piece of personal information about Miss Davis that he did not have.
“She filled out the form to borrow books from the library,” said Oscar.
“She’s borrowing books from the library? Real, actual, printed-on-paper and bound-in-covers books?”
“She is.”
“I thought only cathedral clergy could borrow books from the library.”
“You’re not cathedral clergy,” said Oscar.
“Yes,” said Arthur, “but I’m hardly the general public.”
“First of all, she’s not the general public either, she’s a visiting scholar.” Arthur snorted at the word scholar, but Oscar went on. “And second, I asked the dean and she’s not aware of any specific policy one way or another. There seems to be no reason why we shouldn’t circulate volumes that aren’t rare or valuable, particularly if they’re not available at the city library or at the university.” Arthur was glad Oscar did not add the words media center, as these would have undoubtedly elicited another snort. He wondered if circulating some of the less valuable books might be one way to make more people aware of the cathedral library.
“What’s she checked out?” asked Arthur.
“Can’t tell you,” said Oscar with a smile. “Client confidentiality.”