“The steps to St. Cuthbert’s,” said Arthur.
“I didn’t know that at the time, but yes. He was still holding the manuscript,” said Edward, his gaze fixed on the hillside. He paused again and they all watched as the sun dipped below the hill and the colors disappeared as suddenly as if someone had turned off a light switch. The sheep now huddled in the dusky shelter of a horse chestnut tree. Edward squeezed Bethany’s hand, let out a small sigh, and turned his attention back to her.
“There were lots of manuscripts being rescued that night,” said Edward. “I don’t know why he should have taken that particular one. He had both his arms wrapped around it, and he seemed to look right at me and then . . . then he turned and faded into the shadows.”
They sat quietly for a few moments before Edward spoke again. “I suppose now that you’ve heard the story of that night you won’t be coming back to visit me.”
“Of course I will,” said Bethany. “I’m sure there are other nights you could tell me about.”
“None quite like that,” he said, smiling.
“One night like that is enough for a lifetime,” said Bethany. She leaned across and kissed him gently on the cheek. Edward let go of her hand, and Arthur could see the regret in his eyes as he did so. There would not be time, he thought, for Edward to tell Bethany about all the nights.
“Thank you for the tea,” said Arthur.
“Are you still here, Arthur?” said Edward with a smile. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to walk this young lady back to her lodgings?”
“I’d be happy to,” said Arthur. As they crossed to the door, he stopped and turned back. “Could I ask you a question, Mr. Alford?”
“I won’t forbid it.”
“Have you ever been back to the library?”
Edward was silent for a moment before answering. “I used to go back every year on the anniversary.”
“And were there people there? People working?”
“Sometimes. Mostly theology students in the years after the war, and some of the older cathedral clergy. But fewer as the years went by. I haven’t been back in a long time now.”
“I’ll take you,” said Bethany. “Someday soon.”
“Good night, Miss Davis,” Edward called out as they left his room.
“How did you do that?” asked Arthur when he and Bethany were back out in the street.
“What do you mean?”
“You were so good with him.”
“He’s not a wild animal, Arthur.”
“Yes, but you were . . . different.”
“You know I reserve my evil side just for you. Sorry he didn’t tell us anything useful.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, Arthur, I’m not kidding. Don’t you know you have to be over eighty for me to kid with you?”
“But he told us something tremendously useful.”
“The man in the gray robe?” said Bethany.
“The man in the gray robe.”
“OK, lecture me.”
“Consider the evidence carefully,” said Arthur, warming to his analysis. He had hardly spoken a word since they’d arrived in Edward’s room and was ready to pontificate. “Edward said the manuscript he carried to the cloister was in some language he didn’t understand and that all the words were the same length. That sounds like a cipher to me, and it makes perfect sense that the monastery’s biggest secrets would have been kept in code. And there are no coded manuscripts in the collection now, so that has to be our missing manuscript.”
“So you admit it’s not a boring old Psalter,” said Bethany.
“Yes,” said Arthur, giving her a slight bow, “I admit that you were right and I was wrong.” Bethany smiled.
“Now,” said Arthur, “consider the two clues about the man who took the manuscript: he was wearing a gray robe and he disappeared in the direction of St. Cuthbert’s Church. The gray robe is the traditional vestment of an order of Franciscan monks—that’s why they became known in England as the Greyfriars. In the thirteenth century, a small Franciscan house called Greyfriars was founded just outside the cathedral close in what is now St. Martin’s Lane. When Henry VIII dissolved that monastery, most of it was destroyed, but one of the monastic chapels was absorbed into the cathedral precincts and reconsecrated as the parish church of St. Cuthbert. Since then, it’s been traditional for the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s to wear the Greyfriars’ robes.”
“You do love to give lectures, don’t you?”
Arthur considered this question thoughtfully, for Bethany had asked it not with a tone of judgment but with true curiosity. He considered all the interactions he had with students and staff at the university—the meetings, the tutorials, the office hours—and he had to admit that giving lectures was just about the only part of his job that he enjoyed.
“Yes,” he said, “I really do.”
“And you think the man in gray was the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s?”
“I do. And for some reason he wanted to take personal charge of the coded manuscript.”
“So who was the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s in 1941?”
“Easy enough to find out,” said Arthur. “The diocesan records are in the county archive.”
“And the archive is only open on Thursdays.”
“You remember that, do you? As it happens I have to attend a meeting of the Media Some-Damn-Thing Committee on Thursday afternoon, but I can get you a pass so you can go and request the parish records.”
“Arthur,” said Bethany, “sometimes you overthink things.”
“What do you mean?”
“What’s through this archway?”
“I beg your pardon?” Arthur had not paid attention to the direction they had been walking since leaving River View, and he realized now that Bethany had been guiding their path. “The cathedral close, but why—”
“And what is above this archway?” said Bethany.
“The Church of St. Cuthbert,” said Arthur with a sigh.
“The Church of St. Cuthbert. You see, I know a little something about the cathedral precincts myself,” said Bethany, striding through the great stone arch and turning to mount a narrow flight of stone steps. “It was unlocked when I peeked in last week. Are you coming?”
Arthur hurried up the steps just in time to see Bethany pull open a heavy oak door. In another moment, they stood in St. Cuthbert’s. The small space was lit only by the candle of the sanctuary lamp burning at the east end and the street light that filtered through the single stained glass window above the altar. Only half a dozen pews separated Arthur and Bethany from the Communion rail. The only other furnishings were the simple altar table and an old carved pulpit.
“I love this place,” said Bethany softly. “I was just wandering around the close and happened to discover it last week and I must have sat in here for an hour. It’s so peaceful and dim. It’s the exact opposite of my father’s church. I like the cathedral, but this is . . . intimate.”