“Why 1941?” asked Bethany, pulling up a chair to the other side of Oscar’s desk.
“Last edition published before Naylor died in 1946. Died or stopped being the vicar of St. Cuthbert’s. Because of the war, I suppose; it didn’t come out again until 1947.”
“A book, eh?” said Bethany.
“Who would have thought?” said Arthur.
Bethany leaned over the open volume and read:
NAYLOR, Henry Albert, Hogglestock, Barsetshire.—St. Laz. Ox. B.A. (2nd cl. Lit. Hum.) 1924, M.A. 1926; Deac. 1927, Pr. 1928. C. of Uffley Dio. Bst. 1929, R. St. Cuthbert’s, Dio. Bst. 1937, Canon Bchr. Cathedral 1938, R. Plumstead Episcopi 1938.
“Does this mean anything to you, Arthur?”
“With thousands of listings, Crockford’s does use a few abbreviations.” Arthur spun the book back around. “Let’s see what we can make of this. Henry Albert Naylor, born in Hogglestock, Barsetshire. That’s just a few miles out past the university. Went to St. Lazarus College, Oxford, where he earned a second class in Classics, so he’s competent but no genius. Got his bachelor’s degree in 1924, his master’s in 1926. That would put him in one of the first classes after the Great War. He was too young to fight, lucky boy. Curate of Uffley in the Diocese of Barsetshire. That’s southwest of here not more than fifteen miles or so. Then in 1937 he becomes rector of St. Cuthbert’s, we knew that, but look at this. In 1938 he becomes a canon of Barchester Cathedral and rector of Plumstead Episcopi.”
“Sounds like he was a busy man.”
“Not necessarily,” said Arthur. “St. Cuthbert’s is a tiny parish, and even in those days not many people lived in that part of the city. And Plumstead Episcopi—let’s just say Plumstead Episcopi would be a good place to hide a manuscript.”
“What is Plumstead Episcopi?” said Bethany. “Is that a church?”
“It’s a rural parish,” said Arthur, turning back to the shelves behind Oscar’s desk. “With a lovely little parish church. I wouldn’t want to bore you with a lecture, so I’ll just show you this.” Arthur took a slim booklet off the shelf and handed it to Bethany.
“A History of Plumstead Episcopi by Arthur Prescott,” said Bethany. “OK, Mister Church Historian, suppose you save me the trouble of reading what I’m sure is a scintillating narrative and just tell me why Plumstead Episcopi would make such a good hiding place.”
“It had a rather lovely rectory,” said Arthur. “Georgian construction. But the parish itself was sparsely populated. The first two rectors of the last century chose to live in town rather than in the isolated surroundings of Plumstead, and during the Great War the rectory was used to billet soldiers who, I’m afraid, did not treat the place well. It was pulled down in the 1920s and the parish subsumed into the neighboring parish of Ullathorne, but since the living had always been in the hands of the cathedral chapter, there has been a tradition since then that a member of the chapter is made rector of Plumstead Episcopi. The only real duties that come with the title are seeing that the church doesn’t fall down and holding a service there once a year—usually it’s a sort of summer festival. Most people who go just want to see the inside of the church—it was restored by George Gilbert Scott in the Victorian Gothic style.”
“And since the church is only unlocked one day a year, you think it wouldn’t be a bad place to stash a mysterious manuscript.”
“Certainly if I were Henry Albert Naylor on the night of February 7, 1941, and I were looking for a place where a manuscript would be safe from both prying eyes and Nazi bombs, I might have whisked it off to a church to which only I had the keys and which was nearly always closed. Naylor died in 1946, but the books and manuscripts weren’t returned to the cathedral library until after the repairs were completed in the early fifties. Maybe he hadn’t told anybody about the manuscript.”
“But did he die in 1946 or did he just stop being rector of St. Cuthbert’s?”
“Looks like he died,” said Arthur, who had pulled another volume of Crockford’s off the shelf. “He’s not listed in the 1947 volume.”
“So how do we get into the church at Plumstead Episcopi? I’m not waiting until some summer festival. Who’s the rector now? Couldn’t we just ask him for the keys? You can tell him I’m some sort of Victorian Gothic fanatic and that I’m only here for a few more weeks and I’m dying to see the church.”
“Is it really just a few more weeks?” said Arthur.
“Arthur, focus. We are hatching a diabolical plot here and you’re asking about insignificant details. Who is the rector of Plumstead?”
“We’re not getting the keys from the rector,” said Arthur.
“Why not? Is it someone you know?”
“Someone I have tried, without success, to avoid whenever possible. The current rector of Plumstead Episcopi is the precentor.”
—
Arthur lay awake that night thinking. He had gone back to the library after dinner and looked in a copy of Crockford’s Clerical Directory from just before his grandfather’s death in 1992. There was the biography:
HARDING, Charles Edward, Barchester, Barsetshire.—Ch. Ch. Ox. B.A. (1st cl. Lit. Hum.) 1933, M.A. 1935; Deac. 1936, Pr. 1938. Chap. RAF 1938–1945, R. St. Cuthbert’s, Dio. Bst. 1946, Canon Bchr. Cathedral 1958, R. Plumstead Episcopi, Dio. Bst, 1964. Ret. 1980.
Arthur’s grandfather had served as a chaplain in the Royal Air Force during the war and then become rector of St. Cuthbert’s, eventually adding the same posts (canon of Barchester Cathedral and rector of Plumstead) that Henry Albert Naylor had held. Had Naylor passed the manuscript on to his grandfather? And if so, why hadn’t his grandfather told Arthur anything about it? He considered dismissing the similarities in the two men’s careers as coincidence, but the summer before his grandfather had died, Arthur had again mentioned his discovery about the similar yew trees in Barchester and Tennyson.
“Of course it could be a coincidence,” said Arthur, trying to prod his grandfather into telling him more about the Grail.