The presence of the Rackham book among Bethany’s things should not be, Arthur thought, enough to condemn her, but it did seem sufficient cause for further investigation. He picked up a small black notebook and began slowly flipping through its pages. He could feel his pulse quicken and beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he saw the words Arthur, Malory, Collier, and, over and over, Grail. Bethany had a Grail notebook, a notebook she had clearly been adding to for many years, to judge from the wear to the cover, the multiple colors of ink, and the curl of the pages. Arthur slowed his flipping, then stopped when he saw an even more familiar pair of words: Arthur Prescott.
At the top of the page, Bethany had written, “Gifford’s Auction House, Lot #157—two manuscript notebooks of Robert Gladwyn, Bsp. Barchester, estimated ￡50–￡75. Possible notes on Grail or Collier painting?” The next line read, “bid ￡175.” Arthur, of course, had been the successful bidder on Bishop Gladwyn’s notebooks, and somehow Bethany had found that out, for just below her own bid she had written, “Purchased ￡200 Arthur Prescott, #3 Hiram’s Cottages, Barchester. Take Jesse Johnson job and request Barchester?”
Arthur’s stomach dropped. Bethany had been stalking him. She was a Grail hunter working for a Grail hunter and she had insinuated herself into his life at Barchester for one reason—to find out what he knew. She had no interest in being his friend; she was using him to get to the Grail.
Arthur picked up the bound pile of papers from Bethany’s things, turned it over, and read the familiar words on the cover page, words he knew by heart, although he had not read them in many years: A Comparative Survey of Pre-Reformation Grail Manuscripts: A Thesis Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements of a Master’s Degree by Arthur Prescott. Arthur’s thesis had never been published; it had never been posted online, and yet here it was with Bethany’s things. How long had she been researching him? Surely longer than she had been working for Jesse Johnson. Did that mean she wasn’t trying to find the Grail for Johnson or that he had hired her because of what she already knew about Arthur?
He had never felt so angry. His eyes watered and he could hardly see the other items on the table as he sifted through them. Magazines with articles about the Grail, loose pages of notes, and . . . could that be the Stansby Morte d’Arthur? Surely Oscar wouldn’t let her check that out. He felt his fingers trembling and his ears rang so loudly he didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs, or even the voice of Bethany when she first spoke to him. Only when she raised her voice and said, “Arthur! What are you doing?” did he realize she was standing in the doorway, looking as angry as he felt.
“Why are you going through my things?” she demanded, marching across the room until she stood across the table from him.
“How did you . . . the door was locked,” sputtered Arthur.
“Some people trust me—but not you obviously. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“You didn’t just happen to meet me,” said Arthur. “You came here looking for me. You were stalking me. You lay in wait for me like a . . . a . . . like a spider.”
“Oh, grow up. I would have told you everything eventually.”
“You stalked me,” said Arthur again, still not quite able to believe it.
“Yeah, well, you went poking around in my private things,” said Bethany, raising her voice.
“You lied to me,” said Arthur, matching her volume.
“I never lied to you. I didn’t tell you everything about myself the first day we met, but I never lied to you. You, on the other hand, did lie to me. The very first thing you told me was a lie.”
“I . . .”
“You told me the cup in Gladwyn’s painting wasn’t the Grail when you knew it was. Don’t tell me you didn’t know about the Rackham connection.”
“But why even ask me if you already knew?”
“I didn’t ask you if it was the Grail, Arthur. I just asked you where the painting was. You took it on yourself to start lying to me then and there. I know you never liked me, but you really never gave me much of a chance.”
“You came here . . . why? To find the Holy Grail and take it back to your . . . your . . . crazy boss.”
“I have a job to do, OK? I am here to help scholars around the world have access to those manuscripts. You may think that’s evil, but I happen to think it’s noble. And yes, the guy who’s paying the bills is overreaching a bit, but it doesn’t mean good things can’t come out of it.”
“But why all the Grail materials? And why . . . why me?”
“Because yes, I happen to be a fan of Grail lore. And when I saw the painting of Gladwyn online and recognized the Holy Grail from my Rackham book—my favorite book in the world, by the way, not that you would ever bother to ask me that since you seem to think I hate books—well, when I saw that painting I got interested in Gladwyn, too. And I thought it would be cool to own his notebooks, because, you know, he was obviously into the Grail. So when you outbid me, I called the auction house and told them I wanted to be sure they had the shipping information right, and they gave me your name and address. And yes, I suppose that was kind of a sneaky, deceptive thing to do, but I thought, how cool would it be to meet someone else who was interested in Gladwyn and probably interested in the Grail, too. And then I found you on the Oxford University alumni site and I tracked down your thesis in your college library and ordered a copy. It was . . . it is amazing—all those details about medieval manuscripts that mentioned the Grail. I’d never seen anything quite like it before. So when I got to choose where I wanted to work, I chose Barchester because I wanted to meet you, Arthur. Not spy on you or steal your work, just to meet you and, you know, hang out with somebody who shared one of my passions, who had actually held all those medieval Grail manuscripts in his hands. Maybe we could be friends, I thought. And then I met you and you lied to me and you fought with me and now you’re violating my privacy and I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing here and why I even cared about Gladwyn or the Grail or stupid Arthur Prescott in the first place.”
Arthur had been ready for this argument when Bethany had come into the room. He had been filled with righteous fury. The possibility that he might be wrong never even entered his mind. Now Bethany stood in front of him, choking back sobs as she shoved her books and papers back into the canvas bag, and the lump in his gut turned from anger to guilt. He had, in fact, treated her pretty badly.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Arthur. Let’s just agree to live at opposite ends of the room, shall we.”
“No,” said Arthur. “I don’t agree. And the fact is, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I do.”
“You do what?” said Bethany, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and looking at him in exasperation.
“I do like you,” he said.
They stood staring at each other in silence, Bethany’s half-filled bag still sitting on the table and Arthur trying to compose what he wanted to say next.
“I liked you from the moment I saw you,” he said. “I like that you can put me in my place and win arguments with me. I like how hard you work and how much you care and I like the way that wisp of hair always falls down in front of your face.” It was there now, and Bethany quickly swept it away. “And I really wanted to be friends; I was trying, I was. And that’s why it hurt so much when I thought you were . . . were deceiving me.”