—
Two miles away, at Barchester Cathedral, two monks stood blinking in the sunlight. Brother Humphrey and Brother Samuel had just emerged from the darkness where they had been working to secure the secrets of the monastic foundation before the arrival of the king’s commissioners. The abbot of Barchester had been far less recalcitrant than the prior of St. Ewolda’s, having reached an agreement already with Thomas Cromwell that while the monastery would be dissolved, the cathedral would remain and most of the monks would continue on as members of the chapter. Humphrey and his brothers were not so foolish, however, as to believe that the commissioners would not despoil Barchester of its visible treasures. Certainly they would pull down the shrine of St. Ewolda—which had become a modest source of income over the years as word of its healing power spread throughout the region and pilgrims came to seek miracles and leave offerings. But, with the abbot and Cromwell on speaking, if not friendly, terms, Barchester might avoid such excesses as had been seen in Glastonbury, where the abbot had been drawn and quartered atop the Glastonbury Tor.
“The work is done,” said Samuel, emerging into the light of the cloister to stand next to Humphrey. “The commissioners may pull down Ewolda’s shrine, they may loot the treasury, but some secrets shall remain hidden.”
“Are you and I the only brothers who know this secret?” said Humphrey. “Does not even the abbot know, and might he not tell Cromwell?”
“He knows not,” said Samuel. “But there is no surprise there. The abbot knows little except how to feast and how to squander money. There is one other who knows—a brother at St. Ewolda’s named James. He suggested that we undertake the work we have now completed. He also believes that the books at St. Ewolda’s should be removed here, for that place will certainly be fully sacked, and the prior will be lucky to escape with his life. Here some of the books may escape the hands of the commissioners.”
“But surely the commissioners will be there within hours. Is it not too late to remove the books to Barchester?”
“That is a question,” said Samuel, “we shall be able to answer soon.”
May 11, 2016
SEVENTH WEDNESDAY AFTER EASTER
The next afternoon, Arthur bounded up the stairs to the cathedral library with a lightness in his step he hadn’t felt in ages. With the guidebook finished, he had no particular agenda; he just wanted to spend a couple of hours in his favorite place. He might pull out a manuscript of medieval prayers and try to brush up on his Latin or he might read through some of Bishop Gladwyn’s correspondence in the archive files. Perhaps he would return to one of the nineteenth-century books about life in Barchester, such as The Almshouse or Barchester Towers, or maybe he would choose Lives of Twelve Christian Men, a two-volume collection of short biographies of nineteenth-century churchmen that included the only biography of Bishop Gladwyn. Arthur had read those thirty pages over many times, but he had never read about any of the other eleven men.
After depositing his satchel on the floor by his now empty usual table, Arthur crossed the room and stood beside the wall of books. For a long minute he just gazed at their beauty. In this room, he thought, he would never lack for something to read. He saw gleaming leather bindings of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries with spines decorated in gilt floral patterns and overlaid with leather labels in contrasting colors. Side by side with these beauties were books like Barchester Towers—volumes bound in brown or green or red cloth frayed at the spine from a thousand fingers pulling them off the shelves. Then there were the books of greatest value, unassuming bindings of mottled leather or smudged vellum with no markings on the spines—books on science and medicine, agriculture and art, theology and history, all dating from before the eighteenth century. Taking down one of these books was always an adventure for Arthur. Until he gently opened to the engraved title page he had no idea what the volume would hold. But he had had enough adventure lately. What he needed, he decided as he basked in the atmosphere of thousands of books, was an old friend.
He scanned the shelf of biographies where he expected to find Lives of Twelve Christian Men, but there was a gap where the two volumes ought to be. Because he spent so much time there alone, Arthur sometimes thought of the cathedral library as his private collection, and he was always a little taken aback to discover that other people used it, too. No matter, though. As he looked at the empty spot on the shelf he began to think that minibiographies of nineteenth-century churchmen were not, perhaps, the perfect reading for this afternoon.
He slipped his hand in his jacket pocket and felt what he had placed there that morning. In spite of all the wisdom that stood arrayed in cloth and leather and vellum before him, on this afternoon this was what he wanted to read—his Penguin paperback copy of Right Ho, Jeeves. Penguins were a marvel of publishing design, he thought. They nestled perfectly in your hand or your pocket, their pages turned like thick cream pouring from a pitcher, and, while most old paperbacks eventually fell apart, Penguins mellowed. They accumulated brown blotches of foxing on their covers and pages and they absorbed a subtle odor that spoke of pipes and damp and long walks in the countryside. Arthur opened to his bookmark, pressed his nose into the book, and inhaled deeply. Yes, he thought, as he settled into his chair and began to read, this was going to be a wonderful afternoon.
But Arthur had finished only a paragraph or two when it occurred to him Bethany was not clicking away at the far end of the room. Her equipment stood silent like some abandoned ruin. Arthur loved a quiet library, so why did he have so much trouble concentrating without the incessant click of her camera and tapping of her keyboard? He hadn’t seen her since they had returned from their unsuccessful expedition to Plumstead Episcopi. Perhaps she had gone into London for a few days to hobnob with some of her fellow digitizers, but wouldn’t she have told him? Maybe she was having a late lunch, or taking a walk to clear her head, or taking the three o’clock tour of Barchester Castle, but wherever she was, Arthur found that her absence made concentration impossible. He couldn’t spend more than a page with Jeeves and Wooster before stopping to listen for her footsteps. He had just reached the point in the narrative where Bertie was spiking Gussie Fink-Nottle’s orange juice when, at last, he heard feet on the stairs.
“I’ve been wondering where you’ve been,” said Arthur as the footsteps entered the library.
“At school like I am every day.”
Arthur turned to see Oscar, and found himself surprisingly disappointed. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought you were Bethany.”
“Yes, people often mistake us,” said Oscar. “I think it’s my girlish figure.”