“Why, Arthur Prescott,” said Gwyn, striding toward Arthur on Friday night, drink in hand, “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at a party before.”
Arthur fidgeted nervously, not so much because he was unused to parties—he was perfectly adept at making small talk when the occasion called for it—but because of his purpose at this particular party. He had had a meeting with Oscar, David, and Bethany in the library after Evensong and they had all agreed on the plan for the evening—a plan that, if all went well, would end with their being guilty of having stolen a medieval manuscript out of the private residence of a cathedral official. Arthur’s nervousness as he chatted with Gwyn had nothing to do with the party. It was just that he had never been part of a heist.
Arthur, David, Oscar, and Bethany had all read enough Agatha Christie and Ngaio Marsh and Sherlock Holmes that they had no trouble concocting an unnecessarily complicated plan to steal the manuscript from the precentor. The plot depended on knowing the exact size of the missing manuscript, but Bishop Gladwyn’s inventory described it only as “8vo.” That meant octavo, which meant the book was roughly the size of an ordinary hardback novel but roughly wasn’t good enough for tonight. They needed the exact measurements. This need led to Arthur’s first contribution—a rather masterful piece of detective work, he thought. The shelves of the former chained library on which the manuscripts sat were constructed specifically to hold these manuscripts, Arthur guessed. And he knew from experience that each shelf was about six inches too long—inches that would have been taken up by the width of the manuscripts’ covers if they had not been torn off. But the second shelf had almost eight inches of extra space. That meant, reasoned Arthur, that the missing manuscript had been about two inches thick.
“But what about the height?” said David.
“When the manuscripts were returned after the war,” said Arthur, “they were returned to the shelf in their original order. The same order given on Bishop Gladwyn’s inventory. And we know that manuscript B-28 was the last volume on the right of the second shelf.”
“What good does it do for us to know that?” asked David, but Arthur was already at the bookcase.
“The chains are still here,” said Arthur. “They are all pushed to the end of the iron rod, behind the molding at the edge of the bookcase, but they’re still attached.”
“So?” said David.
“The chains were originally attached to the top corners of the manuscripts, and each chain was just long enough to allow its manuscript to rest on the reading ledge.”
“That means if we compare the length of the chain for the missing manuscript to the chain for a manuscript that’s still here . . . ,” said Bethany.
“We can get a pretty close estimate of the height of the missing Psalter,” said Arthur. It took longer for someone to find a tape measure than to do the actual measuring and math.
“So,” said David, “the manuscript is two inches thick and nine inches tall.”
“And even though there is some variation in handmade manuscripts, we can guess that if it’s nine inches tall it will be about six inches wide.”
“Arthur, you’re a genius,” said Bethany, and she flung her arms around him.
“I always did think he was rather clever,” said David, smiling.
But Arthur only heard Bethany whispering into his ear, “Well done.” Even that he almost didn’t hear, for he was suddenly not thinking of manuscripts and chains but trying to recall the last time he had felt a woman’s embrace. He honestly could not remember. It felt nice, he thought. And as Bethany let her arms fall away from him and stepped back, he was a bit surprised to find that he was not blushing. Not only had it felt nice, it had felt natural.
“Here we are,” said Oscar, entering the library from the anteroom. “George Gilbert Scott’s plans for St. Martin’s Close. It’s a funny thing, I’ve seen it referred to as the most beautiful residential development in Britain and as the most hideous.”
“All depends on whether you like Victorian Gothic domestic architecture,” said David. “I myself find it appalling.”
“And I find it breathtaking,” said Arthur.
“But the real question,” said Bethany, “is where the precentor’s study is.”
“Right there,” said Oscar, pointing to an architectural drawing. “And,” he added, pulling another sheet to the top of the pile, “according to these renovation plans from the 1920s, the downstairs loo is right next to it.”
“Right,” said David, “I think that means we have a manuscript to steal.”
—
“So,” said Gwyn, once she had gotten Arthur a glass of wine, “I gather you had an excellent session with Mr. Mangum yesterday. I really appreciate your doing that. I realize you’re not on our staff, but you know more about those manuscripts than anyone.”
“It was my pleasure,” said Arthur, glancing around to see if Bethany had arrived yet. “We actually had a lovely afternoon, in spite of the black cloud that hung over the occasion.”
“Black cloud?”
“The possibility that Barchester’s history will be sold to the highest bidder.”
“Thankfully we’re not quite there yet.”
“And what did Mr. Mangum suggest as a next step?”
“He feels we should hire an appraiser to evaluate the manuscripts in more detail. But I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that he also suggested very strongly that we hold back a few of the items most important to the cathedral’s history. He was particularly firm in warning me not to sell the Barchester Breviary or the early Gospel of John.”
“I think Mr. Mangum’s sense of business is surpassed by his sense of history,” said Arthur with a smile.
—
The precentor, Arthur had discovered when he finally got around to checking his e-mail, was holding a party on Friday night. His sister Teresa acted as hostess, and Arthur suspected, as she greeted him at the door, that the party was more hers than her brother’s, but the precentor seemed perfectly capable of playing the role of host. He even managed to look less like a salmon than usual.