To most of the partygoers that night—canons and their spouses, friends of the cathedral, parents of the choirboys—the gathering seemed no different from any other year. Crowded rooms, flowing drink, heaps of food, and the deafening din of conversation that all but drowned out the choral music playing in the background. Not unusually, there had been a small disturbance by a guest who had overindulged in the liquid refreshment, but he had been politely sent on his way and would no doubt arrive at Sunday morning’s service contrite and sober. One of the other guests had come to the aid of the precentor when the drunken man had knocked over a pitcher of Pimm’s, but considering the loud altercation Arthur Prescott had with the precentor earlier in the evening on the subject of selling off the cathedral manuscripts, the spilling of a little Pimm’s was not even the most dramatic thing that happened at the party. For most, it was an enjoyable night.
But had there been a careful observer at the party, he might have seen something altogether different. He might have seen that the drunken man, local bookstore owner David Denning, had arrived quite sober, and never actually drank anything. True, he acted more and more tipsy as the evening wore on, but the source of this intoxication remained a mystery. Next, he might have seen a schoolteacher named Oscar Dimsdale make his way down a short hallway to the downstairs loo almost immediately upon arrival. And had this careful observer had need of the loo himself thereafter, he would not have found two neatly folded hand towels by the sink but only one. He then would have watched the arrival of an American researcher named Bethany, who carried a large handbag and spent several minutes flirting shamelessly with the precentor. And from there things would have gotten even more interesting.
—
Arthur checked his watch. Nine forty-five. He sipped his wine as Gwyn spoke about the manuscripts, but his eyes were focused on the host. Bethany laid a hand on the precentor’s forearm and tossed her hair back, letting out a loud laugh. Arthur didn’t know what she was saying, but he knew it was working. The precentor would not forget talking with Bethany tonight. As soon as she patted him on the cheek and moved on, Arthur nodded to David and made his own move.
“So kind of you to include me, sir,” he said, holding his hand out as he approached the precentor.
“Of course, my good man, of course,” said the precentor, and then turning to his sister, he added, “This is Arthur Prescott. He’s just completed the text for our new cathedral guidebook. It’s a bang-up job, Arthur. I’ve not had the chance to tell you, but I truly enjoyed it.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Arthur. “It’s a shame it will be the only piece of the cathedral’s history left.”
“Why whatever can you mean?” said Teresa.
“Only that your brother has decided that the cathedral should sell off its history to the highest bidder,” said Arthur, slowly raising his voice.
“Arthur, I don’t—” said the precentor, but Arthur let him get no further.
“Our host,” he said waving his arm and turning to the nearest clump of partygoers, “thinks that Barchester should sell its very soul to a bunch of Americans who will no doubt put it on display in some place like . . . like Chicago and charge thirty dollars’ admission.” Chicago was the first American city Arthur could think of, and he spat the word at the precentor and drew the attention of a dozen or so guests with his little speech. He wasn’t sure exactly how much thirty dollars was, but it sounded an unholy amount.
“Mr. Prescott,” said the precentor calmly, “in the first place, I was not the one who proposed the sale of the manuscripts. In the second place, as you well know, their contents are being fully digitized and will be available to anyone free of charge, and lastly, if we do not raise some funds and quickly, there will be no cathedral. The north transept is in serious danger of collapse.”
“The cathedral is a house of God,” said Arthur as he watched Bethany disappear unnoticed down the hall, past the loo, and through the door into the precentor’s study. “Better that it should lose an arm than lose its very soul.” Bethany closed the door behind her. Now came the tricky part. Arthur had no idea how long Bethany would spend in the study. If she found the manuscript, she would replace it with a manuscript on the history of the kings of England—a manuscript that happened to be two inches thick, nine inches tall, and six inches wide and that had entered the party in her voluminous handbag. But Arthur had to continue being a distraction until Bethany was back among the guests. If she ended up having to do a thorough search of the study, that could take quite a while. It was, he thought, the flaw in the plan. But Bethany had insisted she could search the room quickly and that Arthur was as good at arguing as anyone in Britain.
“I would contend,” said the precentor, “that the soul of the cathedral lies in its very stones. Think of the lives of the men who raised that glorious structure. How many were killed in the process? For that matter, how many are entombed below the aisles and in the walls? The cathedral is sacred space and sacred ground and we owe it to the generations that have come before us and to those that will come after us to preserve it.”
Arthur completely agreed with this assertion, but his job tonight was not to agree but to contest. “But at what cost? Would you sell your heart to preserve your . . . your . . .”
“Worship is the heart of the cathedral,” said the precentor as Arthur fumbled for a metaphor. “It has been for a thousand years and, God willing, it will be for a thousand more. Worship. Not a pile of dusty old manuscripts.”
Arthur was discovering that, as talented as he was at disputation, the task was much more difficult when one agreed with one’s opponent. Luckily, Bethany slipped out of the study at that very moment, and he could tell by her smile that she had found something.
“I bow to your argument,” said Arthur, backing away from the precentor. His part was finished now. “Sell the manuscripts, sell the books, and let us all enjoy the smell and the feel and the history of glowing computer screens.”
“Wash all dis den?” said David, staggering past Arthur to take up his part in the drama. He poked the precentor in the chest as he spoke. “Are you selling the cathedral?” Arthur hoped he wasn’t overdoing it.
“You’ve had a bit too much,” said Arthur. “Suppose we get you home.”
David timed the flail of his arms perfectly. Teresa had just stepped up with a pitcher of Pimm’s and with one swoop he knocked it from her arms and sloshed half of it down the front of the precentor. It couldn’t have worked any better if Teresa had been in on the plot. David was supposed to have thrown a drink at the precentor, but this was even better. While everyone’s attention turned to the precentor, Arthur looked down the hall. Oscar had retrieved David’s coat and stood next to Bethany. Her arm hidden by the drapes of the coat, she slipped something from her handbag into the voluminous inner pocket. Oscar passed her a hand towel and she came striding forward from the hallway that led to the loo.
“Oh my goodness, let me help get you cleaned up,” she said, approaching the precentor.
“Sorry about that,” said David. “Praps a bit too much . . .”