By midafternoon, Bethany had reduced the number of missing manuscripts to two, and David and Arthur had filled in most of the gaps in what was becoming an increasingly comprehensible translation of the lost Book of Ewolda.
“Listen to this,” said Arthur. “Ewolda’s body fell to the ground, and where her blood had spilled there instantly sprang forth a font of clear, fresh water. That must be why she’s always depicted with water—the boss in the cloister ceiling, the drawing on the cover of the manuscript, even the marginal illustration in the Barchester Breviary. She’s not spending a penny; she’s standing in a stream of water.”
“That must be the sacred spring,” said Bethany.
“There are pages and pages about miracles at the spring and tomb,” said David, “but I think the actual story of Ewolda’s life is pretty short. It starts after the little prologue and it seems to end here.” He pointed to a spot about halfway down the ninth page of cipher text.
“It makes sense,” said Arthur. “First you tell the story of the saint’s life, then you enumerate all the miracles that happened at the tomb, or shrine, or sacred spring. And at this point we’re only missing a few bits.”
“Including the end of her life story,” said David, indicating a string of undeciphered text on that same ninth page. “We haven’t got the key words for that yet.”
“We’re about three sentences away from having Ewolda’s whole life story,” said Arthur excitedly, “and it syncs perfectly with all the known depictions of her.”
“Listen,” said Bethany, her hand covering her cell phone. “I can’t stop for the Corpus Christi service. I’m on hold with the Newberry Library in Chicago. I might have found the last manuscript.”
“I thought we were still missing two,” said David.
“I found the other one in Edinburgh,” said Bethany. “I’ve got a graduate student copying out the key words. Should have them in an hour or so.”
“She’s a wonder,” said David to Arthur, who blushed deeply but did not otherwise respond.
“You go on to the service without me,” said Bethany. “I can’t sit still when we’re this close.”
“This close to what?” said Oscar, appearing at the library door.
“To deciphering the lost Book of Ewolda,” said Arthur.
“You did it?” said Oscar, dropping his bag and rushing across the room.
“Arthur did it,” said David. “He cracked the bloody code.”
“With a lot of help from Bethany,” said Arthur, leaning back in his chair for the first time in hours and stretching his stiff back.
“And what does this lost book describe?” said Oscar. “Some great secret that will convince our leaders to leave the library unmolested?”
“It tells a great story,” said Arthur. “A story no one has read since at least the Reformation and we are almost finished bringing it back to life.”
“And not only that,” said Bethany, “but there is . . . Oh, sorry. Yes, hello, is this Mr. Thomasen? My name is Bethany Davis.” She strode off to the far end of the library to conduct her phone call, leaving the three men huddled around the mostly completed story of Ewolda.
“To be honest,” said Arthur quietly, “I’m a little disappointed. After Bethany found the cover, I was hoping Ewolda’s story would contain some new piece of lore about the Holy Grail.” He had thought for sure, given his grandfather’s belief, that the Book of Ewolda would finally lead back to the Grail.
“You don’t need the Holy Grail,” said David. “This is a great story. You’ve got love and rebellion and sacrifice and a juicy decapitation thrown in for good measure. You’ve got the last piece of your puzzle, Arthur. You’ll have to rewrite your guidebook a bit, but what a story. And you can use the drawing as well.”
“It’s not a great enough story to cause the general public, or the Heritage Lottery, to come running to the rescue of the cathedral library,” said Arthur.
“Maybe at least they won’t sell this one,” said David. “History of the founder and all that.”
“They wouldn’t have sold it anyway,” said Arthur. “It’s not in the library, remember. It’s safe in the precentor’s house.”
“Yes, and why is that?” said David. “Did you ever stop to think why the precentor is hiding this particular manuscript?”
“Does it matter?” said Arthur. “I mean yes, I’m thrilled to have uncovered Ewolda’s story and to be able to put her in her rightful place among Saxon saints, but as far as the library is concerned, I’m afraid we haven’t changed anything.”
“The chapter is due to vote on the Jesse Johnson offer tomorrow morning,” said Oscar. “There would have to be something pretty earthshaking in the two or three sentences we’ve yet to decipher to change anything before then.”
“We are the Barchester Bibliophiles,” said Arthur. “If we can’t keep the city’s most valuable books here in Barchester, we’re not really living up to our names.”
“Got it!” cried Bethany from the end of the room. “I’ve found the last one and I should have the key words in a few hours.” Arthur nodded at Bethany and the other two remained silent.
“Don’t all thank me at once.”
“It’s brilliant,” said Oscar unenthusiastically. “Really impressive work, Bethany.”
“OK, what’s going on?” said Bethany. “You guys look like a bunch of junior high boys who just got put in detention. Do you not realize that I just got the last of the key words?”
“We were just commiserating over the fact that, fascinating as this story is, it’s not really going to do much to help the cathedral,” said Oscar.
“Or save the library,” said Arthur.
“Seriously? You really don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” said Arthur. “You don’t think Heritage Lottery is suddenly going to start pouring money into Barchester because we discovered the story of a saint nobody cares about.”
“Oh, Arthur, I always knew I’d be visiting you at an old folks’ home, I just never knew it would be next week. It’s sad when the mind goes.”
“Then mine’s gone, too,” said David, “because I have no idea what you’re getting at.”
“Come on,” said Bethany. “A sacred healing spring over a thousand years old, the unmolested tomb of a Saxon saint—that’s a Heritage Lottery wet dream.”
“Yes, but we don’t actually have those things,” said Arthur. “We have a story about those things.”
“You need to learn how to believe, Arthur,” said Bethany gently. “And you need to learn how to pay attention. What was the first clue in this whole crazy adventure?”
“Bishop Gladwyn’s portrait?”
“No, the first clue we found together.”
“The . . . the . . . newspaper article?” He could not imagine what a news story about the Nazi bombing could have to do with a sacred spring and an ancient tomb.
“Exactly,” said Bethany. “A newspaper article from the Barsetshire Chronicle, February 8, 1941.”
“You have a good memory,” said Arthur.
“And you clearly don’t. I should have seen the clue in that article the moment I read it, but it took me until now to figure it out.”