Stones of Fire

38

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking,’ Edie said in a low voice, ‘that the Harvard “chap” stole the quatrains from Sir Kenneth?’

‘Indeed,’ Cædmon replied, the missing poems seeming proof that Stanford MacFarlane believed Galen of Godmersham had uncovered the Ark of the Covenant. It also strongly suggested that MacFarlane believed clues to the Ark’s whereabouts were contained within the lines of those verses. A poetic treasure map as it were. He and Edie had to move quickly.

‘Sir Kenneth, did you say that Galen’s poetry is housed at the Bod?’

Still shuffling through the piles of paper on his desk, Sir Kenneth glanced up. ‘What’s that? Er, yes. The original copy of the quatrains is kept at Duke Humphrey’s Library.’

Duke Humphrey’s Library was one of fourteen libraries in the Bodleian. Unless things had greatly changed, only matriculated students and researchers who’d obtained written permission could gain entry to Duke Humphrey’s Library, the premises strictly off limits to visitors. To circumvent the restrictions, MacFarlane’s man had stolen a copy from Sir Kenneth.

‘Is there any possibility that I might be able to examine the original quatrains?’

Sir Kenneth stopped in mid-shuffle. For several long seconds the older man stared at Cædmon from across the paper-strewn desk. Making him feel like a child awaiting a parent’s decision about attending an upcoming football match. Except Sir Kenneth wasn’t his father. Although he had once been a father figure. Long years ago.

‘I could call the head librarian and ask that the two of you be granted a special dispensation to view the library’s collection. But I warn you, Galen’s quatrains are a linguistic puzzle tied with an encrypted knot.’

Having assumed no less, Cædmon respectfully bowed his head. ‘I am in your debt, Sir Kenneth.’

‘Did you know, my dear, that young Aisquith graduated with a first?’ Sir Kenneth remarked, abruptly changing the subject.

About to raise her tankard to her lips, Edie stopped in mid-motion. ‘Um, no. Guess that makes Cædmon a really smart cookie, huh?’

‘Indeed, it does. The smart cookie then went on to write a brilliant master’s thesis on St Bernard of Clairvaux and the founding of the Knights Templar. Later, when he went off to Jerusalem to conduct his dissertation research, I had every expectation that he would submit an equally brilliant dissertation.’

The knot in Cædmon’s belly painfully tightened. Bloody hell. This was the old man’s price for granting the favour, to stuff his entrails with red hot coals.

‘As you have no doubt guessed, I was not up to the challenge. I did not meet Sir Kenneth’s high standards,’ he confessed, refusing to let his estranged mentor deliver the coup de grâce. Better a self-inflicted wound than to be led meekly to the scaffold.

‘It didn’t have to be that way. If you had come to me and discussed your plans before going off half-cocked, I could have —’

‘Is that what angered you, that I failed to obtain your esteemed academic opinion?’ Or were you angered that the son had rejected the father?

Seeing the sparks about to catch fire, Edie jumped to her feet. ‘We’ve sort of veered a little off track, don’t you think?’ Then, acting as though nothing untoward had occurred, she calmly walked over to the tray and helped herself to a tart. ‘Now, let me make sure I’ve got this straight, Sir Kenneth. You said that Galen of Godmersham had no children.’

‘That is correct.’

‘But since he left the Hospitallers when he returned to England, I assume that he was married.’ Holding the tart between thumb and forefinger, she waved it to and fro as she spoke.

‘Galen went to the altar not once but thrice. No sooner did each spouse shuffle off her mortal coil than Galen found himself a young replacement. His last bride, Philippa Whitcombe, was the daughter of the justice of the peace for Canterbury. When Galen died, Philippa promptly joined a cloistered order of nuns. One can assume that she did not take to the married state.’

About to take a bite, Edie lowered the tart. ‘So who inherited the gold chest?’

‘Ah! An excellent question, my dear.’ Walking over to the tray, Sir Kenneth plucked a mince tart from the near-empty plate. ‘Since the gold chest does not appear in any Feet of Fines record after 1348, one can infer that it was never found. Not altogether surprising given that not a single inhabitant of god-forsaken Godmersham survived the plague.’

‘Meaning no one was left who had any recollection of ever seeing Galen’s treasures,’ Cædmon murmured. For all intents and purposes, it was as though Galen’s gold chest had never existed once the plague struck. With no Feet of Fines record for the intervening centuries, the mystery would be that much more difficult to solve.

‘Okay, but what about the quatrains? How did they come to be discovered?’ Edie asked, clearly as determined as he to glean information.

‘Galen’s estates remained in a state of ruin until the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The new owner, a wealthy wine merchant by the name of Tynsdale, had the chapel demolished to make way for a hammer-beamed monstrosity. It was during demolition that the quatrains were discovered beneath the altar stone. Sir Walter Raleigh, a close acquaintance of the merchant, was the first to conjecture that the arca mentioned in Galen’s poetry might refer to the Ark of the Covenant. He and Tynsdale scoured every inch of the property. To no avail, I might add. Not a century passes that some addle-brained treasure hunter hasn’t attempted to find —’ Catching sight of his housekeeper poking her head through the study door, he stopped in mid-flow. ‘Yes, what is it?’

‘A call, sir. From the provost’s office.’

Clearly annoyed by the intrusion, he waved her away. ‘That blasted relic’s not working,’ he said by way of explanation, gesturing to an antique black telephone on his desk. ‘There’s a telephone in the lobby. I won’t be a moment.’

Cædmon rose to his feet. ‘We must go.’

He wasn’t certain, but he thought he detected a disappointed glimmer in the older man’s eyes. Suddenly uncomfortable, he glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Duke Humphrey’s Library is open until seven. If you could call ahead and make the necessary arrangements, we would be most appreciative.’

‘Yes, of course. My pleasure.’ As he spoke, Sir Kenneth escorted them to the lobby.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cædmon caught a flash of colour. Turning his head, he saw that the once-bare Norway spruce now sparkled, richly tinted glass ornaments glowing jewel-like among the dark foliage.

‘Did you know that it was Queen Victoria’s husband, the bewhiskered Albert, who introduced the Christmas tree to these shores? He had them all done up with edible fruit and little wax fairies.’ Sir Kenneth fingered a glossy green limb, a wistful look in his eye. ‘I told her to get a pine not a spruce. Blasted woman.’

‘I think it’s absolutely gorgeous,’ Edie remarked.

‘Yes, it always is.’ Turning his back on the tree, Sir Kenneth cleared his throat. ‘The Choral Society is singing Handel’s Messiah at seven thirty this evening. Perhaps you and Miss Miller would care to join me? There is nothing that compares to the sound of crystal voices lifted to the heavens. Quite moving. Even if one does not believe in the Christmas myth spoon-fed to us by power-hungry Church fathers, eh?’

Having obtained all he needed from his old mentor, Cædmon shook his head. He’d had enough of him for one day. ‘Thank you, Sir Kenneth. Unfortunately, we —’

‘Yes, yes, I understand.’ Then, his right index finger pointing heavenwards, like a man struck with an inspired idea, he said, ‘I’ve got just the thing. It arrived only this morning.’ Turning his back, he searched the boxes piled high on the console table. ‘Where is the blasted — Ah! There it is!’ Reaching into a wooden crate, he removed a bottle.

‘Merry Christmas, young Aisquith.’

Cædmon hesitated a moment, instantly recognizing the label on the bottle of Queen’s College port that the older man offered to him. COLLEGII REGINAE. He well recalled the port decanter being passed between the senior fellow and his small band of favourites long years ago. Those were fond memories unsullied by the later rupture.

With a brusque nod, he accepted the bottle. ‘And a merry Christmas to you, Sir Kenneth.’

The other man patted his stomach. ‘I don’t know about “merry”, but it shall be filling. Mrs Janus is certain to stuff me with Christmas pudding and mince pies.’

Uncomfortable with the pleasantries, knowing they hid the bitter feelings that had earlier bubbled to the surface, Cædmon took Edie by the elbow. ‘We must be on our way.’

To his surprise, she disengaged herself from his grasp, stepped over to Sir Kenneth and kissed him on his right cheek. ‘I hope you have a very merry Christmas!’

Grinning like a besotted fool, Sir Kenneth followed them to the door. ‘And, in turn, I hope that you and young Aisquith uncover Galen’s blasted box. If the gold chest is to be found, you are the man to find it.’ This last remark was directed to Cædmon.

Caught off guard by this unexpected support, Cædmon said the first thing that came to mind.

‘Thank you, sir. That means a great deal to me.’