The Book of Hours (29 page)

Reluctantly, Brian released her hand and walked forward. He fumbled beneath the altar's stone top for the catch he had spotted, and once more a corner of the altar top popped open.

“I say,” Arthur exclaimed, moving forward. “You're getting rather good at this, aren't you.”

Brian lifted off the lid and pulled out the two items. Everyone crowded forward. Brian cast a look back to where Cecilia watched him; then he unwrapped the top item and stepped back.

“Oh my dear sweet word,” Percival breathed. “Gerald, your camera.”

“Step back, please, everyone.” With shaky hands Gerald focused and began shooting pictures.

Percy's hands were no steadier than Gerald's as he pulled off the tattered cloth covering. He blew softly at the dusty binding, then lifted the book's cover. He did not seem to mind in the least that the jacket came away in his hands. He set it to one side and ran one finger down the first page. He looked up, but seemed incapable of focusing on Brian as he declared, “This is the monastery Bible.”

Trevor crowded in beside him and exclaimed in a shaky voice, “Look at the illuminations.”

“They would have spent years on this work,” Percy agreed, turning back another page, then another. “Years and years and years.”

“Take a look at what's underneath,” Brian said.

The vicar and the auctioneer gave him an astonished look. “There's more?”

“We saved the best for last,” Brian affirmed.

“Give me a hand here, please.” Gingerly Percy and Trevor slid the book to one side. Underneath was not another book, but a rather slim box. One whose inlaid surface had dimmed until it was scarcely possible to see that gemstones had been set into the surface, in the shape of a cross.

Percy spent a long moment staring at the surface and tracing a trembling hand around the edges, before saying softly, “Gerald, if you please.”

The young man understood instantly, for he reached into his pocket and handed over a pocketknife. Percy unfolded the blade and delicately fitted it into one side as his assistant continued to take pictures. Cautiously Percy pried open the lid, set it aside, and breathed, “I am well and truly amazed.”

“What is it?” Trevor demanded.

Percy gently lifted out what appeared to be a cloth-wrapped bundle. “This is the reason I have spent my entire life dedicated to the past.”

Percy held up the cloth's top facing so that Gerald could snap another picture, this one of jewels sewed with what appeared to be solid-gold thread, again making the form of the cross. “What this is,” Percy repeated, his voice none too steady, “is every historian's dream. The discovery of a lifetime.”

He finished unfolding the cloth, and lifted up the tiny contents for Gerald to photograph. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a
Book
of Hours
.”

Thirty-three

“W
HEN THE GREAT
W
ILLIAM ARRIVED IN 1066,”
P
ERCY
explained, “he seeded this land with a number of habits born and bred in his native France. The square Norman towers you see on many of our oldest churches are an adaptation from medieval French bell towers. The habit of praying the hours—I don't suppose you've ever come across that practice.”

“On the contrary,” Trevor demurred, glancing with pride at Cecilia. “The whole town is aware of it.”

“How extraordinary. Well, those patrons who could read would carry with them miniature texts known as the
Book of Hours
. When the bells chimed, they would then read from them a short prayer or spiritual poem, directing their thoughts momentarily toward the divine.”

They were gathered in Gladys's spotless dining room, all thoughts and concerns of the grime they tracked in momentarily forgotten. They were seated in a cramped little circle, all save Gerald, who was busy talking softly at the hall phone. Percy fondled the rotting fabric with its jewel-stitched embroidery and continued, “It will take some very careful investigation to know anything for certain. But I would like to hazard a guess, if you will permit me.”

“Go on, out with it, man,” Arthur commanded. “This isn't the examination board at Cambridge you're facing.”

“Very well, then.” The auctioneer took a long breath, touched for a tie that was no longer there, then said, “My guess is that this belonged to a member of the royal family.”

The table emitted a collective gasp. Percy nodded his agreement. “William made Knightsbridge his first capital, as you know. And only someone of his standing would have been able to afford such an elaborate text.”

Percy picked up the book itself, which was only slightly larger than his hand. “I would venture to suggest that this was never actually used. The cover and the box and the ornamentation you see here on the cover, not to mention the illuminations themselves.” He swiveled the book around so Brian could see the page, which showed a woman in a long robe, kneeling beneath a tree, from which sang a dozen golden birds. “Look here, you see how brilliant these colors remain? This indicates that the illuminators used not dyes, but precious metals and ground-up gemstones. These birds, for example; I would wager they are actually gold leaf, and the green of the tree might well be crushed emeralds.” He set down the book and declared, “All this suggests that the book was designed as an offertory from the king to his first monastery in the kingdom.”

Gerald settled the receiver back into the phone and appeared in the doorway. “It's all arranged,” he announced. “They should arrive in under two hours.”

“Good show.” Percy turned back to Brian. “With your permission, I have arranged for an armored car and a security detail to transport this to safety. You're under no obligation to deal with Christie's, of course. But I would urge you to let us stow this in the company vaults until you decide precisely what course you wish to take.”

There was a moment's stunned silence, then Brian ventured, “This is valuable?”

“My dear sir, this find is absolutely priceless.” Percy could not keep his hands off the book. “There has not been one of these on the open market in over a decade. Once authenticated, I would hazard to say it could fetch five million pounds, and possibly much more.”

Brian turned to Cecilia and felt her shining gaze down to the core of his being. He looked back to Percy and asked, “Could you loan me a million dollars?”

The flurry of explanations and strategies rose to such a point that Arthur had to stand and shout to be heard. “I say, one moment please. Quiet!” He waited for silence, then continued, “That's better. I hate to put a damper on everyone's fun, but I regret to inform you that money alone will not be enough to retain Castle Keep.”

“He's right,” Trevor worriedly agreed. “The time for receiving bids has closed.”

“Good grief, I forgot,” Percy said anxiously. “Today's the day of that auction nonsense, isn't it?”

“It's not nonsense, but it is this afternoon,” Brian said. Then he turned to Arthur and asked, “What do we do?”

“A frontal attack's no use,” the retired commander declared. “The council's lined up with the enemy. Thick as thieves, that lot.”

“This is not good,” Percy fretted. “Not good at all.”

“Quiet, man.” Arthur commanded. He pondered a long moment, his entire face furrowed. Then he straightened and demanded of his former peer, “You have connections within the Ministry of the Interior, don't you?”

“Of course, but what—”

“And friends in the antiquities departments of various museums?” Arthur pressed on.

“Of course!” Trevor's cry pushed him to his feet. “Arthur, you continue to astound me.”

Percy looked from one man to the other. “Sorry, you've lost me there.”

“We must plan a flanking maneuver!” Arthur's jaw jutted out, ready for the assault. “If we manage to have this manor and its grounds declared a historical monument, what happens to the plans for their ruddy lab?”

“They'll drop all their plans in an instant,” Trevor declared ecstatically. “They'd have to, because such a monument would be untouchable.”

“They'd never be permitted to place a lab on the grounds of Castle Keep,” Arthur announced. “Not in a thousand years.”

“With the discovery of that chapel,” Gerald excitedly agreed, “having this place declared a grade-one listed building will be an utter cinch.”

“I say, old chap, that's positively brilliant,” Percy said. “My hat is off to you.”

“The critical issue here is one of timing,” Arthur warned.

“Quite right. We don't have a moment to lose.” Percy rose to his feet. “Gerald, our car.”

“Right away.” The young man nodded a farewell to the room and vanished.

“You arrange for the museum muckety-mucks to write up what we need,” Arthur said, already moving for the front door. “Brian here will drive us to the ministry, and we'll await you on their doorstep.”

“Just one minute!” Gladys cried.

“Not now, dear, this is important—”

“I'll tell you what it is, it's an outrage!” She planted herself in her husband's path. “If you think I'm letting any man of mine make a journey to the ministry in muddy trousers and galoshes, then you've got another think coming!”

“She's right,” Brian agreed. “I feel like my hair is cemented to my head.”

“We'll stop by the hotel for a quick cleanup, then fly off to process the photographs and assemble the allies,” Percy said, sliding around the table. “You meet us at the ministry.”

“I'll go lay out your blazer with all the nice medals,” Gladys said, somewhat mollified. “You've always said nothing could move the bureaucrats to action faster than a bit of spit and polish.”

Thirty-four

T
HE ROAD FROM
K
NIGHTSBRIDGE TO
L
ONDON WOUND ITS
way across the Chiltern Hills, rising and falling through forested hilltops and carefully tilled valleys. Over the rumble of the MGA's deep-throated engine, Brian could hear the calls of cattle and sheep, urging him to ever-greater haste. From some long-forgotten box, Gladys had located a pair of Arthur's old leather flying helmets. Their interiors were lined in wool, and even with the earflaps unlashed, Brian's head remained toasty. Traffic was light, trees caused the sunlight to play flickering games overhead, and the wind sang a merry tune. They arrived at the foot of the steepest hill of all; Brian downshifted, the motor's drumbeat took on a deeper boom, and not even Arthur could resist the urge to laugh out loud.

The hilltop was heavily forested, and the car crested the ridge and drilled a noisy hole down a long straightaway. The walls and roof of their living tunnel tossed the motor's growl back at them, until it seemed that all the world was shouting with them to fly, to hurry, to reach their goal.

The first indication Brian had of anything amiss was when a second roar joined his own. In the rearview mirror he spotted a battered truck bearing down on them. He watched in disbelief as the distance between them closed, and it was only when he recognized the face behind the steering wheel that he shouted, “Hang on!”

“What's that?”

But the truck answered for him, as it ground its gears and the motor hit a shrieking high-pitched note, then struck.

Brian floored it at the last moment, pulling away enough so the truck pounded his rear fender and not the side door as Joe Eaves had planned. The MGA slewed violently, but Brian managed to keep hold of the road and not wrap the car around a tree. The closeness of fleeting death raised his voice a full two octaves as he yelled, “What is he doing?”

Arthur swiveled about just as Joe barreled in for a second try. He gripped the top of the windscreen and the doorjamb and yelled back, “It's that idiot gardener!”

“Hold tight!” Brian's foot was pressed down so hard it threatened to ram the gas pedal through the floorboard. But the truck was both newer and more powerful, and it roared forward like a shrieking metal beast with hoes for horns.

At the very last moment, Brian swerved as much as the narrow lane allowed. Once more he saved the car from enduring a full-on strike. Even so, the impact was enough to send him careening off the side of the road and onto the cramped ribbon of grass. Tree trunks hurtled by, the bare limbs reaching out to claw them to oblivion.

Finally the tires caught hold, and he slithered back onto the pavement. Immediately the truck's motor roared, and a snarling Joe Eaves drew up parallel to the much smaller MGA. He took careful aim through the side window, deathly determined that this would be the killing strike.

“Don't just hang about,” Arthur howled. “Here he comes!”

At the last possible instant, Brian slipped his foot from the gas and hammered both feet down on the brake. The four wheels locked in a smoky scream of burning rubber, and the car slewed sideways. But the sudden change in acceleration was enough to jerk them back out of reach.

Joe Eaves caught the action, but not in time. He whipped his wheel about, but his acceleration was so great that the top-heavy truck whipped up on two wheels. He hit the leaf-strewn verge just as his two near-side tires returned to earth. The truck disappeared between two large trees and vanished into the forest. Over the sound of their own idling motor, they heard the noise of rending metal and shrieking blows and finally a vastly satisfying crash.

Brian's legs were shaking so hard he found it difficult to remove them from the brakes. Arthur asked hoarsely, “Are you able to drive?”

“I—I think so.”

“Let's see if you locked the brakes. Put it into first gear and ease down on the throttle.”

It took a long moment to fit his hand around the gearshift and work the clutch. Arthur pretended not to notice Brian's trembling motions. The old man seemed utterly unfazed by the attack. The motor purred and the car moved forward as though nothing untoward had ever happened.