buys books.’ Mark’s tone was incredulous.
‘You make the stuff on which they’re written,’ I pointed out. ‘Maybe that explains his interest. All the same, why should the fact that he can read mean that a man is in league with the Devil?’
Mark repeated, more or less, what Dame Joan had said to me the previous evening: ‘Who knows what’s in those books he keeps in the workshop? There’s a chest of them there, full to the brim.’
‘Then, if you’ll permit,’ I suggested, ‘my first task tomorrow morning will be to go through the lot of them and see what they contain.’
‘You can read?’ His surprise was hardly flattering.
‘I was taught by the monks, as you were. If you recall, I told you that at one time I was a novice here in the abbey.’
‘So you did.’ Mark began to settle himself for sleep. ‘I was right. You’re a very unusual chapman.’
‘Perhaps. But do you give me your permission to look at your brother’s books?’
He yawned, suddenly tired. ‘Yes! As you please! You have my blessing and a free hand to do whatever you think necessary. I must open up the shop again tomorrow so that the people of this town can see that everything is normal. Goodnight.’ And he yawned for a second time.
I tried to compose myself in order to snatch what few hours of the night were left to me, and had just succeeded in drifting across the borderline of sleep when Mark Gildersleeve once more shook me awake.
‘What now?’ I murmured irritably.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, ‘and it’s occurred to me that Peter’s attitude towards his books has changed in the past few months.’
I was puzzled, and suddenly fully alert. ‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, he used not to mind who took them out and read them – not that any of us did; Mother can’t read, and neither can Rob or John, and as I’ve said, I wasn’t interested – but he used to encourage all of us to look at the pictures if we wanted to. He even made the attempt once to teach Rob Undershaft his letters. Anyone who came into the shop was welcome to inspect his latest acquisition.’
‘But no longer?’ I prompted when he paused for breath.
‘No, not for some while. I remember that one day I saw him locking the chest, a thing I had never known him do before. When I questioned him as to the reason he flew into a rage and told me to mind my own business. And that was unlike him; Peter was usually a placid man. It took a lot to upset him.’
‘Has he been short-tempered about any other things?’ I asked.
‘Not that I can recollect. No, I’m sure he hasn’t. On the contrary, he’s been … happy … excited, I suppose, is the only way I can describe it. I thought that it was because of his approaching wedding, but he and Cicely have never been that fond of one another. The marriage was arranged years ago by Mother and my aunt Katherine, and I half expected Peter to repudiate the match when he grew older. He didn’t, however…’
Once again, I had to intrude on my companion’s reverie. ‘This excitement, then, that you thought you detected in your brother – it had nothing to do, in your opinion, with Mistress Cicely?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I came to realize after a while that it wasn’t that sort of anticipation. Peter was like … like a child hugging a secret,’ Mark added with a flash of inspiration. ‘Yes, that’s what it was. How stupid I’ve been not to see it before. He had a secret.’ And Mark sat bolt upright in bed, his fingers picking restlessly at the coverlet.
‘And it had to do with his books?’ I suggested.
He turned to peer at me through the darkness. ‘It must’ve done, don’t you think? Why else had he started to lock the chest in the workshop?’
‘You could be right,’ I agreed. ‘Now, lie down again and get some sleep, or neither of us will be good for anything tomorrow. I’ll look at those folios of his first thing in the morning, after breakfast.’
My
‘You make the stuff on which they’re written,’ I pointed out. ‘Maybe that explains his interest. All the same, why should the fact that he can read mean that a man is in league with the Devil?’
Mark repeated, more or less, what Dame Joan had said to me the previous evening: ‘Who knows what’s in those books he keeps in the workshop? There’s a chest of them there, full to the brim.’
‘Then, if you’ll permit,’ I suggested, ‘my first task tomorrow morning will be to go through the lot of them and see what they contain.’
‘You can read?’ His surprise was hardly flattering.
‘I was taught by the monks, as you were. If you recall, I told you that at one time I was a novice here in the abbey.’
‘So you did.’ Mark began to settle himself for sleep. ‘I was right. You’re a very unusual chapman.’
‘Perhaps. But do you give me your permission to look at your brother’s books?’
He yawned, suddenly tired. ‘Yes! As you please! You have my blessing and a free hand to do whatever you think necessary. I must open up the shop again tomorrow so that the people of this town can see that everything is normal. Goodnight.’ And he yawned for a second time.
I tried to compose myself in order to snatch what few hours of the night were left to me, and had just succeeded in drifting across the borderline of sleep when Mark Gildersleeve once more shook me awake.
‘What now?’ I murmured irritably.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said, ‘and it’s occurred to me that Peter’s attitude towards his books has changed in the past few months.’
I was puzzled, and suddenly fully alert. ‘How do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, he used not to mind who took them out and read them – not that any of us did; Mother can’t read, and neither can Rob or John, and as I’ve said, I wasn’t interested – but he used to encourage all of us to look at the pictures if we wanted to. He even made the attempt once to teach Rob Undershaft his letters. Anyone who came into the shop was welcome to inspect his latest acquisition.’
‘But no longer?’ I prompted when he paused for breath.
‘No, not for some while. I remember that one day I saw him locking the chest, a thing I had never known him do before. When I questioned him as to the reason he flew into a rage and told me to mind my own business. And that was unlike him; Peter was usually a placid man. It took a lot to upset him.’
‘Has he been short-tempered about any other things?’ I asked.
‘Not that I can recollect. No, I’m sure he hasn’t. On the contrary, he’s been … happy … excited, I suppose, is the only way I can describe it. I thought that it was because of his approaching wedding, but he and Cicely have never been that fond of one another. The marriage was arranged years ago by Mother and my aunt Katherine, and I half expected Peter to repudiate the match when he grew older. He didn’t, however…’
Once again, I had to intrude on my companion’s reverie. ‘This excitement, then, that you thought you detected in your brother – it had nothing to do, in your opinion, with Mistress Cicely?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I came to realize after a while that it wasn’t that sort of anticipation. Peter was like … like a child hugging a secret,’ Mark added with a flash of inspiration. ‘Yes, that’s what it was. How stupid I’ve been not to see it before. He had a secret.’ And Mark sat bolt upright in bed, his fingers picking restlessly at the coverlet.
‘And it had to do with his books?’ I suggested.
He turned to peer at me through the darkness. ‘It must’ve done, don’t you think? Why else had he started to lock the chest in the workshop?’
‘You could be right,’ I agreed. ‘Now, lie down again and get some sleep, or neither of us will be good for anything tomorrow. I’ll look at those folios of his first thing in the morning, after breakfast.’
My
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