The Scroll by Anne Perry Page A

blinked and rubbed his eyes. How was it possible? What had he done wrong?
    He was still staring at it when he heard the shop’s bell ring. It startled him, although he thought the moment after that it was not extraordinary for a lover of rare books or prints to call after hours. Sometimes it was convenient for someone who could not leave their work during the day. Quite often it was the desire to examine in privacy whatever it was that interested them. But they made appointments. Was there someone coming whom he had forgotten?
    The bell rang again. He put the scroll back in the tin out of sight, then he went to the door and looked out through the glass. On the step was an old man, stooped, grey-haired, his face lined by time and from the look of him, perhaps also grief. Beside him was a child of perhaps eight years old. Her face was fair-skinned, blemishless, her hair soft and with the lamplight on it, its gold looked almost like a halo. She was staring straight back at Monty through the glass.
    He opened the door. “Good evening. May I help you?” he asked.
    The child gave him a shy smile and moved closer to the old man, presumably her grandfather.
    “Good evening, sir,” the old man replied. “My name is Judson Garrett. I am a collector of rare books and manuscripts. I believe you have just come into possession of the books from the Greville estate? Am I in the right place?”
    “Yes, indeed,” Monty answered. “But we’ve only just got it. It’s not catalogued yet and so we can’t put a price on it. The books are in very good condition. In fact, honestly, I’d say a good many of them haven’t even been read.”
    Garrett smiled and his dark eyes were full of sadness. “It is the case with too many books, I fear. Old leather, fine paper are all very well, but it is the words that matter. They are the wealth of the mind and the heart.”
    Monty stepped back, holding the door open. “Come in, and we can discuss the possibilities.”
    “Thank you,” Garrett accepted, stepping in, closely followed by the child.
    Monty closed the door behind them and led the way to Roger Williams’ office where matters of business were discussed. He turned the light on, making the bookshelves and the easy chairs leap to a warmth and inviting comfort.
    “Please sit down, Mr. Garrett. If you give me your particulars, I’ll pass them on to Mr. Williams, the owner, and as soon as we know exactly what we have, we can discuss prices.”
    The old man did not sit. He remained just inside the door, his face still cast in shadows, the little girl at his side, her hand holding his. There was a weariness in his face as if he had travelled too far and found no rest.
    “There is only one item I’m interested in,” he said quietly. “The rest does not concern me and you may do with it as you wish.”
    “Really?” Monty was surprised. He had seen nothing of more than slight worth. “What is the item?”
    The old man’s eyes seemed to look far away, as if he could see an infinite distance, into another realm, perhaps into a past beyond Monty’s imagination. “A scroll,” he replied. “Very old. It may be wrapped in some kind of protection. It is written in Aramaic.”
    Monty felt a chill run through him as if he had been physically touched by something ice-cold. The child was staring at him. She had clear, sky-blue eyes and she seemed hardly to blink.
    Monty’s first instinct was to deny having found the scroll, but he knew that the old man was already aware of it. It would be ridiculous to lie, perhaps even dangerous. He drew in a deep breath.
    “I don’t have the authority to sell the scroll, Mr. Garrett, but I will pass on your interest to Mr. Williams as soon as he comes back. If you leave a contact number or address with me, perhaps an email?”
    “I shall return, Mr. Danforth,” the old man replied. “Please do not consider selling it to anyone else before you give me an opportunity to bid.” His eyes on Monty’s were