The Book of the Dead

  “Yes,” said Michael. “It’s on a notice-board in the shop. I’ll show you.” All three of them turned back towards the south transept.

  “Of course,” said Maltravers. “Any suggestion as to the motive would be a great help.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jackson. “But lacking any definite evidence, that’s a matter for speculation. In the meantime, we’ll have to follow the usual channels of inquiry.”

  Jackson collected the constable who was still standing guard at the transept door and told him to take the names from the guides’ rota list. A small, slightly globular man carrying a small case walked in and joined them.

  “Morning,” he said. “Higson. Fingerprints. Where?” Long sentences were clearly not his habit.

  “Just round that corner,” said Jackson, pointing. “Wooden case on the left. You can’t miss it.” Higson, without further expenditure of words, walked briskly on.

  “I would have thought that case would have been smothered in fingerprints,” said Maltravers helpfully. “People have a habit of poking at such things.”

  “Procedures,” Jackson said briefly. “We’ll need a statement from you as well, Canon Cowan. Perhaps you could come to the station later today?”

  “Well, yes, although I don’t know that I can…”

  “And of course the person who first discovered the theft,” Jackson interrupted. “Is she still here?”

  “No, she was rather upset by the incident and I sent her home.”

  “Well, we don’t need to trouble her immediately, but perhaps you could bring her down when you come later.”

  “Yes, of course,” agreed Michael, as legal authority overcame ecclesiastical dignity. “After lunch?”

  “Thank you, sir, that will be fine. Just ask to see me when you arrive. Mr Maltravers.” With a brief nod Jackson departed.

  “I must go and tell the Dean what has happened,” said Michael. “What did you want anyway?”

  “Nothing, I was just passing the time,” Maltravers replied. “Diana and Tess are due in about an hour and I’m going to collect them.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” The imminent arrival of expected guests seemed to take on the proportions of great misfortune for Michael with common larceny breaking out on hallowed ground. “I’ll see you all at lunch.”

  After he left, Maltravers walked back to where the taciturn Higson was performing the mysteries of his art on the empty display case and watched him thoughtfully. His instant reaction of feeling offended was still with him; while he quite regularly disputed accepted religious beliefs, he respected anything enriched by antiquity and found the traditions of the church in language, architecture, ceremony and behaviour, attractive. The Latimer Mercy had been printed in Henry VIII’s final infected years and corrected — if Jackson’s interesting theory was correct — before Spenser, Marlowe or Shakespeare were born, and possibly by the man whose ringing words of certainty as the flames ate his body five years later, were a clarion call of faith triumphant which Maltravers could not share but did respect. It belonged to no man because it belonged to all men and its removal dismayed him; putting aside all other considerations, it was a book and to Maltravers a book was a holy thing. But why, he reflected, had it been taken? He had an uneasy feeling that the motive was sinister.

  The same thought, but this time as only one among several possibilities, was going through the mind of David Jackson as he drove the short distance back to Vercaster’s main police station, his mind revolving about what had happened and what had to be done. Check with county headquarters to see if the theft fitted an established pattern of crimes; extend inquiries to other police forces for the same thing. But this was a very specific theft, probably with a customer waiting. All air and sea ports would have to be alerted and Customs told to watch for it. On balance, it was probably going out of the country so Interpol would need to be informed. It was an odd one. Petty theft and major bank robberies shared common factors of recognisable greed, following obvious patterns which made up nearly all of police work. Anything that would not fit the norm had its own unique reasons behind it, and there lay difficulties. Jackson’s great virtue as a detective was that he kept his mind open; the wealthy secret collector was one obvious theory but was there something else? Strange crimes, he reflected, were done by or for strange people for unknown and very personal motives. How strange and how personal was impossible to fathom and in such darkness anything might lie.

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