The Tale of Castle Cottage (11 page)

And if you are in the neighborhood and invited to drop in at teatime with the expectation of something nice on your plate, I’m afraid that you will be disappointed, for all you will get is bread and butter, or perhaps only a plain biscuit, and no lemon or milk with your tea. Her ladyship is reputed to be the most parsimonious person in the parish, a reputation which she enjoys and cultivates. She is not poor, of course, but she likes to pretend that she is in order to keep people from asking her for money. It is said of her that she will not part with a shilling unless it is pried out of her cold, dead fingers, and those who know her can cite more than one instance of her attempts to cheat people out of what they are owed. And this is why she never entertains, you see. Entertaining costs money. (With such a grandmother, I think you can understand why Caroline has fled Tidmarsh Manor and refuses to return except for short visits.)

And this is why it is such a surprise to learn that, early in the previous week, Lady Longford entertained a guest. Or perhaps it is not accurate to say that she “entertained” him, because if we had gone up to the third floor of Tidmarsh Manor (where this visit took place) and peered through the open door, we would have seen her perched on the edge of a straight chair, tapping her foot impatiently and watching with suspicion as this person—a rotund, scholarly gentleman with a gold pince-nez and a pair of extraordinary mutton-chop whiskers—went about his work. Or perhaps it is not quite accurate to say that Mr. Darnwell (for this is the gentleman’s name) was a “guest,” for he had been invited to Tidmarsh Manor to perform a service for her ladyship, one from which both Mr. Darnwell and her ladyship hoped to profit.

There is an interesting story behind this rather unusual exercise. During his busy and active life, Lord Longford collected a great variety of
things
, obsessively and indiscriminately, most of them of no evident worth to anyone but his lordship. He collected fossils and animal bones, butterflies and moths (mounted on pins stuck into cardboard), stones and odd bits of polished wood, nails, pocket knives, string, paintings by unknown artists, carved walking sticks, and old books. Very, very old books.

Of all his collections, his lordship’s books had been his lordship’s passion. He kept them in a glass-fronted book cabinet in the main-floor library, where he could take out one or two every day, fondling them lovingly before he replaced them on the shelf. But when he died, Lady Longford (who could not by any stretch of the imagination be considered a lover of books) directed that the moldy old things be carted off to a dark, dusty box room at the far end of the third floor, where the servants’ sleeping quarters were located. There, Lord Longford’s collections were out of sight and out of mind, which was a good thing as far as her ladyship was concerned. She had no affection for fossils or butterflies or walking sticks or pocket knives, and the books were so old that she was sure they had little value. In fact, she had several times threatened to clean out the room and throw the worthless lot away, which she no doubt would have done if she hadn’t been so tightfisted.

It happened that Vicar Sackett, during one of his recent duty visits, had mentioned that he was rather fond of old books, and her ladyship had mentioned that the departed Lord Longford had been fond of old books as well, although she herself could see no merit in them. (But then she does not find any merit in new books, either, since her ladyship is the sort of person who does not care to have her mind broadened in any way.) When the vicar diffidently suggested that he would be delighted to have a look at Lord Longford’s collection, she had agreed. She had been thinking, in fact, that it was time to clean out that room. She ought to take one more look before she instructed Mr. Beever (the manor’s general handyman) to burn the lot.

So her ladyship led the vicar up the stairs to the dark, cluttered room, where he poked about amongst the shelves, muttering this and that and making enthusiastic little exclamations under his breath whilst her ladyship began to plan how best to get rid of everything. At last the vicar asked her, hopefully, whether Lord Longford had made a proper catalog of his books.

“I am sure that he must have had a list,” Lady Longford returned. She could say this with some confidence, since listmaking was another of his lordship’s obsessions.

“Well, then, perhaps you might look for it,” the vicar suggested deferentially. He took a book from the shelf, turned several of the pages, gave a covetous sigh, and added, “Of course, one never knows, but some of these books may have value. I fear that I am no judge, but I daresay I might be able to suggest a reliable person who could appraise the collection for you.”

Her ladyship (who was never inclined to take the vicar’s word for anything) scoffed at the notion that the old books might be valuable, although she decided to postpone telling Mr. Beever to toss the lot on a bonfire. And as it happened, the very next day, when she was looking for something else in one of her husband’s desk drawers, she came across a small notebook bound in black leather. On the first page, in Lord Longford’s spidery hand, was written “My Collection of Rare Books.”

Rare books? Well, now. This was news to her ladyship, who had always considered her husband’s books to be merely “old” books, on a par with his old fossils and old butterflies. If somebody considered them rare, however, they might be worth a few pounds. So she sent a note to the vicar, asking him to recommend a knowledgeable person who could give her an idea of the value of the books.

A day later, the vicar replied that he had contacted a certain Mr. Depford Darnwell, an antiquarian who owned a rare book shop on Rushmore Road in Ambleside, a town at the north end of Windermere. Mr. Darnwell would arrange to call at a convenient time to have a look at the collection. For this preliminary examination, no fee would be charged. If Lady Longford decided to put the books up for sale in his shop, however, he would require a certain percentage of the price they brought.

Since this arrangement allowed her ladyship to feel that she was getting something for nothing (at least at the present moment), she saw no reason not to permit it. And that was why the portly Mr. Darnwell, his pince-nez perched on his nose and his mutton-chop whiskers bristling with pleasure, was going carefully and methodically through Lord Longford’s collection, under Lady Longford’s watchful eye. In one hand, Mr. Darnwell held his lordship’s little black book. He was checking the list against the titles of the books on the shelves, making notes in his own little black book, and muttering under his breath, whilst her ladyship watched to be sure he didn’t slide anything into one of his capacious pockets. Vicar Sackett had said that the fellow was reputable, but one could never be too sure.

The work required the better part of four hours, but by teatime Mr. Darnwell was finished. He put his notebook into his pocket, took his pince-nez off his nose, and announced in a gruff voice that in his opinion (“My expert opinion,” he added severely), the books in the collection could, if offered at his shop, be expected to fetch around ten thousand pounds sterling.

“Perhaps more,” he said, “if an auction were to be announced and certain collectors of my acquaintance invited. Of course, then there would be the expense of an auction, so you might consider direct sale to be more . . . profitable.”

Ten thousand pounds! This figure quite took her ladyship’s breath away, and she stared at Mr. Darnwell for a moment, unable to speak. At last she managed to cough out a few words. “You are sure of the amount?”

“Indeed.” Mr. Darnwell inclined his head. “The amount would be much higher—in fact, I daresay it would be ten times as much, or more—if I had been able to locate one of the titles in your husband’s catalog. And if the item truly is what it purports to be, which of course one cannot be certain without actually seeing it.” Mr. Darnwell lowered his voice, becoming confidential. “I wonder . . . perhaps your ladyship is keeping the item elsewhere. In a safe, perhaps, or a bank vault.” He coughed. “If so, that is a good idea, for it is quite valuable. Quite.”

“Ten . . . times?” Lady Longford whispered. Ten times ten thousand pounds was . . . The calculation made her dizzy.

“Just so,” said Mr. Darnwell emphatically. He turned several pages in the black book. “Your husband has noted the disposal of several items in his collection by striking them through and detailing the name of the purchaser and the amount paid. There are no such notations for this particular item. I must therefore infer that it was in his possession at his death.” He smiled in a cold-fish sort of way. “I shall need to see it, of course, in order to determine whether it is what the catalog listing describes. So if you will be so kind as to get it for me, or tell me where I may go to examine it, I should be most grateful.”

For once in her life, Lady Longford found herself at a complete loss.

“I don’t think I—” Ten times ten thousand pounds. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. She swallowed. “What . . . What is the title?”

“It is called
The Book of the Revelation of John
. It is a book that—as it is described in your husband’s catalog—came from the library of Sir Robert Cotton. That is to say, Sir Robert collected it. It originally came from the monastery of Lindisfarne, by way of the Tower of London.” He smiled thinly. “The Lindisfarne books were held there for some time, after Henry the Eighth confiscated the lands and treasuries of the monasteries.”

Ah. The
Revelation
, revealed at last. I am sure that you have not forgotten the story that was related at the beginning of this book. In fact, you may have been wondering how all that business about the wandering monks and St. Cuthbert’s coffin and Bishop Eadfrith’s marvelous books was connected to our present story. Now, perhaps, you can see that it is.

But her ladyship is still in the dark, for she doesn’t know as much as you and I do about the history of the book in question—the
rare
book in question. She did know about the Tower of London, of course, and the name Mr. Darnwell had mentioned seemed vaguely familiar.

“Cotton, Robert Cotton,” she mused, trying to remember if she had ever met the gentleman. “The family is from Kendal, is it?” she hazarded.

Mr. Darnwell coughed dryly. “Sir Robert Cotton is dead, Lady Longford. He died in 1631.”

“Oh,” said her ladyship. “
That
Sir Robert. Yes, of course. Quite.”

To his credit, Mr. Darnwell did not laugh, although his mutton-chop whiskers were trembling with suppressed amusement. He cleared his throat and continued. “Sir Robert was an antiquary and without a doubt the most important collector of books England has ever seen. He lived during the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, King James, and King Charles the First. He sought out and acquired such remarkable treasures as
Beowulf
,
The Anglo-Saxon Chronicles
, and
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
, along with many other early works that would surely have been lost had he not rescued them from oblivion. His library has been held in the British Museum since 1753. It is one of the museum’s most valuable possessions.”

“Of course, of course,” her ladyship murmured, putting on a knowing air. She never liked to appear ignorant in any way. “I am to understand, then, that Lord Longford had a book from Sir Robert’s library?”

“Yes, if the catalog is correct—although, strictly speaking, the
Revelation
is not a ‘book,’ but a codex—that is, a bound manuscript of eight vellum pages. It was produced by Bishop Eadfrith on Lindisfarne Island in Northumbria in the late seventh or early eighth century. It is a companion work to the Lindisfarne Gospels, now owned by the British Museum.”

Mr. Darnwell put his pince-nez back on his nose and opened Lord Longford’s notebook. He held it for her, turned a page, and pointed to an entry in his lordship’s handwriting. “Here we have the title, you see:
The Book of the Revelation of John,
and the name of its creator, Eadfrith, bishop of Lindisfarne.” He shook his head and said, half under his breath, “I am truly astonished at this—in fact, I confess that I find it hard to credit. The
Revelation of John
has been considered lost since long before Sir Robert’s library was acquired by the museum. There was a fire in 1731, and many of the priceless items were destroyed. Or it is possible that it was stolen. No one knows.”

This made no sense at all to her ladyship, and for once her need to know outweighed her need to pretend that she already knew. “Then how can you be so sure that the book my husband possessed is the book that’s been lost?” she asked.

“I cannot be sure until I see it, of course. And even then, someone from the British Museum will have to make the confirmation, since the curators there are the acknowledged experts on the Cotton Library. But here is a bit of very strong evidence, in your husband’s own hand.” Mr. Darnwell pointed to the page again. “These letters.
Nero D.iv.
They are the code for the case and shelf where Sir Robert kept the book. It is the same case and shelf where he also kept the Lindisfarne Gospels
.
”

Lady Longford pulled in her breath. “The late seventh century?” she asked. Her voice felt scratchy. No wonder the thing was rare—and undoubtedly of great value. “I should think that the paper would be falling apart.”

Mr. Darnwell looked down his nose, severely, as if at a laggard student. “The pages of the codex are not paper. They are made of vellum—treated calfskin—and hence quite durable.” He closed the black notebook. “The Lindisfarne Gospels unfortunately lack the original cover, which would of course be priceless, but even so, the book itself is astonishingly wellpreserved.
The Book of the Revelation of John
was described by Sir Robert as incomplete, but it still had—at least at the time it was in his possession—the original cover.”

“Ah,” her ladyship said.

Mr. Darnwell lifted his head and gave her a searching look. “Do you know if your husband’s book still has its cover? It would be leather, bound with gold and ornamented with precious jewels. Not large. From the description of the book held in Mr. Cotton’s library, I believe it to be no more than ten by twelve inches. It is likely only about an inch or two in thickness, since the book is unfinished. There are only eight pages. Bishop Eadfrith died before he could complete his work.” Mr. Darnwell’s eyes glittered. “If your husband’s book still has its cover, Lady Longford, it could be . . . priceless.”