He paused and noted their solemn nods.
"I am dying."
"No!" Jose protested, showing the concern a son might have for a father.
"Yes, it is true. I am quite sure that none of you are too shocked. You have only to look at me to know that I am gravely ill."
Paulinus reached out to touch his wrist and Magdalena wrung her hands.
"And Paulinus, will you not acknowledge that you have seen the name Josephus of Vectis entered in one of the books?"
Paulinus answered through parched lips, "I have."
"And you know my date certain?"
"I do."
"It is soon?"
"It is."
"It is not tomorrow, I trust," he jested.
"It is not."
"Excellent," he said, lightly tapping his fingertips together. "It is my duty to prepare for the future, not only for the abbey, but for Octavus and the Library. So here, tonight, I declare that I will send for the bishop and beseech him, upon my passing, to elevate Sister Magdalena to Abbess of Vectis and Brother Jose to prior. Brother Paulinus, dear friend, you will continue to serve them as you have done so faithfully for me."
Magdalena bowed her head deeply to hide the thin smile she could scarcely suppress. Paulinus and Jose were mute with grief.
"And I have one further declaration," Josephus continued. "Tonight we are forming a new order within Vectis, a secret and holy order for the protection and preservation of the Library. We four are the founding members, which will henceforth be known as the Order of the Names. Let us pray."
He led them in deep prayer, and when he was done they rose as one.
Josephus touched Magdalena on her bony shoulder. "When Vespers is complete, we will do what must be done. Will you do this willingly?"
The old woman hesitated and silently prayed to the Holy Mother. Josephus was waiting for her response. "I will," she said.
After Vespers, Josephus retired to his room to meditate. He knew what was transpiring but did not wish to witness the events personally. His resolve was strong but he remained at the core a kind, gentle soul with no stomach for this kind of business.
He knew that as he bowed his head in prayer, Magdalena and Jose were leading Mary from the Hospicium down the dark path to the Scriptorium. He knew she would be softly weeping. He knew the weeping would turn to loud sobbing when they pulled her by the hand down the stairs into the cellar. And he knew the sobs would turn to screams when Paulinus opened the door to Octavus's chamber and Jose bodily forced her through the threshold then latched the door behind her.
JANUARY 30, 1947
R eggie Saunders was having a roll in the hay, as he called it, with Laurel Barnes, the buxom wife of Wing Commander Julian Barnes, in the middle of the wing commander's four-poster bed. He was enjoying himself a great deal. It was a grand country house with a grand master bedroom, a nice little fire to take the chill off, and an appreciative Mrs. Barnes, who had grown accustomed to faring for herself during her husband's war hiatus.
Reggie was a florid, burly fellow with a manly beer belly. A childish smile and impossibly large shoulders were the one-two punch that matted all sorts of women, the present one included. Concealed by his impishness and gabby affability was a moral compass that was broken. The arrow pointed in one direction only, toward Reggie Saunders. He always felt the world owed him for his existence, and his successful navigation of the World War with eyes, limbs, and genitals intact was a sign to him that a grateful nation should continue to provide for his needs be they financial or sensual. Laws of the Crown and societal mores were approximate guide posts in his world, things to consider perhaps, then ignore.
His army war service started nasty and inconvenient as a staff sergeant in Montgomery's Eighth Army trying to dislodge Rommel from Tobruk. After too long in the desert, he wheedled a transfer in 1944 from North Africa to liberated France to a regiment tasked with recovering and cataloguing Nazi art loot.
His boss was the nicest gentleman he had ever met, a Cambridge don whose idea of commanding men was to ask them politely whether they might be able to help him with this or that. Incredibly, the army had gotten it right with Major Geoffrey Atwood, finding a job for the Professor of Archaeology and Antiquities that actually suited his skills rather than dangerously and ineffectively sticking him somewhere with a map, field glasses, and large guns.
Saunders's job mainly consisted of ordering a squad of lads to shift heavy wooden crates out of basements and transport them to other basements. He never shared a sense of moral outrage at the Germans' takings. He found their thievery quite understandable under the circumstances. In fact, under his watch a knickknack or two made it through his hands in exchange for a few quid, and why not? Postwar, he wandered from job to job, doing a bit of construction here and there, absconding when necessary from romantic entanglements. When Atwood rang to see if he'd be interested in a little adventure on the Isle of Wight, he was in between engagements and replied, "Blow in my ear, boss, and I'll follow you anywhere."
Now, Reggie was pounding away, pleasantly lost in a sea of pink flesh that smelled of talc and lavender. The lady of the house was making little cooing sounds that sent him drifting to the aviary at Kew Gardens where he was brought as a young boy for a bit of natural culture. He soon reeled his mind back to the moment. The vinegar stroke was coming, and a job worth doing was a job worth doing well, his granddad had always said. Then he heard something mechanical, a throaty rumble.
Years of night patrol in the Libyan and Moroccan deserts had trained his ears, a survival skill he was drawing on one more time.
"Don't stop, Reggie!" Mrs. Barnes moaned.
"Hang on a sec, petal. Ya hear that?"
"I don't hear anything."
"The motor." It wasn't a servant's car, not this one. He could tell it was a thoroughbred. "You sure hubby's not due?"
"I told you. He's in London." She grabbed his buttocks and tried to get him going again.
"Someone's coming, luv, and it's not the bloody postman."
He left the bed naked and parted the nearest curtains. A pair of headlights pierced the darkness.
Rolling up to the front, crunching the gravel drive, was a cherry Invicta, a rare beauty so distinctive, he recognized it as soon as the entryway lanterns hit it.
"Who d'ya know drives a red Invicta?" he asked.
He might as well have asked, Did you hear that Satan was at the front door?
She leapt out of bed, grabbing at her underthings, making high-pitched sounds of fear and alarm.
"That would be the wing commander's vehicle," Reggie said fatalistically, shrugging his big shoulders. "I'll be off now, luv. Ta-ta."
He hopped into his trousers and gathered his other clothes to his chest as he flew down the rear stairs into the kitchen. He was through the servants' back door just as the wing commander was entering the reception hall, merrily calling out to his wife, "Hi ho! Guess who's home a day early!"
Reggie finished dressing in the garden and started to shiver straightaway. While the previous week had been unseasonably warm, a mass of cold air from the north was hammering the thermometer. He had met up with the missus outside the pub and she had driven them to the house. Now he was stranded at least six miles from the camp and there was no flippin' way, he thought, he was going to hoof it.
He tiptoed around to the front. The 1930 Invicta was radiating heat. Its cabin was deep, like a bathtub with fluted red-leather seats. The keys were dangling in the ignition. His analytical process was uncomplicated: I'm cold, the automobile is warm, I'll just borrow it to nip down the road. He hopped in and turned the key. The 140-horsepower Lagonda engine roared to life, too loud. A second later he panicked. Where the hell was the gear lever? He moved his hands all over, feeling for it. The front door of the house flew open.