‘Probably during or just after dinner. The library was unlocked, and few people were about. When he discovered the cupboard had been broken into, Mr Archdale very properly sought me out. I’ve made a quick survey of the contents, and I believe only one volume is missing. A play by Marlowe.’
‘The Massacre at Paris?’
‘Exactly so. A strange choice – there are more valuable books.’
‘Or astute?’ Holdsworth suggested.
‘How so?’
‘It’s an unusually unblemished copy of the earliest-known edition of the play and it appears to be in its original binding. But nobody knows how many copies were printed, how many still are in existence, or where they are. So if the thief took care to remove any marks of ownership from it, it would be relatively easy to dispose of.’
‘Ah. I catch your drift. So this is perhaps a thief who knows his work?’
Holdsworth bowed. ‘Perhaps.’
‘And what might such a book fetch?’
‘That I cannot tell you. These things fetch what the market will bear. Marlowe is not much sought after these days but there are those who would be delighted to have a copy of it in their collection. If the thief is as clever as he seems to be, he would bide his time. He would look for a private gentleman perhaps, rather than a bookseller. The alternative is that he has stolen the book to order, as it were, and already has a purchaser waiting for it.’
Richardson glanced at Archdale, just out of earshot. ‘Mr Holdsworth, I have not told you the whole of it yet. There is another circumstance, and I scarcely know whether this makes it worse or better.’ He took something from his pocket and held it out on the palm of his hand. ‘When Mr Archdale found that the cupboard had been broken into, he also found this inside. I can swear that it was not there this morning – I had occasion to open the cupboard then. So we can only conclude that it belongs to the thief.’
In the palm of Richardson’s hand lay a small penknife with a bone handle. The knife was open. The dull metal of the blade was pitted and scarred. Constant sharpening had worn it down to a shadow of its original self. The metal shone brightly only along the edge.
‘You believe this was the instrument used to force the lock, sir?’
‘So it would seem. And both Mr Archdale and I have had occasion to see this particular knife before. It is quite distinctive in shape, you see, and there is a black smudge on the bone as if a red-hot poker had lain there briefly, or something of the sort. I’m afraid there can be no doubt of it. It belongs to Mr Soresby. I have seen him use it on countless occasions. He picks his teeth with it, pares his nails, even cuts his meat.’
‘Has Mr Soresby been seen in the library today?’
Richardson shrugged. ‘Why, as to that, he comes and goes so often that no one notices him most of the time. After all, he’s the library clerk.’
Archdale had edged closer. ‘Look here, sir,’ he said to Richardson. ‘This is devilish unpleasant. I can’t believe Soresby would be such a blockhead. And to leave his knife behind as well.’
‘We cannot be sure it was he,’ Richardson said, frowning. ‘Besides, who can trace the hidden springs of another human heart? When one hand commits a guilty act, the other hand may find a way to confess it. I am much obliged to you for bringing this to my attention, Mr Archdale, and I would not wish to keep you from your studies any longer. But may I ask you not to say anything of this to anyone until I have had an opportunity to interview Mr Soresby? There may be a perfectly innocent explanation.’
It was an unpleasant business, and Holdsworth was anxious to be gone as well. Taking a step towards the porter’s lodge, he said, ‘You have much on your mind, sir, and you will -’
‘No, pray stay, Mr Holdsworth,’ Richardson said. ‘May I trespass on your good nature and entreat a further favour? A matter as delicate as this needs such careful handling, such nice calculations. Your assistance would be invaluable. You see, on the evidence available to us, we have as it were prima facie good reason to suspect Mr Soresby is responsible for this theft. But the evidence falls far short of absolute proof. As both librarian and Mr Soresby’s own tutor, my duty is to call on Mr Soresby at once. It would be improper for me to see him without the presence of a witness, and you unite in your person the ideal qualifications for such a man. You are not a member of this college, but you have some knowledge of its workings and of the people involved. You are here on behalf of her ladyship, whose family have so many ties with Jerusalem. And you have a particular knowledge of our library and its contents.’
Richardson took Holdsworth’s arm and led him through the screens, the passageway that separated the lower end of the hall from the buttery and the kitchens, and into the open court beyond. Directly in front of them, beyond the railings, was Jerusalem Lane. On their right was the Master’s Lodge. In the north-east corner, at right angles to the Master’s Lodge and along the boundary of Jerusalem Lane, was Yarmouth Hall. Richardson led the way diagonally across the cobbled court to the building’s entrance, a heavy oak door adorned with fragments of cracked Perpendicular tracery and set between two buttresses.
‘It is a most inconvenient lodging for students,’ Richardson said, raising the latch. ‘It is very old and constantly in need of repair.’
He led the way into a dark hallway with a stone floor. Passageways led off to either side and a staircase wound up to the floors above.
The tutor held a handkerchief to his nose. ‘I fear the air is not as healthy as it might be,’ he mumbled. ‘This way, sir.’
He conducted Holdsworth up the stairs. Yarmouth Hall had been divided into three floors, each of which now contained half a dozen small chambers. Plaster was crumbling from the partition walls, exposing the lathes beneath. The floor was gritty with dirt.
‘At least there is this to be said for the place,’ Richardson said as they rounded the last bend of the staircase and climbed the final flight to the second floor. ‘The chambers are inexpensive, and these garrets are the cheapest of all.’
On the top floor, he knocked on the door at the far end of the corridor. Holdsworth heard footsteps within, and the rattle of a bolt. The door opened a few inches, and Soresby’s long, anxious face peered out at them.
‘Mr Soresby, good day to you. May we come in?’
The undergraduate stepped back automatically, his expression blank with surprise, and pushed the door wide. Stooping, Holdsworth followed Richardson into the little room. Richardson closed the door behind them.
The room was about ten feet long, running along the pitch of the roof, but no more than five or six feet wide. There was no fireplace. Soresby’s cap and gown hung on a nail beside the door. Because of the slope of the ceiling, it was possible to stand up only along the inner side. At the further end was an uncurtained and unmade bed; here, near the door, was a stained deal table, on which were a few books and, on a wooden platter, the end of a loaf and a few crumbs of cheese. Attached to the wall directly above was a small shelf holding a collection of a dozen books.
As they entered, Soresby retreated towards the bed. Holdsworth stopped when he was next to the window, a dormer that stood wide open. The window faced south, towards the college, but there was little to be seen except a blank wall, part of the Master’s Lodge next door. Holdsworth looked down. Unpleasant smells rose up to greet him. He was directly above the little yard where the privy and the wash-house were, and where the Carburys’ servants sometimes worked in the day. No one was about.
‘Mr Soresby, I regret to say we are not here on a pleasant errand,’ Richardson was saying.
The undergraduate, bewildered, looked from Richardson to Holdsworth. ‘I don’t understand, sir. Has there been an accident? Is my father -’