“The Church wants it,” he said aloud.
“Then sell it to them, at whatever price an impartial assessor considers to be fair,” Inglis replied, rising to his feet.
How could Monty explain the power the old man had exerted, the extraordinary emotions in his face that Monty could not ignore. Put into words it sounded absurd.
“I’ll get an assessment,” was all he could think of to say.
Ingles smiled. “Good. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
Monty did not get home until late, and the following day was taken up with matters of business at the shop. There was a great deal of paperwork to be attended to, access to bank accounts, dry but very necessary details.
In the evening Monty went to his favourite pub to have supper in familiar and happy surroundings. He had called Hank to join him, but Hank had not yet returned home and was not answering his mobile, so Monty was obliged to eat alone.
He had a supper that should have been delicious: freshly cooked cold pork pie with sharp, sweet little tomatoes, then homemade pickle with Caerphilly cheese on oatcakes, and a glass of cider. He barely tasted it.
The setting sun was laying a patina of gold over the river bank and the trees were barely moving in the faint breath of wind beyond the wide glass windows. Monty was looking towards the west when he saw the man walking across the grass towards him, up from the riverside path. He seemed to have the light behind him as if he had a halo, a sort of glow to his very being.
To Monty’s surprise the man came in through the door and across the room straight towards him, as if they knew each other. He stopped beside Monty’s table.
“May I join you, Mr. Danforth?” he said quietly. “We have much to talk about.” Without waiting for the reply, he pulled out the second chair and sat down. “I do not need anything to eat, thank you,” he went on, as if Monty had offered him something.
“I have nothing to talk about with you, sir,” Monty said a little irritably. “We are not acquainted. I have had a very long day. One of my close friends has just died tragically. I would prefer to finish my dinner alone, if you please.” He was aware of sounding rude, but he really did not care.
“Ah, yes,” the man said sadly. “The death of poor Mr. Williams. Yet another victim of the powers of darkness.”
“He was burned to death,” Monty said with sudden anger and a very real and biting pain at the thought. “Fire is hardly a weapon of darkness!”
The man was handsome, his face highbrowed, his eyes wide and blue, filled with intelligence. “I was speaking of the darkness of the mind, Mr. Danforth, not of the flesh. And fire has been one of its weapons since the beginning. We imagine it destroys evil, somehow cleanses. We have burned wise women and healers in the superstitious terror that they were witches. We have burned heretics because they dared to question our beliefs. We have burned books because the knowledge or the opinions in them frightened us and we did not wish them to spread. And pardon me for bringing it back to your mind, but you have seen the results of fire very recently. Did you find it cleansing?”
In spite of himself Monty’s mind was filled with the stench of burning and the sight of Roger’s charred and blackened body on what was left of the bed. It made him feel sick, as though the food he had just eaten were revolting.
“Who are you and what do you want?” he said harshly.
“I am a scholar,” the man replied. “I am someone who could add to the world’s knowledge, without judgment as to who should know what, and who should be permitted to conceal truth because they do not agree with it, or have decided that this person or that one could find it difficult or uncomfortable. I would force no one, but allow everyone.”
“What do you think is in it?” Monty asked curiously.
“A unique testimony from the time of Christ,” the scholar replied. “One that may verify our beliefs—or blow them all apart. It will be a new truth—or a very old one”
Monty already knew what he was going to say, but he asked anyhow.
“And why do you approach me at a time of grief and interrupt my supper?”
“Actually you have finished your supper,” the man indicated Monty’s empty plate with a smile on his finely sculpted face. “But I find it hard to believe that you do not already know why I have come. I wish to buy from you the scroll, at whatever price you believe to be fair. I would ask you to give it to the world, if I thought that would prevail upon you, but I know that you have some responsibility to the estate of which it is presently a part. And please do not tell me that it is not within your power. With Mr. Williams’ most unfortunate death, it is more than within it, it is your obligation.”
Monty felt the sweat break out on his brow in spite of the closing in of the evening, now that the sun had definitely faded.
“You are not the only person seeking to buy it,” he answered.
“Of course not,” the scholar agreed with amusement. “If I were, I would begin to doubt its authenticity. The Church, at the very least, will bid high for it. But surely money is not your only consideration? That would disappoint me very much, Mr. Danforth. I had thought far more highly of you than that.”
“I have not yet been able to get anyone in to verify what it is,” Monty prevaricated. “It is impossible to put a price on it.”
“When you have verified it, it will still be impossible,” the scholar responded. “But you are being disingenuous. I think you have at least an educated guess as to what you have. And I assure you it is what you believe it to be.”
“I have no beliefs as to what it is,” Monty insisted angrily.
The scholar’s face was filled with awe, his eyes almost luminous in the waning light. “It is the lost testament of Judas Iscariot,” he said so quietly his voice was barely audible. “We have known of its existence for centuries. It has been hunted by all manner of people, each with his own reasons either to hide it or to make it known.”
So it was true. Monty sat on the familiar river bank in the English twilight and thought of Jerusalem two thousand years ago, of betrayal and sacrifice, of blood, pain, ordinary human feet trudging in the dust on a journey into immortality. He thought of faith, and grief, and human love.
“Is it?” he asked.
“I think you know that, Monty,” the scholar answered. “It must be given to the world. Mankind has a right to know what is in it—a different story, or the one we all expect. And in simple morality, does not the accused have a right to testify?”
The thought whirled in Monty’s head, and he found no words on his tongue. The enormity of it was too great. Little wonder he could not photocopy it!
The scholar leaned across the table closer to him. “You would be a benefactor to justice, Monty,” he said, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. “An honest man, a true scholar who sought the truth above all emotional or financial interest, a man of unsoiled honesty.”
For a moment Monty was overwhelmed by temptation. He drew in his breath, and then he remembered the old man with his granddaughter, and the promise he had made him. Why did he want it? He was the only one who had given no reason. He remembered again the knowledge of time and pain in his eyes.
“I will consider it,” he said to the scholar in front of him. “If you leave me an address I will be in touch with you. Now please leave me to have another glass of cider and a piece of cake.”
Actually he did not bother with more cider, or the cake. He paid his bill and left. As soon as he was in his car he tried Hank again on his cell phone. This time Hank answered.
“I must see you immediately,” Monty said before even asking how Hank was or what he was doing. “Please come to the bookshop. I’ll wait for you.”