‘Nicholas Evelyn.’
‘You spoke to him a great deal?’
‘He was not a man with whom one could easily converse.’
‘Could you elaborate further, Mr Renfrew?’
‘I found him accommodating enough. Apparently he had worked in the library for over forty years. His knowledge of the collection was extensive. His conversation however, was very limited. He never went out of his way to enquire into the nature of my research, and seemed to prefer the sanctuary of his own desk, to sharing the fruits of my findings with me. In fact, I always had the impression that he rather resented me being there. He struck me as being rather possessive about the collection.’
‘Did he ever mention the Whisperie, in general conversation?’
‘No. I don’t believe he did.’
‘Can you think of any reason why he would have stolen the book?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘No. I cannot, Inspector — unless he was paid to do so.’
‘Oh, why do you say that, sir?’
‘People generally steal for one of two reasons: either to profit by the theft by selling their gains on to a third party, or because they want to keep the item for their exclusive use.’
‘And which of these two categories would Evelyn have fallen into?’ asked Ravenscroft.
‘Evelyn does not seem the kind of man who would fall into the first group, but I cannot see any reason why he would want to take the book for himself to enjoy alone. After all, he could see it every day of his working life. Have you considered the possibility that someone else took the book?’
‘We keep an open mind, sir,’ said Ravenscroft, becoming a little annoyed by his host’s methodical, well-thought-out, answers.
‘We must all do that, Inspector.’
‘You never mixed socially with Evelyn outside his work, perhaps visiting his lodging?’
‘Why would I need to do that, Inspector? But no, I never saw him outside his place of work. I did suggest to him once, however, that he might like to come up here and view my collection.’
‘And did he ever take you up on your offer?’
‘No. A great pity. I think he would have found the collection interesting. I never mentioned it again — after his lack of interest, that is.’
‘I have to tell you that Evelyn is dead. We recovered his body from the river yesterday,’ said Ravenscroft suddenly, hoping that such a disclosure might penetrate the other’s certainty.
‘I suppose that was always a probability,’ replied Renfrew, showing no emotion.
‘Why do you say that, sir?’
‘If the man had taken the book, then he might well have been acting for another — and that other person could have killed him.’
‘You would have made a fine detective, sir. There was no sign of the book upon his person.’
‘Then it is to be hoped that it is not lying at the bottom of the River Severn,’ smiled Renfrew.
‘Tell me, sir, how long have you lived in Worcester?’ asked Ravenscroft, changing the subject.
‘Three years.’
‘You live here alone?’
‘Except for my manservant, Georgio — he tends to all my needs — and my cook. I find that a French cook is one of life’s great essentials.’
‘And why did you choose Worcester?’
‘Because of the collection, at the cathedral, for my research,’ smiled Renfrew again.
‘Of course. Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. You have been most helpful. If anyone should approach you concerning the book, I would be obliged if you would contact me straight away,’ said Ravenscroft rising to his feet.
‘Certainly, Inspector. I am sorry I could not have been of more assistance to you. But I would be negligent in my duty as a host, if I did not show you some of my favourite treasures before you leave. I can see Inspector Ravenscroft that you are a man who appreciates fine art, if I am not mistaken.’
‘I have a few minutes-’ began Ravenscroft.
‘Excellent! Come over here, Inspector, and I will show you something which I am sure you will appreciate.’
Renfrew led the way across to one of the display cabinets. ‘This is an early known copy of The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, a work of such richness of characterization and humour. Written in Middle English,’ said Renfrew, pointing to a book lying inside the closed cabinet. ‘A work that was to have a profound influence on all works of fiction that were to follow on later.’
Ravenscroft nodded and looked down at the intricate writing.
‘Almost impossible to read, unless one has a knowledge of the language of the period. Next to it is a page from the Lindisfarne Gospels. The original work was thought to have been written around AD 700. This translation into English was made two hundred and fifty years later.’
‘Over nine hundred years old,’ remarked Ravenscroft.
‘Again, it is a work of such outstanding beauty and significance, laying the foundations for Christian writers for centuries to come. A work which is beyond value,’ enthused Renfrew.
‘And what is this work?’ asked Ravenscroft, indicating an open manuscript, lying within the case.
‘I thought your eye would be drawn to that sooner or later. That is part of the Worcester Antiphoner, a composite liturgical work dating from the late fourteenth century, handwritten by the monks here at Worcester, and based upon the Officer Antiphoner, Calendar, Psalter and Hymnal of the century before.’
‘A priceless work?’ enquired Ravenscroft, beginning to find the tone of his host somewhat condescending.
‘Of course, Inspector. You cannot put a value on such a unique manuscript as the Worcester Antiphoner. But I sense the workings of the police mind. You are saying to yourself — how has this man acquired such a work? Surely it should be part of the cathedral library? Did he pay Evelyn a large sum of money to lift the work for himself? Will this man stop at nothing to acquire priceless works of art?’ said Renfrew smiling and making light of the matter.
‘I must confess that such a thought did cross my mind.’
‘Then let me put your thoughts at rest, Inspector. The work was not taken from the library by Evelyn, and sold to myself for a large sum of money, although it is true that I had to sell a great many of my American stocks to pay for it. I acquired it in auction in New York, approximately five years ago, when I was still resident in America. I can produce the sale documentation and provenance should you so desire.’
‘That will not be necessary, sir. Perhaps I should be going,’ said Ravenscroft, tiring of the American’s literary treasures, and anxious now to leave.
‘Oh, Inspector, just one more item, which I prize above all other, and which you will surely appreciate,’ said Renfrew leading the way across towards another glass-case where two large volumes could be seen. ‘Tell me what you notice about this?’
Ravenscroft leaned forwards and looking down at the printed writing on the open volume, began to read the words there.
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me
‘Well done, Inspector. I see you have a feeling for the great bard. You are looking at the First Folio of Shakespeare’s works. The lines you have just read, are spoken by Cardinal Wolsey in the play, King Henry VIII, following his downfall and dismissal by the king. The piece begins with the words — “Farewell! A long farewell, to all my greatness!” — rather appropriate I think you would agree. Foolish indeed is the man of God who ventures into the world of politics and deception! But I see I have kept you for too long from your investigations. Please forgive my enthusiasm. Please feel free to return when you have more time. I will be more than delighted to show you some more of my children.’