The old library held a particular attraction for him. Although not much of a reader, there was something about the smell of old volumes that resonated deeply with him: how the effluvia of leather and paper mingled in the air to create a subtle incense that seemed to distil the very essence of Gaulsford House itself. The books covered the library walls from floor to ceiling, with the upper tiers only accessible by an ancient and somewhat unsteady rolling ladder.
He spent hours perusing the shelves with their cargo of unread and mostly unreadable volumes: a full series of Migne’s Patrologia, multi-part expositions on turgid theological subjects by long-deceased Protestant divines and innumerable bound volumes of pamphlets on obscure 17th century political controversies which he guessed must date from Sir Samuel’s era. On the lower levels was to be found a selection of more practical reading materiaclass="underline" manuals of agriculture, animal husbandry and household management, plus some collected volumes of Punch, Country Life and Horse and Hound which, he supposed, would probably not have met with Sir Samuel’s approval quite so much.
As he made his way along the library shelves one evening, he heard a sudden loud report against the windowpane. Outlined against the glass was the dusty imprint of a bird strike, with the wings splayed wide like some impromptu visitation of the Holy Ghost. He rushed over and, reaching through the bars, raised the window and looked outside. Lying on the windowsill was a young barn owl, still stunned and confused from the impact. He gently picked up its quivering body and smoothed the ruffled feathers as the pathetic bird regarded him with cold unblinking eyes. Then, with a sudden spasm of flapping wings, it wrenched itself free from his grip and took off into the darkness. He yanked his hand back in pain and saw the bloody scratch where one of its talons had cut deeply into the flesh.
He patched himself up with some TCP and a plaster from the first aid box in the front desk and returned to his exploration of the library. In the upper ranks were some remarkable old volumes, with the most exquisite tooled and gilded bindings. Perched high on the rungs of the rolling ladder which wobbled and bowed alarmingly under his weight, he took down a fine example bound in blue morocco leather and decorated with gilded armorials. Even though it had been many years since Leventhorp had darkened the door of a church he recognised it immediately as a Book of Common Prayer. The title page confirmed his intuitions.
THE BOOK OF COMMON PRAYER & ADMINISTRATION OF THE SACRAMENTS AND OTHER RITES ACCORDING TO THE USE OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND
Printed by Anthony Cadman, at the Sign of the Oak, Boscobel, MDCLIII
He took it over to the reading desk and examined it under the light. The fly-leaf was inscribed in a fine flourishing hand:
Anne Sadleir. Her Booke.
Underneath this was written:
May God in his good time restore this land to its pristine happiness, the Vulgar People to their former obedience, and God bless and restore Charles the Second, & make him like his most glorious Father. Amen.
April 1653, Anne Sadleir, Brockstone Court.
But below, in a different hand, was scrawled.
Blasphemy! Treason! Papists to a man!
As Leventhorp flicked through the pages, the fragmented childhood memories of dull Sunday mornings at the interminable cathedral services at St Paul’s in Melbourne came flooding back: prayers to be used in storms at sea; earth to earth, ashes to ashes; not three eternals, but one eternal; a man may not marry his father’s mother. When he came to the readings for April 25th he saw that the page had been torn out as if in a fit of rage. In the shredded remnants of the margin were traces of annotation in the same intemperate hand as before.
Treason! Popery and witchcraft!
For an instant, he saw the scowling face of Sir Samuel Leventhorp swim before him. The date on the flyleaf was 1653, which fitted well with the likelihood that it was he who was the author of the accusatory marginalia. He read the inscription again, and he supposed that unless it was a gift (which seemed most unlikely) the book properly belonged to Lady Sadleir of Brockstone Court or her heirs.
The name Brockstone was vaguely familiar to him. On the wall of the library was a framed map of the Gaulsford Hundred, broken up, no doubt, from some dull compendium of county history from the 1800s. And sure enough, it showed that Brockstone was a stately home just a few miles further down the River Tent from Gaulsford. But who was Anne Sadleir? He lifted down a hefty volume of Burke’s Landed Gentry. Brockstone Court, it related, had been built in 1554, by one Sir Thomas Sadleir. His son Ralph Sadleir, known to many as the “Noble Mr Sadleir” from Walton’s Compleat Angler, had married Anne, the daughter of Sir Edward Coke a noted Jurist, in 1601. It seemed that Lady Sadleir had spent the majority of her life in quiet retreat at Brockstone and was a collector of obscure manuscripts including a curious illuminated Apocalypse later donated to Trinity College, Cambridge.
He looked again at the map; as the crow flies, Brockstone was barely three or four miles away. Perhaps he might pay a visit, use the book as an introduction, anything to combat the dreary isolation of his days at Gaulsford.
Behind the house stretched the vast and dark demesne of Gaulsford woods. According to the map, a path led through its gloomy recesses emerging after a couple of miles onto the banks of the river Tent, where it followed the meandering watercourse until it came to the gates of Brockstone Court. And so, on a fine autumn day, Leventhorp decided to walk the three miles or thereabouts to his neighbour’s estate, clutching the prayer-book, safely cocooned in a parcel of bubble-wrap and yesterday’s newspapers.
The walk through the woods took longer than he expected. Though it was indeed a public right of way, it was clearly one of the less frequented ones, and several times it dwindled to little more than a dirty rabbit track through the undergrowth. Eventually, he heard the gentle sounds of running water and the path emerged onto the bright and green banks of the upper reaches of the river Tent, where a much more pleasant stroll could be had through the fields and pastures of Hertfordshire. The path finally disgorged itself over a stile a few yards away from the grand Tudor gateway to Brockstone Court. Through the trees he could see the grey walls of a chapel and further beyond, the grand elevation of Brockstone Court itself.
Leventhorp called at the gate lodge, hoping to enquire if it were possible to talk to the current owners.
The building was unoccupied and seemed to be in use as a lumber-room for various agricultural implements; he heard the purr of a ride-on lawnmower not far away and flagged down its driver. The owners of Brockstone were, it seemed, absentee landlords just like the Leventhorps and the house and its demesne were run by an estate manager. The gardener rang through to the house and announced (to Leventhorp’s parvenu delight) that Sir Jonathan Leventhorp of Gaulsford requested an audience.