Evan Joyce, doubly blessed, was taking part in the decyphering of those first texts. Bossie would undoubtedly claim a look-in as often as possible, and his fair share of the credit.
‘Nobody knows what it’s going to add up to by the end, but they’ve already reclaimed bits of the abbey accounts from round about fourteen hundred, and what’s exciting them much more, some passages from what seems to be a thorough-going historical chronicle, as detailed as Matthew Paris or St Albans, and about the same time. More than one hand, the original chronicler probably had continuers later. One more independent window on the Middle Ages. The sort of thing that will end as a treasure of one of the main national libraries, and be consulted by scholars for ever after.’
‘Instead of going to some private collector for a big price,’ said Barbara, ‘probably abroad.’
Yes, it might well have been like that, whether Rainbow had succeeded in running it to earth, or Colin Barron had stolen it from the thief in his turn.
‘He admits to having been on the tower with your husband that night. I think his defence is going to be that the fall was accidental, but it won’t stand up. I think he tried to get cut into the deal, and when he got nowhere, was certain he was on to a fortune, and felt he had an opportunity too good to miss. Silence, and night, and no witnesses. I think by then he had a fair idea of what your husband was carrying. Something acquired at choir practice – you remember? – and something that sent him hunting in the tower among the papers in the chest there… He knew it when he found it on the body, and he could do enough with it to connect it with the abbey, but I suspect Bossie’s particular interest in that wall was what made him turn his attention there, after he’d volunteered to do the rounds, and had the place to himself. Or thought he had!’
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Barbara, grave in recollection, ‘how Arthur ever came to let himself be inveigled to the top of the tower. Colin followed him up to where the chests were, yes, but what brought them out on to the leads?’
‘I think by that time it had already gone beyond discussion, and come to menaces. And Barron was younger, bigger, and between him and the way down. There was only one way to go. And time gained is time gained. Someone might have walked in below, something might have happened to scare the threat away. But nothing did. Evan Joyce had repented of his own curiosity and gone home, thinking no evil. There was only Bossie, down in the churchyard. Five minutes more, and he’d have gone home, too, and there’d have been no witnesses and very little evidence.’
Barbara sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire, her hands pensively clasped in her lap, and one of the setters stretched out beside her with his head on her thigh. She was silent and thoughtful for some moments before she pronounced the considered epitaph of Arthur Rainbow.
‘He wasn’t a bad person. In a way I liked him, and when he made a bargain, written or not, he kept it. I don’t complain of him. But though I never wished him any harm, I can’t be sad. And the really sad thing is that I don’t suppose there’s a single other person who can, either.’
They both went out to the car with him. The autumn night smelled of timber, fir-needles, moist fallen leaves, and the faint hint of frost. The dogs roused when Willie roused, and padded attentively at heel. The fallow fawn came out of the trees like a silver wraith, slender and silent. No, Barbara could hardly be expected to be sad.
‘Let me know when the wedding date’s fixed,’ said George at parting.
‘Wedding?’ said Willie the Twig, as though confronted by a conception rather surprising and totally irrelevant, as indeed it probably was. But on second thoughts he appeared to be finding some merit in the idea, even if it was no more than a decorative flourish to something that already existed and was guaranteed in perpetuity. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I suppose we might get round to it in time.’
‘I rather fancy having Amanda attend me up the aisle,’ agreed Barbara. ‘And we could find a nice solo for Bossie among the hymns. That would probably be the day his voice broke, and he did a belly-flop from a high C into a terrifying baritone.’
‘That,’ said Willie the Twig, ‘would be just right for our wedding, and I should enjoy it. But it won’t happen. You should know by now, that kid always falls on his feet.’
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[scanned anonymously in a galaxy far far away]
[A Prooflist Release— v1, html, September 2002]
[A 3S Release— v2, html]
[August 07, 2007]