Anne Perry - The Scroll

The Scroll

Anne Perry

A MysteriousPress.com

Open Road Integrated Media Ebook

The early winter evening was drawing in. In the antiquarian bookshop well away from the High Street in Cambridge, Monty Danforth sat in his room at the back, working on unpacking and cataloguing the books and papers from the last crate of the Greville Estate. Most of it was exactly what he would have expected: the entire works of Dickens and Thackeray, Walter Scott and Jane Austin, all in leather-bound editions; many of the Russian novelists, similarly bound; Gibbons Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Churchills History of the English Speaking People. There were also the usual reference books and encyclopaedias, and some rather more interesting and unusual memoirs and books on travel, especially around the Mediterranean. He did not think much of it would re-sell easily, and it would take rather a lot of space to store it.

The owner of the shop, Roger Williams, was not well and staying at his house further north east, towards the wide, flat fen country. He might decide to auction the whole shipment off in one job lot.

Monty peered into the bottom of the crate to make sure he had everything out of it. There was something rather like an old biscuit drum on one side. He reached in and picked it up. It was too heavy to be empty. He pried the lid off and looked inside. There was definitely something there, but it was hard to make it out.

He took it over to the light and flicked on the switch. A yellow glow filled the room, leaving the corners even more shadowed. There was what looked like an old scroll inside the tin. He teased it out gently and put it on the table right under the light bulb. He unrolled it an inch or two at a time, and stared. There was writing on it, patchy, faded, in several places illegible. He tried to make out words, but it was very definitely not English, even of the very oldest sort. The letters were more like the little he had seen of Hebrew.

He touched the texture of it experimentally with his finger tips. It was soft, smooth and had not the dry fragile feeling of paper, more like vellum. There were several blanks on it, and other places where the words were half-obscured by smudges, or erased altogether.

According to what he had been told, the Greville family had travelled extensively in the Middle East in the nineteenth century and early twentieth. They could have found this scroll anywhere: Egypt, Mesopotamia, Palestine, Jordan, or what was now Israel.

Just in case it really did have some value, he should photocopy it. That could be useful to get a translation, without sending the original.

He stood up and took it over to the machine. He pressed the switch and it came to life. Very carefully he unrolled the first half of the scroll and laid it on the glass, then closed the lid. He pressed it for one copy. The paper rolled out onto the tray.

He picked it up to check it for clarity. It was blank, apart from a couple of smudges.

That was silly. He tried again, with the same result. He checked the ink, the paper, the settings, and tried a third time. Still nothing.

He took the scroll out and tried it with an old letter from a customer.

Perfect, every detail beautifully clear. It was not the machine. Just as well that, as always, he had his mobile phone with him; the camera in it was really rather good. Digital, of course, and you could check immediately on the result, and print it off on the computer later, if you wished.

He took a photograph of a customers letter, then looked at it on the screen. It was perfect. Taking two books to hold down the ends and keep the scroll flat, he took the photograph. In the viewfinder it was perfect also, every line and smudge was there. He clicked the exposure once, twice, three times, taking the whole length. Then he looked at it. The first exposure was blank, so was the second, and the third. The vellum was clear, even to the shadows it cast on the table where the edges were torn or curled, but there was no writing on it whatsoever.

Monty blinked and rubbed his eyes. How was it possible? What had he done wrong?

He was still staring at it when he heard the shops bell ring. It startled him, although he thought the moment after that it was not extraordinary for a lover of rare books or prints to call after hours. Sometimes it was convenient for someone who could not leave their work during the day. Quite often it was the desire to examine in privacy whatever it was that interested them. But they made appointments. Was there someone coming whom he had forgotten?

The bell rang again. He put the scroll back in the tin out of sight, then he went to the door and looked out through the glass. On the step was an old man, stooped, grey-haired, his face lined by time and from the look of him, perhaps also grief. Beside him was a child of perhaps eight years old. Her face was fair-skinned, blemishless, her hair soft and with the lamplight on it, its gold looked almost like a halo. She was staring straight back at Monty through the glass.

He opened the door. Good evening. May I help you? he asked.

The child gave him a shy smile and moved closer to the old man, presumably her grandfather.

Good evening, sir, the old man replied. My name is Judson Garrett. I am a collector of rare books and manuscripts. I believe you have just come into possession of the books from the Greville estate? Am I in the right place?

Yes, indeed, Monty answered. But weve only just got it. Its not catalogued yet and so we cant put a price on it. The books are in very good condition. In fact, honestly, Id say a good many of them havent even been read.

Garrett smiled and his dark eyes were full of sadness. It is the case with too many books, I fear. Old leather, fine paper are all very well, but it is the words that matter. They are the wealth of the mind and the heart.

Monty stepped back, holding the door open. Come in, and we can discuss the possibilities.

Thank you, Garrett accepted, stepping in, closely followed by the child.

Monty closed the door behind them and led the way to Roger Williams office where matters of business were discussed. He turned the light on, making the bookshelves and the easy chairs leap to a warmth and inviting comfort.

Please sit down, Mr. Garrett. If you give me your particulars, Ill pass them on to Mr. Williams, the owner, and as soon as we know exactly what we have, we can discuss prices.

The old man did not sit. He remained just inside the door, his face still cast in shadows, the little girl at his side, her hand holding his. There was a weariness in his face as if he had travelled too far and found no rest.

There is only one item Im interested in, he said quietly. The rest does not concern me and you may do with it as you wish.

Really? Monty was surprised. He had seen nothing of more than slight worth. What is the item?

The old mans eyes seemed to look far away, as if he could see an infinite distance, into another realm, perhaps into a past beyond Montys imagination. A scroll, he replied. Very old. It may be wrapped in some kind of protection. It is written in Aramaic.

Monty felt a chill run through him as if he had been physically touched by something ice-cold. The child was staring at him. She had clear, sky-blue eyes and she seemed hardly to blink.

Montys first instinct was to deny having found the scroll, but he knew that the old man was already aware of it. It would be ridiculous to lie, perhaps even dangerous. He drew in a deep breath.

I dont have the authority to sell the scroll, Mr. Garrett, but I will pass on your interest to Mr. Williams as soon as he comes back. If you leave a contact number or address with me, perhaps an email?