The Scroll (2 page)

Or was it simply somebody’s laundry list which had chanced to survive, principally because nobody cared enough to steal it?

Monty’s imagination created pictures in his mind, men in long robes, sandals, dusty roads, whispers in the dark, blood and pain.

The light flickered and the shadows in the corners of the room moved, wavering and then righting themselves again. He half-expected someone to materialize out of the air, the darkness to come together, intensify and take form. Who could it be? Mephistopheles—to tempt an all too fragile Faust? With what? Forbidden knowledge?

“Don’t be so damn silly!” he said aloud. “It’s a power brown out! All you need to do is make sure your computer’s backed up!” He had always had a weird imagination, a sensitivity to the presence of evil. He told the most excellent ghost stories to the great entertainment of his friends. He was known for it, even loved. People liked to be given a frisson of fear, just enough to get the adrenalin going.

His best friend, Hank Savage, a pragmatic scientist, teased him about it, although even he conceded that evil was real, just not supernatural. No angels, no devils, just human beings, some with rather too much excitability and a tendency to blame others for their own faults. Who easier to blame than the devil?

Monty picked up the scroll and rolled it tight, the vellum soft under his fingertips. Perhaps it was not all that old after all. It certainly wasn’t dried up or likely to crack. He put it back in the tin, and then placed the whole thing in the safe, just as a precaution.

It was time he went home and had some supper, and a nice, prosaic cup of tea, or two, strong and with sugar.

The following morning was Saturday and his presence was not necessary at the bookshop. The rest of the Greville estate could wait until Monday. Monty really needed to see Hank Savage and ask his opinion. It would be perfectly sane and logical. There would be no emotional silliness in it, no heightened imagination.

He found Hank pottering in his studio at the back of his lodgings. It was a large attic room with excellent light where Hank enjoyed his hobby of cleaning up and framing old drawings and prints which he bought, often as job lots at auctions. He made a certain amount of money at it, which he gave away. His purpose was the relaxation he gained, and the triumph now and then of finding something really lovely.

He put down the blade with which he was cutting matt for a drawing and regarding Monty with wry affection.

“You look like hell, Monty. What’s happened?” he asked cheerfully. Clearly Monty looked worse than his restless night justified.

“Came across an old scroll,” Monty answered, sitting sideways on the edge of a pair of steps piled with papers. Hank was a scientist and his mind was exquisitely ordered. His rooms were correspondingly chaotic.

“How old?” Hank was irritatingly literal. He was tall, rather too thin, with dark hair and mild blue eyes. Monty had brown eyes, and to put it in his own words, not tall enough for his weight.

“I don’t know. It’s in Aramaic, I think, and I can’t read it.” Monty was highly satisfied with the sharp interest in Hank’s face. “It’s on vellum,” he added for good measure. “I found it in a biscuit tube at the bottom of the last crate of books from the Greville estate.”

“What is it listed as?” Hank asked, abandoning the framing altogether and giving Monty his entire attention.

“It isn’t listed at all. I tried to photocopy it. Nothing came out.”

“Maybe your printer’s broken? I don’t suppose it would be a very good idea to take it anywhere else, if it really is as old as you think. Photograph it, until you get someone in to fix the copier,” Hank replied.

“I tried to photograph it. It didn’t come out.” Monty remembered the strange chill he had felt at the time. “And before you suggest it, there’s nothing wrong with my camera. Or with the copier either, actually. They both work fine on anything else.”

Hank frowned. “So what’s your explanation? Other than gremlins.”

“I don’t have one. But within half an hour or so of my finding the thing, the oddest old man turned up, with his granddaughter aged about eight, and offered to buy it.”

“How much?” Hank asked dubiously. “You didn’t sell it, I trust?”

“No, of course I didn’t!” Monty said tartly. “I hid it before I even let them in. But you didn’t ask the obvious question!”

“Who was he?”

“No! How did he know what it was and that I had it?” Monty said with satisfaction. “I didn’t tell anyone and I certainly didn’t show anyone.”

“Didn’t Roger know?” Hank was now both puzzled and very curious.

“Roger wasn’t there. He’s away sick. Has been for several days.”

“Well what did this old man say?”

“His name is Judson Garrett, and he wouldn’t leave any address or contact. He just said not to sell it to anyone else, and that it could be very dangerous.”

Hank’s eyebrows rose. “A threat?”

“Actually it sounded rather more like a warning,” Monty admitted, remembering the old man’s face and the power of darkness and pain in it.

“Did he say why he wanted it?” Hank was still turning it over in his mind.

“No. But he said others would come after it, but he didn’t give any idea who they would be.”

“Did you look at this scroll, Monty?”

“Of course I did!” He took a breath. “Do you want to see it?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind, I really do.” There was no hesitation in Hank’s voice, no fear, none of the apprehension that Monty felt. There were times when Hank’s total sanity irritated him intensely, but now it was comforting, even a kind of safety from the shadows in his own mind.

At the bookshop Monty opened the safe and took out the biscuit drum. The scroll was exactly as he had placed it. It felt the same to the touch as he pulled it out, dry and slightly warm. He unrolled it on the table for Hank to examine.

Hank looked at it for a long time before finally speaking.

“I think it’s Aramaic, alright, and from the few words I can recognize here and there, it seems to be during the Roman occupation of Jerusalem. It could be the time of Christ. I see quite a lot of first person grammar, so it might be someone’s own account of what they did, or saw … a kind of diary. But I don’t know enough to be certain. You need an expert on this, Monty, not only to translate it but to date it and authenticate it. But before you do any of that, you must call Roger and tell him what you have. Have you tried again to get a copy?”

“No. Use your phone if you like,” Monty suggested. “See if it’s any better. You’re pretty good technically.”

Hank gave him a quick glance, sensing the difference between ‘technically’ and ‘artistically’. But he did not argue. He took his cell phone out of his pocket, adjusted the settings, looked through the view finder and took three separate photographs. He went back to the first one to look at it, frowned, turned to the second, then the third. He looked up at Monty.

Monty felt the chill creep over his skin.

“Nothing,” Hank said quietly. “Blank.”

“I’ll call Roger,” Monty grasped for the only useful thing he could do. He picked up the telephone and dialled Roger Williams’ number. He let it ring fifteen times. There was no answer.

He tried again the following day, and again Roger did not pick up. Monty was busy cataloguing the rest of the books from the Greville estate when he became aware of someone standing in the doorway watching him. He was round-faced, broad-browed and smiling benignly, but there was a gravity in his dark eyes, and a very definite knowledge of his own importance in his posture. He was dressed in a clergyman’s cassock and he had a purple vestment below his high, white collar.

Monty scrambled to his feet. “I’m sorry, sir,” he apologized awkwardly. “I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you?”

The man smiled even more widely. “I’m sure you can, Mr. Danforth.”

Monty felt a sudden stab of alarm like a prickle on his skin, a warning of danger. This prince of the church knew his name, just as the old man of the previous evening had done. He had not questioned it at the time, but he did now. It was Roger’s name on the door and on the company letterhead. Monty’s name appeared nowhere. And why had they not assumed he was Roger? Wouldn’t that be the natural thing to do?

“You have me at a disadvantage, Your Grace,” he said rather crisply. “I am quite sure I would remember if we had met.”

The man smiled again. “I’m sure you would. And yet you greeted me correctly, and with courtesy. There is no need as yet for us to go beyond that. I imagine you also know why I am here. You are not only knowledgeable on books of all types, Mr. Danforth, and an intelligent man, you are also, I believe, unusually sensitive to the power of evil, and also of good.”

Monty was flattered, and then frightened. He was an excellent raconteur and could tell ghost stories which held his audience of friends spellbound … for an evening’s entertainment and fellowship. That was hardly something to spread beyond his own circle, which did not include bishops of any faith, Catholic or Protestant. His friends were largely academics like Hank, or else students and artists of one sort or another.

The bishop continued to smile. “You have in your possession at the moment a very unusual piece of ancient manuscript,” he continued. “It is part of an estate, and you will in due course offer it for sale, along with the rest of the books, which are insignificant in comparison. No doubt they are in good condition, but editions of them can be obtained in any decent bookshop. The scroll is unique. But then you know that already.” His eyes never moved from Monty’s face.

Monty was colder, as if someone had opened a door onto the night. Any idea of denying his knowledge melted away. He had to swallow a couple of times before he could speak, and even then his voice sounded a little high-pitched.

“Something as unusual as the scroll will have to wait for Mr. Williams.” It sounded like an excuse, even though it was perfectly true. “I imagine you would like it verified as well. It looks old, but no expert has examined it yet, so I have no idea of price. Actually, we don’t even know what it is.”

The bishop’s smile did not waver, but his eyes were sharp and cold. “It is an ancient and very evil document, Mr. Danforth. If it were to pass into the wrong hands and become known to others the damage it could do would be measureless. I assure you, whatever price an expert might put on it, should you take the path of demanding that price, the Church will meet it. We would hope, as a man of principle and goodwill, you would settle for its value in the market place for scrolls of its date and origin.”

Monty’s hands were stiff, his arms covered in goosebumps. The bishop’s figure seemed to float in the air, to become darker, and then lighter, the edges to blur. This was ridiculous! He blinked and shook his head, then looked again, and everything was normal. An elderly bishop, perfectly solid and human, was standing near the door, still smiling at him, still watching him.

Monty gulped. “The price doesn’t lie within my control, Your Grace, but I imagine Mr. Williams will be fair. I have never known him not to be otherwise.”

“Do not put it up for auction, Mr. Danforth,” the bishop said gravely, the pleasantness disappeared from his expression as completely as a cloud passing across the sun robbed the land beneath of light. “It would be a very dangerous mistake, the extent of which I think might well be beyond your imagination, fertile as that is.”

“I shall pass on your message to Mr. Williams,” Monty promised, but his voice lacked the firmness he wished.

“Something suggests to me, Mr. Danforth, that I am not the only person to approach you on this subject,” the bishop observed. “I urge you, with all the power at my disposal, not to sell this scroll elsewhere, no matter what inducement might be offered you to do so.”

Now Monty was annoyed. “You say ‘inducement’ Your Grace, as if I had been offered bribes. That is not so, and I do not care for your implication. That might be the case with people you usually deal with, but it is not so with this bookshop. Bribery does not work, and neither do threats.” The moment the words were out of his mouth fear seized him so tightly he found himself shaking.

“Not threats, Mr. Danforth,” the bishop said in barely more than a whisper. “A warning. You are dealing with powers so ancient you cannot conceive their beginning, and in your most hideous nightmare you cannot think of their end. You are not a fool. Do not, in your ignorance and hubris, behave like one.” Then without adding any more, or explaining himself, he turned and went out of the door. His feet made no sound whatever on the floorboards beyond, nor did the street door click shut behind him.

Monty did not move; in fact, he could not. His imagination soared over one thing after another and he seemed at once hot and cold. Clearly in the bishop’s mind the scroll had an even more immense power than Monty had already seen in his own inability to copy it by any mechanical means. Who had written it and when? Was it ancient, or a more modern hoax? Obviously it held some terrible secret, almost certainly to do with the Church. To do with greed? The Catholic Church at least had treasures beyond imagining. Or was it personal sin, or mass abuse of the type only too well known already, but involving someone of extraordinary importance? Bribery, violence, even murder? Or some challenge to a doctrine people dared not argue or question?

The possibilities raged through his mind and every one of them was frightening.