Kerry Tombs - The Worcester Whisperers

‘Please take a seat,’ said the American indicating one of two comfortable old leather armchairs which had been placed before the open fireplace. ‘I’m afraid you will have to take me as you find me.’

Ravenscroft nodded and seated himself.

‘I knew, of course, that it would only be a matter of time before you arrived,’ said Renfrew exhibiting a slow, methodical drawl.

‘Then you know, sir, that we are investigating the disappearance of both the librarian, and the Whisperie from the library of Worcester Cathedral. I believe you know the work, sir.’

‘I do indeed, Inspector; one of the finest books in the cathedral library.’

‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me more about the work.’

‘Written around the time of King John’s death in 1216, by an unidentified monk, and highly decorated with rich ornate initial lettering. A work of unique splendour, full of wonderful rumours and whispers concerning the death of the late king, hence its title — the Whisperie ,’ said Renfrew with enthusiasm, as he took the other seat.

‘What value would you place upon it?’ asked Ravenscroft.

‘My dear Inspector, some works are so unique that it is almost impossible to estimate their value.’

‘And the Whisperie would fall into that category?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘Would I be correct in assuming that it would only be a collector, such as yourself, who would be interested in purchasing such a work, should it ever be offered on the open market?’

‘Undoubtedly. No self-respecting museum would wish to be implicated in the theft of such an item — but if you are suggesting that I might be tempted to purchase the work should it be offered to me by the thief, then my answer would be no. I would have no desire to tarnish my reputation.’

‘But other collectors, perhaps, would be less circumspect?’

Renfrew said nothing, but merely shrugged his shoulders.

‘I understand that you were in the habit of visiting the cathedral library. Why was that, sir?’

‘There are many fine medieval works in the collection, and as a scholar as well as a collector, I often had recourse to consult several of the items there. It is my ambition eventually to publish the definitive work on English early medieval church documents.’

‘I see,’ replied Ravenscroft. Clearly Renfrew was out to impress him with his learning. ‘You no doubt consulted the Whisperie. ’

‘Of course; many times in fact. As I said before, Inspector, the work is unique. It will feature highly in my book.’

‘No one has approached you yet, sir, offering the book for sale?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘And if such an offer were to be made?’

‘I would purchase the book, inform yourself of the identification of the culprit, and then return it to its rightful place in the cathedral.’

Ravenscroft was beginning to find Renfrew’s smile and casual manner somewhat disconcerting. ‘Tell me about the librarian?’ he asked.

‘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.’