Chapter 3

In the conversation that followed (there was not much of it), nothing
was added to the statement of the case. Having parted on good terms
with Mr Avery and his daughter, Mr Davidson addressed himself to his
eight-mile walk. The little valley of Brockstone soon led him down into
the broader one of the Tent, and on to Stanford St Thomas, where he
found refreshment.

We need not accompany him all the way to Longbridge. But as he
was changing his socks before dinner, he suddenly paused and said
half-aloud, “By Jove, that is a rum thing!” It had not occurred to him
before how strange it was that any edition of the Prayer-Book should
have been issued in 1653, seven years before the Restoration, five
years before Cromwell’s death, and when the use of the book, let alone
the printing of it, was penal. He must have been a bold man who put his
name and a date on that title-page. Only, Mr Davidson reflected, it
probably was not his name at all, for the ways of printers in difficult
times were devious.

As he was in the front hall of the Swan that evening, making some
investigations about trains, a small motor stopped in front of the
door, and out of it came a small man in a fur coat, who stood on the
steps and gave directions in a rather yapping foreign accent to his
chauffeur. When he came into the hotel, he was seen to be black-haired
and pale-faced, with a little pointed beard, and gold _pince-nez_;
altogether, very neatly turned out.

He went to his room, and Mr Davidson saw no more of him till
dinner-time. As they were the only two dining that night, it was not
difficult for the newcomer to find an excuse for falling into talk; he
was evidently wishing to make out what brought Mr Davidson into that
neighbourhood at that season.

“Can you tell me how far it is from here to Arlingworth?” was one of
his early questions; and it was one which threw some light on his
own plans; for Mr Davidson recollected having seen at the station an
advertisement of a sale at Arlingworth Hall, comprising old furniture,
pictures, and books. This, then, was a London dealer.

“No,” he said, “I’ve never been there. I believe it lies out by
Kingsbourne--it can’t be less than twelve miles. I see there’s a sale
there shortly.”

The other looked at him inquisitively, and he laughed. “No,” he said,
as if answering a question, “you needn’t be afraid of my competing; I’m
leaving this place to-morrow.”

This cleared the air, and the dealer, whose name was Homberger,
admitted that he was interested in books, and thought there might be
in these old country-house libraries something to repay a journey.
“For,” said he, “we English have always this marvellous talent for
accumulating rarities in the most unexpected places, ain’t it?”

And in the course of the evening he was most interesting on the subject
of finds made by himself and others. “I shall take the occasion after
this sale to look round the district a bit; perhaps you could inform me
of some likely spots, Mr Davidson?”

But Mr Davidson, though he had seen some very tempting locked-up
book-cases at Brockstone Court, kept his counsel. He did not really
like Mr Homberger.

Next day, as he sat in the train, a little ray of light came to
illuminate one of yesterday’s puzzles. He happened to take out an
almanac-diary that he had bought for the new year, and it occurred to
him to look at the remarkable events for April 25. There it was: “St
Mark. Oliver Cromwell born, 1599.”

That, coupled with the painted ceiling, seemed to explain a good
deal. The figure of old Lady Sadleir became more substantial to his
imagination, as of one in whom love for Church and King had gradually
given place to intense hate of the power that had silenced the one and
slaughtered the other. What curious evil service was that which she and
a few like her had been wont to celebrate year by year in that remote
valley? And how in the world had she managed to elude authority? And
again, did not this persistent opening of the books agree oddly with
the other traits of her portrait known to him? It would be interesting
for anyone who chanced to be near Brockstone on the twenty-fifth
of April to look in at the Chapel and see if anything exceptional
happened. When he came to think of it, there seemed to be no reason
why he should not be that person himself; he, and if possible, some
congenial friend. He resolved that so it should be.

Knowing that he knew really nothing about the printing of Prayer-Books,
he realized that he must make it his business to get the best light
on the matter without divulging his reasons. I may say at once that
his search was entirely fruitless. One writer of the early part of the
nineteenth century, a writer of rather windy and rhapsodical chat about
books, professed to have heard of a special anti-Cromwellian issue of
the Prayer-Book in the very midst of the Commonwealth period. But he
did not claim to have seen a copy, and no one had believed him. Looking
into this matter, Mr Davidson found that the statement was based on
letters from a correspondent who had lived near Longbridge; so he was
inclined to think that the Brockstone Prayer-Books were at the bottom
of it, and had excited a momentary interest.

Months went on, and St Mark’s Day came near. Nothing interfered with Mr
Davidson’s plans of visiting Brockstone, or with those of the friend
whom he had persuaded to go with him, and to whom alone he had confided
the puzzle. The same 9.45 train which had taken him in January took
them now to Kingsbourne; the same field-path led them to Brockstone.
But to-day they stopped more than once to pick a cowslip; the distant
woods and ploughed uplands were of another colour, and in the copse
there was, as Mrs Porter said, “a regular charm of birds; why you
couldn’t hardly collect your mind sometimes with it.”

She recognized Mr Davidson at once, and was very ready to do the
honours of the Chapel. The new visitor, Mr Witham, was as much struck
by the completeness of it as Mr Davidson had been. “There can’t be
such another in England,” he said.

“Books open again, Mrs Porter?” said Davidson, as they walked up to the
chancel.

“Dear, yes, I expect so, sir,” said Mrs Porter, as she drew off the
cloths. “Well, there!” she exclaimed the next moment, “if they ain’t
shut! That’s the first time ever I’ve found ’em so. But it’s not for
want of care on my part, I do assure you, gentlemen, if they wasn’t,
for I felt the cloths the last thing before I shut up last week, when
the gentleman had done photografting the heast winder, and every one
was shut, and where there was ribbons left, I tied ’em. Now I think
of it, I don’t remember ever to ’ave done that before, and per’aps,
whoever it is, it just made the difference to ’em. Well, it only shows,
don’t it? If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.”

Meanwhile the two men had been examining the books, and now Davidson
spoke.

“I’m sorry to say I’m afraid there’s something wrong here, Mrs Porter.
These are not the same books.”

It would make too long a business to detail all Mrs Porter’s outcries,
and the questionings that followed. The upshot was this. Early in
January the gentleman had come to see over the Chapel, and thought a
great deal of it, and said he must come back in the spring weather
and take some photografts. And only a week ago he had drove up in his
motoring car, and a very ’eavy box with the slides in it, and she had
locked him in because he said something about a long explosion, and she
was afraid of some damage happening; and he says, no, not explosion,
but it appeared the lantern what they take the slides with worked very
slow; and so he was in there the best part of an hour and she come and
let him out, and he drove off with his box and all and gave her his
visiting-card, and oh, dear, dear, to think of such a thing! he must
have changed the books and took the old ones away with him in his box.

“What sort of man was he?”

“Oh, dear, he was a small-made gentleman, if you can call him so after
the way he’ve behaved, with black hair, that is if it was hair, and
gold eye-glasses, if they was gold; reely, one don’t know what to
believe. Sometimes I doubt he weren’t a reel Englishman at all, and yet
he seemed to know the language, and had the name on his visiting-card
like anybody else might.”

“Just so; might we see the card? Yes; T. W. Henderson, and an address
somewhere near Bristol. Well, Mrs Porter, it’s quite plain this
Mr Henderson, as he calls himself, has walked off with your eight
Prayer-Books and put eight others about the same size in place of them.
Now listen to me. I suppose you must tell your husband about this, but
neither you nor he must say one word about it to anyone else. If you’ll
give me the address of the agent,--Mr Clark, isn’t it?--I will write to
him and tell him exactly what has happened, and that it really is no
fault of yours. But, you understand, we must keep it very quiet; and
why? Because this man who has stolen the books will of course try to
sell them one at a time--for I may tell you they are worth a good deal
of money--and the only way we can bring it home to him is by keeping a
sharp lookout and saying nothing.”

By dint of repeating the same advice in various forms, they succeeded
in impressing Mrs Porter with the real need for silence, and were
forced to make a concession only in the case of Mr Avery, who was
expected on a visit shortly. “But you may be safe with father, sir,”
said Mrs Porter. “Father ain’t a talkin’ man.”

It was not quite Mr Davidson’s experience of him; still, there were no
neighbours at Brockstone, and even Mr Avery must be aware that gossip
with anybody on such a subject would be likely to end in the Porters’
having to look out for another situation.

A last question was whether Mr Henderson, so-called, had anyone with
him.

“No, sir, not when he come he hadn’t; he was working his own motoring
car himself, and what luggage he had, let me see: there was his
lantern and this box of slides inside the carriage, which I helped him
into the Chapel and out of it myself with it, if only I’d knowed! And
as he drove away under the big yew tree by the monument, I see the long
white bundle laying on the top of the coach, what I didn’t notice when
he drove up. But he set in front, sir, and only the boxes inside behind
him. And do you reely think, sir, as his name weren’t Henderson at all?
Oh, dear me, what a dreadful thing! Why, fancy what trouble it might
bring to a innocent person that might never have set foot in the place
but for that!”

They left Mrs Porter in tears. On the way home there was much
discussion as to the best means of keeping watch upon possible sales.
What Henderson-Homberger (for there could be no real doubt of the
identity) had done was, obviously, to bring down the requisite number
of folio Prayer-Books--disused copies from college chapels and the
like, bought ostensibly for the sake of the bindings, which were
superficially like enough to the old ones--and to substitute them at
his leisure for the genuine articles. A week had now passed without
any public notice being taken of the theft. He would take a little
time himself to find out about the rarity of the books, and would
ultimately, no doubt, “place” them cautiously. Between them, Davidson
and Witham were in a position to know a good deal of what was passing
in the book-world, and they could map out the ground pretty completely.
A weak point with them at the moment was that neither of them knew
under what other name or names Henderson-Homberger carried on business.
But there are ways of solving these problems.

And yet all this planning proved unnecessary.