The Scroll Read Free

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