“I am not a lout. What I mean is, his approach to a problem differs from ours. We are free spirits, we think differently.”
Jim swallowed ale. “I know exactly what you mean. It’s always been like that for me. I could never be one of the gang. When everyone else was being a mod, I was being a beatnik.”
“I was a mod,” said John. “I had a Vespa. Now that was a fanny-magnet.”
Pooley thought Sandra and said, “Well, we’re certainly not part of the herd, whatever we are.”
“We are individuals, Jim, and you are a character, sir.”
“So does this mean that we can find the scrolls in a couple of days, when it’s taken the Professor God knows how long not to find them at all?”
“It means that if we set about the task and do it our way, we’ll succeed.”
“So, where are the scrolls hidden, John?”
“Good question.”
John gave the maps further perusal. “Which is the earliest one?”
“This one. It’s dated 1580.”
“About the right period, then. So what’s on it?”
“Very little really.” Jim swallowed more ale. “A few tracks, some farms. A tavern, right here, Ye Flying Swanne, a manor house, and a few rude huts.”
“Why do they call them rude huts, do you suppose?”
“Because of the arse-ends, I think.”
“The what?”
“Arse-ends, wooden trusses that support the roof.”
“Fascinating. Anything else on the map?”
“Only the monastery.”
“Not a lot to go on. But I suppose we should check the obvious places first.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Jim. “And where might those be?”
“Well, if you were a monk, where would you hide something precious?”
“In my boots.”
“In your boots! Very good, Jim. And there was I thinking that monks wear sandals.”
“Oh yeah. Do monks wear underpants, do you think? Or are they like Scotsmen with kilts?”
John drummed his fingers upon the table. “I will ask the question again. If you were a monk, where would you hide something precious?”
“I know. In the monastery.” Jim gave John the old thumbs up.
John gave Jim the old thumbs down. “No,” he said. “Not in the monastery. In the pub.”
“Eh?”
“When you’re really pissed…”
“Which I can rarely afford to be.”
“But when you are, what is the last thing you say before you leave the pub?”
“Goodnight?”
“No, you say, ‘Neville, please mind my wallet.’”
“Do I?”
“You do.”
“Oh yes. And the next morning I wake up and I can’t find my wallet and I get all depressed and I’m really hung over, so I gather up some pennies and halfpennies for a hair of the dog and I come into the Swan and Neville says, ‘You left your wallet here last night,’ and I get really cheered up.”
“Exactly. So if you were a monk and you’d just come back from this pilgrimage to Rome and you were really proud of yourself because you’d pulled off this great deal with the Pope and you wanted to get a skinful for celebration, where would you go?”
Jim pointed to the map. “I would go to Ye Flying Swanne.”
“And so would I. So let’s check here first.” John finished his ale, took up the two empty glasses and went over to the bar.
“… the Irish Uri Geller,” said Old Pete, “rubbed a spoon and his finger fell off”
“You old bastard,” said Omally.
“Who are you calling old? That’s an ageist remark. There should be a law about people making comments like that!”
John held the glasses out to Neville. “Two of similar, please.” And the part-time barman did the business.
“Neville,” said John. “Do you have a lost property cupboard?”
“Certainly do. It’s a priest hole, been there since the pub was built.”
“Really?” said John, in a casual tone.
“It’s got stuff in it going back years.”
“Really?” said John once again.
“Oh, yes. Umbrellas, packs of cards, a couple of top hats, some flintlock pistols, even a monk’s satchel.”
Omally tried to say “Really?” but the word wouldn’t come.
“I should have a clear-out, I suppose,” said Neville. “But I never seem to find the time.”
“I wouldn’t mind doing it for you,” said John, in a curious strangled kind of whisper.
“Something wrong with your voice, John?”
“No.” John cleared his throat. “Lead me to it. I’ll clear it out right now.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t put you to the trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, I assure you. Consider it my good deed for the day.”
“Well, if you really want to.”
John rubbed his hands together.
“No, it doesn’t matter,” said Neville.
“Oh, it does, it really does.”
“Well, please yourself,” said Neville. “But there’s nothing of value down there.”
“I never thought there was.”
“Oh, good,” said Neville, “then you won’t be disappointed when you don’t find the Brentford Scrolls.”
John returned to Jim’s table with the drinks. “Why is everyone up at the bar laughing?” Jim asked. “And why have you got a face like a smacked bottom?”
“Never mind,” said John, in a bitter tone.
“Am I to assume that we will be continuing our search elsewhere?”
“You are. Let’s have another look at those maps.”
“I don’t think it will help. Look here, I photocopied a present-day map of the borough. The whole place has been built over. See what stands on the site of the old monastery?”
John saw. “The police station,” he said.
“We’re not going to find it from maps.” Jim sipped some ale. “How many people must have tried before us?”
“At least two dozen in here, apparently,” said John through gritted teeth.
“What was that?”
“Never mind. All right, throw away the maps. Let us apply our wits.”
“You’re not hoping for an early result then?”
“If the scrolls exist, we will find them. Trust me on this.”
“Oh, I do. But we’ll have to come up with something pretty radical.”
“Necromancy!” said John.
“Yes, that’s pretty radical. What are you talking about?”
“Calling up the spirits of the dead.”
