The Ghost Manuscript Read online

  Harper shook his head again. “I asked JJ not to sell Adeona. I begged him. I keep on telling him that I’ll be well soon.”

  Harper looked up to the bedroom door again, but this time fought off the urge to react to whatever it was he saw there.

  “How is it possible that the manuscript hasn’t been cataloged?” she asked.

  “The book has been on a long trip,” said Harper. “Its provenance is, unfortunately, all word of mouth, but it is quite a tale.”

  She hated verbal provenance. It wasn’t verifiable. She liked catalogs.

  Harper leaned closer. She started breathing through her mouth.

  “It is the personal journal of a monk,” he said. “A very important monk from what is now Wales. Written in Latin, of course. But at the end of the journal, it changes to very early Welsh. The only written example ever found. It’s a Rosetta Stone. That alone makes it nearly priceless.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “That’s not why this book is important,” Harper whispered. “The author was named Lestinus. He took the journal when he traveled to Saint Catherine’s Monastery at Mount Sinai sometime in the mid-sixth century.”

  He stopped and rubbed his eyes. Carys could feel him reaching for his thoughts.

  “He joined the monastery,” he said. “When he died, the monks erased his journal so they could reuse it for a psalm book. It ended up in one of the monastery’s libraries. It was there for thirteen hundred years. The conditions at Saint Catherine’s are freakishly good at preserving parchment. Tischendorf bought—some would say stole—the journal on his 1859 expedition to Saint Catherine’s. It ended up in Tsar Alexander’s library at Alexander Palace.”

  Carys was now oblivious to anything but the story.

  “It was there until the Russian Revolution,” whispered Harper. “Tsar Nicholas’s ministers cleaned out the libraries and fled to all points of Russia. The book ended up in a minister’s home in a town near Leningrad. When the Nazis were looting the area during World War Two, a German soldier broke into the home and started ransacking the library. The minister begged the soldier not to take this one specific manuscript. He explained the book’s history, how he ended up with it, and why it was so precious to him.”

  Harper sipped some water.

  “The Nazi was apparently unmoved by the tale. He shot the guy in the heart and stole the manuscript, and half the contents of the house. After the war, the soldier fled to Buenos Aires and the only thing of value small enough for him to carry was the manuscript.”

  Harper drank again and a drop of water escaped down the side of his chin. He didn’t notice.

  “In 2003, just before he died, the soldier told his children about the book’s history. He also confessed to killing the minister in cold blood—clearing his conscience just in time to meet his maker. For whatever good it did. Friggin’ Nazi. His children sold the manuscript to a local antiquities dealer—friend of the family—and passed the tale on to him. He called me,” said Harper.

  Carys marveled, as she always did, at the incestuous nature of the rare-manuscript community.

  “I flew down and bought it,” he continued. “I got it home and I started translating it. The topmost writing was Latin. Just Old Testament passages. I started examining the traces of the original handwriting that had been erased. It was barely visible. I had to use”—he struggled to find the words—”uh…multispectral, UV, and X-ray fluorescence techniques on it. There was this passage at the end that was written in a language I’d never seen. It had traces of Celtic origins, so five years ago I hired the best Celtic linguist I could find to help me translate it.”

  “Nicola,” she said.

  Harper smiled with a fondness that surprised her.

  “No one besides my wife, Nicola, and the bookseller knew I had this book, and it was vital we kept it that way,” said Harper. “Nicola is now the only one living of those three. We concocted a cover story that she was our housekeeper and my wife’s caretaker. She didn’t like that idea much until she saw the manuscript. JJ never figured out what she was really doing there—he didn’t spend much time at Adeona. He still thinks she’s only a housekeeper.”

  Harper’s face broke into a grin at the memory.

  “It took Nicola and I a year to figure out what the language was that the writer used toward the end. It was primitive Brythonic and the beginnings of archaic Welsh. Then it took us four more years to translate that section.”

  “Amazing,” said Carys. She’d forgotten where she was. “What did the text say?”

  At this Harper stopped, looked toward the foyer, and took her by the hand. He put a finger to his lips, stood, and began walking toward the bedroom door. Every survival instinct in Carys went haywire, but still she followed.

  As Harper shuffled her along, he stepped around something that wasn’t there. They quietly entered the bedroom, and Harper closed the door almost all the way. He motioned for her to sit at the desk. She did as she was asked. Harper moved next to her, leaned against the desk, and bent over next to her to whisper into her ear.

  “Lestinus was the personal priest of King Arthur,” said Harper.

  Carys’s heart sank.

  “His name wasn’t Arthur at the time,” said Harper. “It was Riothamus Arcturus. His people called him Dux Bellorum—the Duke of War. The monk’s manuscript is the only original document ever found that chronicles King Arthur’s existence contemporaneously.”

  She leaned back. Harper’s eyes were burning brightly, his face the picture of mania. He saw her body language change.

  “You must listen,” he said. Then he turned to the door and hissed at the thin air, “Be quiet. Let me explain it to her.”

  She was trapped. Harper’s body was blocking her path to the door. He didn’t appear threatening. Still, she began to fidget fearfully.

  “You have to listen to me. Please. I just need one more minute,” he said. “I want you to have this manuscript.”

  “Why would you want that?” she asked.

  “I want to offer you a deal,” he whispered, his eyes growing wilder. “This journal leads to the final burial place of King Arthur. One of the most significant historical finds in centuries. Pick up where I left off and find the tomb. Follow the information in the journal wherever it leads.”

  Harper shook his head hard. Then stared at the desk. Then back at her. His eyes were glazed over and far away.

  “When you find the tomb, you can have the book,” he continued. “The book. You can have my entire library. I know JJ intends to get rid of it. It would be so much easier to tell him about all this. But he doesn’t appreciate the work I’m doing. He wouldn’t understand why those books are so vital. He would never understand this search. He’d try to stop it.”

  She could feel how much pain this state of affairs with JJ caused Harper, despite his obvious insanity. She wondered if Harper knew just how far JJ was willing to go to keep his health a secret.

  “But if we can find that tomb before a sale goes through, then it’ll all be worth it. JJ will have no choice but to keep the library intact and at Adeona once we prove it leads to Arthur. And you can have it. All of it. All I want is the right to claim that I was the one responsible for finding the King’s burial site and anything in it. That’s all. That’s all. That’s all I want.” Harper started shaking his head again, back and forth, back and forth.

  “Mr. Harper,” she said as gently as she could. She wanted out so badly. She put her hands on the desk and began to push herself up from the chair. “I’m going to—”

  “I know it’s him,” said Harper, his mania beginning to build. “I know because Riothamus Arcturus is mentioned in the documents that were written during the time that he was alive. His name is in the land records, personal letters, census data. There are all sorts of clues. But there’s only one version of these documents. No one thought
them worth copying. I bought every single one I could find. You found them for me!

  “The journal specifically mentions the battle of Mons Badonicus, of Dubglas, Urbe Legionis, Tryfrwyd. It tells of a great leader who delivers his people from the invading hordes and dies at the hand of the Usurper,” said Harper. “The author was there. He witnessed the battles. He rode with the man.”

  She pulled further back. This was a psychotic rant. Why would a woman as smart as Nicola believe any of it?

  “When Arcturus died,” Harper whispered, “his people buried him with one of the richest treasures of the time. The journal lists just a few of the objects. It makes King Tut’s tomb look like a goddamn Kay Jewelers.” His dirty hair flopped into his eyes.

  Carys sat still, waiting for an opening to get around him to the door.

  “It’s filled with precious gems, gold, lots of gold…and Excalibur,” he said.

  Carys’s eyes widened, and Harper grinned to himself.

  “In the manuscript, it’s called Caledfwlch.” He pronounced it with a perfect Welsh accent—KAH-led-voolk. As he spoke the word, there was the familiar wrench in her stomach.

  “It will be a cultural treasure in the country where it’s found, which is probably Wales. But that’s beside the point. Arthur’s burial site must be protected. There are people who would do whatever is necessary to get what’s in that tomb. If they succeeded, if they somehow found it, we would never see it again. Every speck of it would end up on the black market. It would be lost to us forever. I simply cannot allow it to happen.”

  Carys, despite her fear, found herself unexpectedly sucked in.

  “Does anyone else know you have the manuscript or what it leads to?” she said.

  “No,” said Harper.

  “Then what’s the rush?”

  Harper’s eyes cleared for a moment, and she saw a glimpse of the man she imagined Harper had been before.

  “Because we have to find it before JJ gets rid of the library. Those manuscripts collectively form airtight backup and confirmation of what’s in the journal,” he said. Then he lowered his head. “And I’d like to live to find the tomb.”

  Carys swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t say that,” he said. “Just say yes.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I have a job.”

  “Quit. I’ll give you my library and half the money the local antiquities authorities will pay us when they seize the treasure as cultural patrimony,” said Harper.

  Carys could only stare at him.

  “I’ll pay you a stipend and all your expenses,” he said, and paused to let the offer sink in. “But we have to keep it secret. We don’t want to set off a race.”

  Harper was clearly exhausted from his efforts. Dark circles, just like JJ’s, began to etch themselves deeply underneath his eyes. Whether he was right or wrong about the origin of the book, or the identity of the man the monk had written about, or the treasure it supposedly revealed, Harper believed every word he’d just said.

  She was almost afraid to ask the obvious question.

  “Mr. Harper, there were many warriors and leaders all over the British Isles who fought off the invaders during this period. How can you be so sure that Riothamus Arcturus was King Arthur?” she asked softly.

  A light sweat broke out on Harper’s forehead. He breathed deeply.

  “It’s all been researched, cross-referenced. It’s all in the library. It’s Arthur. I know it is.” Then Harper’s face seemed to drop, and his eyes glazed over.

  “And he told me it was Arthur,” he continued. He started shaking his head back and forth again.

  “Who told you?” she asked.

  Harper stopped shaking his head and looked at her. His eyes were crazed and wet. He leaned in closer.

  “Lestinus told me,” he whispered. “The monk who wrote the manuscript. The monk who traveled with him. He told me it was Arthur.”

  The blood drained from Carys’s face, and every muscle in her body tensed.

  Then Harper whipped his head around to his left.

  “Of course, she doesn’t believe me,” he said sharply to the thin air. “It’ll take her time. I didn’t believe you either, at first.”

  She stood up, pushed Harper gently to one side, and flung the bedroom door open. The young nurse was standing behind the bedroom door, and it almost smacked her. Carys walked past her into the living room.

  “Ms. Jones?” said the woman, flustered.

  As Carys walked out the door into the hall, Harper called out to her.

  “You’ll be back once you’ve read it,” yelled Harper. “And once it has read you.”

  This, she thought, is why I prefer books to people.

  ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆

  Carys drove in circles for two hours through the suburbs near Belmont.

  Harper was completely, certifiably, institutionally insane. She’d seen mental illness before, up close and far too personal, but nothing like that. She wanted to just drive back to her old life.

  But as the miles rolled by, she couldn’t keep the questions at bay.

  What if…?

  What if he had something as ancient as he claimed? It would be like finding another Codex Sinaiticus. Whether or not it pointed to King Arthur’s tomb, packed with riches and Excalibur—which was probably just the crazy talking—the journal was a historian’s gold mine, not to mention its value as a collector’s prize.

  What if she took him up on his offer? What if she followed the manuscript’s directions wherever they led—even if, as was virtually certain, they led to a tomb that had been looted within a hundred years of its occupant’s death? She still would have kept up her end of the promise. Harper would have to give her his entire library. Was he even legally able to make such a bargain if he was crazy? Probably not.

  “Stop,” she said to herself. “You’re being as crazy as him.”

  Carys steered her car abruptly into a gravel turnout on a country road in Wellesley and put it in park. It was late afternoon, and a lazy sunlight filtered through the forest around her and warmed her car. She shut her eyes and tried to relax. But soon, Harper’s face and exhausted eyes appeared. Her head swirled with their conversation, and behind it all, one sentence bubbled up and repeated over

  and over.

  “It would be lost to us forever.”

  Like people’s voices when they die. Or run away.

  The next thing she knew, she found herself pulling up in front of Adeona. Not to accept the assignment, but to get some answers.

  Nicola searched her face the moment she opened the front door. Seeing no resolution there, her expression softened.

  “You saw him?” Nicola asked. “How did he seem?”

  “He seemed insane,” said Carys sharply. “I’m sorry. I’m just completely out of my element here. He made me a crazy offer. I need to understand what is going on.”

  She went into the library and sat on the settee while Nicola made tea. The peace that usually enveloped her in this space was gone, replaced by disquiet. Nicola returned and put two mugs on the desk, where they steamed merrily, oblivious.

  “What are your questions?” said Nicola.

  “Does the book exist?”

  “Yes. It’s been carbon-dated. It is from the mid-sixth century. As I said.”

  “There were dozens of books written by monks in the sixth century. Why is Harper willing to give me this entire library to go searching after the ghosts in this one?” Carys asked.

  “He’s convinced it’s Arthur, and please realize that that is not a decision he came to lightly,” said Nicola. “The information in the journal is cross-referenced, confirmed, and dated using the primary research material that you see here in this library. Together, this room forms airtight historical verification that the man referenced in the journal is
the one who came to be revered as Arthur. You could redo his research, which took him nearly five years of full-time work, or you could just take our word for it.”

  “But King Arthur. Seriously. It’s practically a cliché,” said Carys.

  Nicola’s eyes flashed angrily.

  “Maybe,” she said. “It also happens to be true.”

  Carys shook her head. “Of all the things he could have cared about, devoted his money to…”

  “We don’t get to pick our passions, Carys,” said Nicola. “They pick us.”

  “No one has been able to prove that a single King Arthur existed. At best, he’s a mash-up of a few Romano-British warriors who lived during the Anglo-Saxon invasions.”

  “No one has ever had the journal, or the primary source material that Mr. Harper has collected,” said Nicola. “No one. He is the only person who has been able to put the evidence together. Now he wants you to do what he no longer can—prove it to the rest of the world.”

  Nicola’s eyes grew sharp.

  “And you should be honored you’ve been asked,” she said.

  “Nicola, why me? Why not you? Why not JJ?”

  “JJ couldn’t care less about this library. All the library is to JJ is another sad reminder of everything he’s lost in the past five years. He loves his father, but JJ never understood his obsession,” said Nicola.

  “I’m having the same problem,” said Carys.

  Nicola ignored her.

  “I would do it,” she continued. “I would. Happily. Joyfully. But my body has other plans at the moment. The task falls to you. Harper is convinced that you’re the right person for the job. I have learned throughout our years together that Mr. Harper’s reasons are always sound, even though they may not be apparent.”

  “But he’s lost his mind,” said Carys. “How can you believe anything he says? In his state, the offer isn’t remotely legally binding.”

  “It’ll be binding,” said Nicola. “Don’t worry about that. And John did most of the work on this project before he got sick. His mental health deteriorated so badly in the past year that when he could no longer function, we had to take action. But inside he’s still John. He’s still the same man. The same mind. I believe that.”