Gibbous House 65

The Professor bent, admittedly not far, and retrieved the ledger. I had already turned my back upon him and was perusing the nearest rack of shelves. Once more I was struck by the random arrangement. There had been no catalogue made of these tomes. If anything, the books stood on the shelves with less care for their content or origin than those on the shelves in the Professor's own chamber. The row which met my eye contained: an older copy of Malleus Maleficorum than mine own, standing at the sinister end of the shelf. To its right, was a sumptuously bound copy of Hume's Essays Moral and Political: the next book was a translation of Maimonides. Cheek by jowl with this stood a book with something in the arabic script in leaf upon the spine. A tag of paper protruded from between its pages, I withdrew it. It appeared to be a translation of the book's title:

'The Polished Book on Experimental Ophthalmology by Ibn Al Nafis,'

it read.

Dropping the scrap to the floor my finger traced the spines of works sacred and profane, ancient and modern, until my eye at last stopped upon a book bound in cordovan leather, blackened with age and the touch of many fingers. It was a small volume of a size to slip into a pocket. The title on the spine read 'Messianic Prophecies'. I duly pocketed the book, after noting the name of the author as being one 'Septimus Coble'.

At this point the library door opened with a clamour not usually associated with such places of placid learning. A breathless Miss Pardoner informed me that Maccabi had returned and would speak with me if it were not inconvenient. I toyed with inconveniencing the man but had to admit to myself that, one day, the vice of curiosity might be my undoing. Therefore I followed Miss Pardoner out of the library, the Professor tip-tapping behind in arthropod syncopation. As we were leaving the nightmare picture gallery, the Professor tugged at my sleeve and whispered:

'There is nothing to worry about: you are chosen.'

I shook off the demented gnome's hand and hurried to meet Maccabi.

My retainer stood erect and soldier-like amidst the furniture in the vestibule, something I noted with a certain satisfaction. I hailed him:

'Well met, Maccabi. What news? Are the forces of law on their way?'

He shifted from foot to foot:

'Yes, that is, well... A Constable is on his way, having instructed the drayman to transport him hither.'

'Indeed, remarkable initiative for a policeman, is it not?'

Again he moved his feet:

'It was the reporter's idea.'

I laughed aloud.

'Reporter? Here? Maccabi I would have thought you incapable of such a ludic jest!'

'He is from the Alnwick Mercury, sir. He happened to be in Seahouses. There was nothing I could do.'

'And why should you have done aught, you buffoon?'

He kept his counsel at that, so I enquired when he thought they might arrive. To which he replied.

'Within the hour.'

'Best someone renders my home into a more appropriate estate for the reception of visitors, be they only a peeler and a scribe.'

Maccabi made for the servants quarters with a stamping gait, although I surmised Mrs Gonderthwaite and Cullis would be of little help to him.