Amanderella and the Marduk Affair Chapter 5.

Chapter Five.

 

The Library.

 

Breakfast the next morning was so substantial that doing anything afterwards felt wildly ambitious. There were eggs, sausages, bacon, toast, porridge, and something involving kippers that looked both alarming and delicious. By the time Amanderella put down her fork, she felt she could get used to living like this with very little persuasion.

The weather looked fine, so she took herself at a steady pace down to the Promenade and along to the harbour. The tide was high, so no boats were visible. A few early walkers nodded politely as they passed, most of them accompanied by dogs who looked as though they had strong opinions about the sea breeze.

Feeling a little less overfed, Amanderella returned to the Glyndwr Arms, where a very nervous Dotty was waiting in the doorway.

“I thought you might have got the early train back,” Dotty said, adjusting her glasses for the tenth time, as though Amanderella might vanish if she didn’t keep checking.

Amanderella blinked. “Why on earth would I do that.”

Dotty looked relieved and worried at the same time, a combination she had perfected. “People sometimes do,” she said. “Visitors. They arrive, see the town, and then remember they have something urgent to do somewhere else.”

“I’m still here,” Amanderella said.

Dotty let out a breath of pure relief. “Good. Because I have to open the Library. If I don’t, the Council will hear about it before I’ve even put the key in the door.”

Amanderella wasn’t entirely sure how the Council would hear about it, but Dotty spoke with the certainty of someone who had tested the theory and regretted it.

“We can go to the Museum afterwards,” Dotty added. “Marduk spent an awful lot of time in there.”

Amanderella nodded. “Lead the way.”

Dotty brightened and set off towards the Council Offices with the brisk, purposeful stride of someone who took her responsibilities very seriously indeed.

She unlocked the Library door with the solemnity of someone performing a small but important ceremony. The building smelled faintly of old paper, furniture polish, and the sort of dust that had been settling quietly for decades and saw no reason to stop now.

“First job,” Dotty said, hurrying ahead, “is the newspapers.”

Amanderella followed her to a bright corner where a long wooden table held several slanted stands. Yesterday’s papers lay in a soft, crumpled heap, as though they had given up trying to stay tidy overnight.

Dotty gathered them up briskly. “These go in the basket for Rabbit Pugh to collect. He uses them for bedding in their cages. Or possibly his fire. He never says.”

She straightened the stands, smoothed the cloth beneath them, and fetched the fresh stack from behind the desk. One by one she laid out the day’s papers, tapping each into place with the care of someone arranging a shop‑window display.

“There,” she said. “People like to read them in order. If they aren’t, they complain; if they are, they simply find something else to grumble about.”

Amanderella nodded politely, though she wasn’t entirely sure what counted as “order” in Pentegfawr.

Dotty moved on to opening the shutters, switching on the lights, and checking that the chairs were straight. She worked with the quiet, determined energy of someone who had learned that if she didn’t do things properly, someone else would notice, and comment.

Only when everything was exactly as it should be, did she stop, fold her hands, and say, “Right. That’s the Library open. Now I’d better deal with the returned books.”

She led Amanderella to a trolley labelled Returned Books. There was only one book on it. Amanderella picked it up idly and read the title: Legends of the Welsh Coast: St Rhodri and the Warning of the Vikings.

“This looks interesting,” she said.

Dotty went pale. “That’s Marduk’s favourite book. He keeps renewing it. I wonder why it’s on the returns shelf. He usually leaves it on the desk for me to stamp. I don’t know why. He never tells me anything. He just reads it and then disappears up the valley.”

Amanderella looked at the cover again. “Is it about something important.”

“It’s about St Rhodri’s church. The old one. The ruined one up the valley. Everyone knows the legend. Most of the visitors we get come because of it.” She set the book back on the trolley, smoothing the cover as though it might wrinkle.

“He’s been going up there a lot,” she said quietly. “More than usual. And when Marduk starts going somewhere more than usual, it means he’s thinking about something. Or looking for something. Or… well… something.”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow. “What sort of something.”

Dotty shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know. He never says. He just… doesn’t exist at me.”

Amanderella wasn’t sure what that meant, but Dotty’s expression suggested it was a long‑standing issue.

Dotty took a breath. “Anyway. If he’s returned this book, it means he’s finished with it. Or he’s found something else. And that worries me.”

She glanced towards the Museum door across the corridor.

“I think,” she said, lowering her voice, “that you should go next door. There’s a display about the myth. People usually have to pay to go in, but the curator won’t be there, he never is, and I have a key.”

She produced the key with the solemnity of someone revealing a powerful secret. It was large, old‑fashioned, and slightly bent, as though it had been dropped more often than used.

Amanderella looked at it. “Are you sure this is allowed.”

Dotty hesitated. “Allowed is a strong word. But the Library and Museum share the same building, and Mrs Pugh‑Chapel Gate says it’s our duty to help visitors learn things. And you are a visitor. And you want to learn something.”

She nodded, looking as satisfied as if she’d finally found a book that had been missing for twenty years. “And anyway, if I don’t take you in, you’ll have to wait until the curator comes back from the Drover’s Arms, and that could be… well… days.”

Amanderella tried not to smile. “Very well.”

Dotty brightened. “Good. I’ll open the door for you. I can’t come in, I have to stay in the Library in case someone wants a book, but you’ll be fine. The Museum is very quiet. Except for the skeleton. But it doesn’t move.”

She said this with such seriousness that Amanderella wasn’t entirely reassured.

Dotty led her across the corridor, fitted the key into the lock, and pushed open the Museum door. It opened with a long, thin whine, clearly annoyed at being asked to move for the first time in a decade.

“There you are,” Dotty whispered. “The display is in the far room. You can’t miss it. It’s the one with the glass case.”

Amanderella stepped inside.

The Museum smelled of dust, old wood, and the faint, hopeful scent of educational posters.

Behind her, Dotty closed the door gently, as though tucking her into bed.

The Museum room she entered had large windows, so it was well lit. Sunlight slanted across the floorboards and picked out the slow, swirling dance of the dust, making it look as though the whole room was sparkling out of sheer stubbornness.

Tables stood everywhere, each one bearing an assortment of objects. Amanderella crossed to the nearest. The label read Tools used in the slate industry, and indeed the table was covered with hammers, spikes, chisels, and bits of slate. It was also covered in the sort of grey fur that only decades of neglect can produce, dust that had settled quietly and saw no reason to move now.

Amanderella brushed a finger across the surface. It left a clear line, like a path through snow.

“Mr Penberry really isn’t here very often,” she murmured.

The next table held a jumble of fishing floats, a cracked lobster pot, and a model boat that had lost its mast. The label underneath read Local Maritime History, though the dust suggested the history had been local for quite some time.

She moved slowly between the displays, taking in the faded posters, the slightly crooked information boards, and the glass cases that looked as though they had last been polished in the previous century.

Somewhere deeper in the Museum, a floorboard creaked in a long, complaining sigh, as though the building itself was tired of waiting for Mr Penberry to return from the Drover’s Arms.

Amanderella followed the sound.

At the far end of the room, sprawling across the back wall as if it owned the place, was a display labelled:

THE LEGEND OF ST RHODRI

Amanderella stepped closer.

The board was covered with pictures, maps, and a long block of text printed in a font that tried very hard to look ancient. She began to read.

“Many years ago, when the people of Pentegfawr lived in the valley and not by the sea, St Rhodri’s church stood on the hill above the village. One fine mid‑morning, Father Gwyllim ap Gwyllim ap Gwyllim climbed the tower to nail down a sheet of loose lead. It had been letting rainwater drip into the little room at the top, and he had decided he’d had quite enough of that.”

The picture beside this showed a priest with a hammer, looking mildly annoyed at a piece of roofing.

“While he was up there, Father Gwyllim looked out across the coast, as anyone would when they were already standing on a tall tower. To his surprise, he saw longships rowing steadily towards the bay. He knew at once they were Viking raiders, for no one else painted their boats red and carved dragon heads on the front.”

“Before sounding the alarm, Father Gwyllim hurried down the tower and gathered the church valuables. He hid them in a secret place known only to him, so that no one else could be forced to reveal the hiding spot.”

“Only then did he ring the church bell to warn the villagers. The people fled up the hill to safety, following Father Gwyllim. When the Vikings arrived, they found the village empty and the valuables gone.”

A neat little map showed a dotted line leading from the village to the hill.

“When the Vikings reached the valley, they found the village empty and the church locked. Angry at being outwitted, they set fire to the buildings. The church roof caught quickly, and soon the whole place was in flames. With nothing left to steal, the raiders returned to their ships and sailed away.”

Amanderella glanced at the accompanying picture. It showed three longships rowing off in a neat line, looking more like a procession of very aggressive ducks, which she suspected was not historically accurate.

“When the villagers returned, they found their homes burned and the church badly damaged. Father Gwyllim led the way in trying to save as much of the building as possible. He climbed back into the tower to check the roof, but a charred beam gave way beneath him. A heavy piece of the roof fell, striking him down the whole of his right side.”

The next picture showed the tower leaning slightly, as though it, too, remembered the event.

“The blow left him blind in one eye, unable to speak, and with his right arm useless. Knowing he might not live long, Father Gwyllim found something to write on and, using his left hand, quickly wrote down where he had hidden the church’s valuables.”

“Sadly, he wrote the message in Latin and in a cipher. Before he could tell anyone what cipher he had used, he died of his injuries.”

At the bottom, in bold letters:

THE CIPHER OF FATHER GWYLLIM, UNSOLVED TO THIS DAY

Amanderella stepped back. The story was interesting, but something about it felt… off. She couldn’t yet say what.

The manuscript lay flat inside a glass‑covered cabinet. She examined the case and noticed that someone had, at some point, broken the catch that was meant to keep it secure. After a quick look around, she tried the lock. It opened with a reluctant click.

Amanderella eased the glass door open, releasing a faint smell of dust and old paper. She took out her magnifying glass and bent over the manuscript, her expression sharpening.

She lifted it carefully and angled it towards the light. The paper crackled faintly. She touched it with one gloved fingertip, then brought the magnifying glass to bear.

“Paper,” she murmured. “Not vellum. Paper would never have survived a thousand years in this climate. It cannot possibly be original.”

She bent closer. “And the ink… no iron‑gall corrosion. Too black. Too even.”

Her eyes traced a line of lettering. “And this hand, far too regular. A medieval scribe would never have written like this. This is Victorian.”

She angled the page again. “And this is quite impossible. The story says Father Gwyllim wrote this with his left hand, because his right was injured.” She tapped the margin lightly. “But this hand is far too neat. No shaky lines, no ink blots, no hesitation. It is the confident, flowing script of a man who was very much right‑handed and not in the least struck down by a roof beam.”

She sniffed. “And the Latin… these declensions do not exist. The verbs do not agree. Half these words are inventions. A medieval priest would never have written this.”

Amanderella closed the case with great care. “This manuscript is not a thousand years old. It is not even a good forgery.”

There was nothing else in the Museum that looked remotely useful, so she went back into the Library.

It was full of the soft, industrious silence of a town that took its reading seriously. Newspapers rustled. Someone coughed discreetly. Dotty was at the desk, sorting index cards with the solemnity of a priest handling relics.

Amanderella approached. “Dotty, I need to know what books Marduk borrowed.”

Dotty blinked. “All of them?”

“Recently.”

Dotty brightened. “Oh! Yes. I keep a very good ledger.”

She produced a large cloth‑bound volume and opened it with a report like a small pistol shot. “Here, he borrowed the Museum’s Legend of St Rhodri six times. And… oh. A Latin Primer. And this one, Understanding the Ordnance Survey. He said he wanted to ‘check something on a map’.”

Amanderella leaned closer. “When did he borrow that?”

Dotty ran her finger down the column. “Two days before he disappeared.”

“Any other books?”

“Oh yes, he took out Mr Keary’s The Vikings in Britain. The one with the very serious cover.”

Amanderella opened her notebook on the counter, ready to write down the titles. Dotty glanced at it, then paused, her expression softening.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Marduk always had one of those too. His little black volume. He wrote in it all the time.”

Amanderella looked up. “Did he?”

Dotty nodded. “Yes. He’d stop in the middle of the street to scribble something down, then apologise to anyone he’d bumped into. Very polite about it.”

Amanderella’s mouth twitched. “That does sound like him.”

“He said it helped him keep things straight,” Dotty murmured. “I never thought it meant anything.”

Amanderella closed her notebook gently. “It meant he was following a trail.”

Dotty went pale. “Oh.”