Free Glittering Images by Susan Howatch

clergyman I began to consider how I should spend my morning. I would have to go to the library; it would look too odd if I postponed my encounter with the St Anselm manuscript, but I thought I could use the fine weather as an excuse not to linger indoors. During breakfast the Earl announced his intention of fishing in the river at the bottom of the garden while the Countess confessed an urge to paint a watercolour of the long herbaceous border, and I thought both of them might be in the mood for a little casual conversation about our host.
    ‘Do you have any special plans for this morning, Mrs Cobden-Smith?’ I asked as I finished my eggs and bacon.
    ‘Oh, I shall write some letters, go to the shops, “fill the unforgiving minute”, as Kipling would say …’ Mrs Cobden-Smith spoke with such energy that I immediately felt exhausted. ‘Willy will take George for a walk –’ The St Bernard looked hopeful as his name was mentioned ‘– and then … What are you going to do after that, Willy?’
    ‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Colonel Cobden-Smith.
    ‘Good man!’ said Lord Starmouth.
    ‘Well, at least the clergy are preparing for a morning of unremitting toil,’ said Lady Starmouth, and gave me yet another of her radiant sophisticated smiles.

III
    The most notorious fact about the work which passes under the name of
The Prayers and Meditations of St Anselm
is that it is uncertain how much of the material can be attributed to St Anselm himself. In 1932 Dom Wilmart had ascribed nineteen of the prayers and three of the meditations to the saint, who had been Archbishop of Canterbury at the time of William Rufus, but the matter was still of interest to scholars and much of the interest had always centred on the Starbridge manuscript which showed the work before the insertion of many of the additions.
    After the required exchange of courtesies with the librarian I embarked on my reading. The manuscript was written in a clear hand which I mastered without trouble, but there were slips in the Latin which indicated that the scribe might have been a young monk who suffered from wandering attention. To support this thesis I found some entertaining embellishments in the margin, in particular a sketch of a prancing cat with a mouse in his mouth, and I thought how odd it was that this manuscript, perhaps regarded as no more than a tedious copying chore by its scribe, had survived to become a document of profound importance. The young monk had been dead for centuries but his work for God lived on; idly I speculated how I might introduce the subject into a future sermon, and at once I thought of the famous text from Isaiah: ‘The grass withereth, the flower fadeth but the Word of Our God shall stand for ever’.
    I took notes for over an hour as I compared the text with my copy of Wilmart’s book, and then leaving the library I returned to the palace, parked my briefcase in the hall and strolled outside again into the garden.
    I saw Lady Starmouth at once. She was sitting on an artist’s folding stool, her sketchpad in her lap, and gazing meditatively at the long border which stretched downhill in a blaze of colour towards the river. When she saw me she smiled, beckoning me to join her, and as I crossed the lawn I could see the Earl fishing in the distance by the willows.
    ‘I thought it was going to be a watercolour?’ I said as I saw the pencil in her hand.
    ‘I always do a rough sketch first and I’ve only just begun – I’ve been chatting to poor Carrie.’
    ‘Is she better?’
    ‘Yes, but still distressed about that ghastly scene last night. I’m afraid that sometimes she’s much too sensitive for her own good and never more so than when the conversation turns to lost babies … Did you know about the Jardines’ child?’
    ‘Dr Lang only mentioned that they had no children living. What happened?’
    ‘Am I being given the chance to gossip about the Bishop? Yes, I am – how delightful! Do sit down, Dr Ashworth,