Free Caroline Minuscule by Andrew Taylor

fragments remain in St Tumwulf’s chapel behind the High Altar. The interior furnishings of the church, including the earliest known example of a medieval clock in the north transept, were ruthlessly consigned to oblivion by the intolerance of the reformers. It is indeed fortunate that the last Abbot and first Dean, Gervase of Charleston, was able to preserve at least some of the priceless manuscripts of the monastic library . . .
    Amanda nudged him warningly. The two men were standing in the doorway of the dining room, to the left of the notice board and the reception desk, exchanging laboured compliments with the waitress. She was laden with a tray piled high with dirty dishes but was accepting the badinage civilly enough, in a manner which suggested she had been well tipped. With a final ‘Oo, you shouldn’t,’ she vanished towards the kitchens and the two men came out into the hall.
    Both of them were flushed and breathing heavily, as if the steaks and the litre of house red which they had consumed constituted a sort of internal assault course. Dougal thought they looked like the sort of travelling salesmen who ruled the marketing of their product over large sections of the country, and had expense accounts to match their vice-regal commercial powers.
    The elder one had the appearance of a well-fed, prosperous badger. He was pear-shaped, with pepper-and-salt hair and a long, wide nose which dwarfed the other features of his face. His teeth projected from his upper jaw beyond his lips; they were crooked and yellow, and gave the illusion that they were not so much teeth as an ill-devised extension of his nose.
    His companion was younger – about the same age as Dougal, probably – and taller. He gangled over his leader – there was no mistaking the pecking order here: the attitudes of the two made it immediately clear. He had thinning, golden hair, which curled over his ears in a travesty of a barrister’s wig.
    Both of them were wearing very new, light-coloured suits. The taller man’s was double-breasted and the jacket hung loosely, flapping over the hollow between his rounded shoulders, its brass buttons twinkling in the light. The older man’s was more conservative in cut. In the breast pocket of each was a neatly folded handkerchief, pink and fawn respectively, which toned tastefully with the wearers’ shirts and ties.
    They stood talking quietly in the middle of the hall for a moment, facing Dougal and Amanda. Then the middle-aged one turned to Mrs Livabed behind the reception desk, and said something which they couldn’t catch. Her reply, however, genteel modulations to the fore, was perfectly audible by the fire:
    â€˜Well, I’m
sow
glad you enjoyed your dinner, Mr Lee. Would you care for a key if you’re going out?’
    â€˜No,’ said Mr Lee, more loudly than before. He had the sort of voice with the trick of carrying if he wanted it to. ‘Should be back by about eleven. We’re just meeting some friends for a drink.’
    â€˜Mind you don’t get too wet. It’s still coming down as hard as ever.’
    Lee laughed and his companion fetched their raincoats from the hooks on the wall. The latter helped his leader into his, and wriggled himself into his own. His long, bony wrists dangled beneath the cuffs. They said goodnight and walked out into the rain, shoulders hunched.
    The Church Dormant ambled out of the dining room, a stately shuffle which was supported by a walking stick. He mumbled something to Mrs Livabed, looked over at Dougal and Amanda, sighed and made his way to the armchair furthest away from them, by the window. Dougal felt guilty; just, he suspected, as the old man had intended. He also felt worried. He put down his coffee cup, the spoon rattling on the saucer, and lit a cigarette.
    â€˜That settles it,’ Amanda whispered. ‘Hanbury was telling the truth. And there’s the man who had him