train from London.
‘Professor Kirby?’
‘Yes?’
‘How do you do. Petra Dixon.’ She shook his hand and her reading spectacles bounced on their chain against her small, no-nonsense bosom.
‘I should have introduced myself on the train,’ he said.
‘But you didn’t know me from Adam and I certainly had no idea who you were, so I would have found it rather odd,’ she replied simply. ‘I ran into Mrs Merluza in the Close just now and she told me you’d be on your way so I thought I’d wait outside in case you got lost,’ she went on, unlocking the door on to a short spiral staircase. As he followed her, Evan noticed that her hair was not cut short as he had at first supposed, but grown long then brushed back tightly off her head and swept up in an unexpectedly baroque chignon with a black velvet bow.
‘I trust you didn’t miss the miracle,’ he ventured.
‘I jolly well did,’ she said, pausing to open a second door into the high, vaulted chamber above. ‘My temper gets filthy if I don’t have seven hours’ sleep and I never turn in until I’ve heard the shipping forecast.’
‘Oh,’ he said, nonplussed. ‘I see.’
‘My brother-in-law’s a lighthouse keeper,’ she explained, reading his expression. ‘It helps me feel in touch. Had you not seen photographs?’ she continued.
‘No,’ said Evan who was involuntarily gazing up at the ceiling. ‘It’s incredible.
‘Mmh’, said Miss Dixon, sitting sidesaddle at her desk to change into her comfortable shoes before opening the mail she had brought up with her from downstairs. ‘Thirteenth-century. The shelves are much later of course. Downstairs is much the same only without the view and with stone thrones in place of books.’
The central single pillar seemed far too delicate to support such a massive structure. A maze of tracery radiated from it. The effect was like a magnification of the underside of a beech leaf. Though the Chapter House seemed round on the outside, within it was octagonal. The staircase and door took up one of the eight sides, high oak bookcases laden with riches took up four and the remaining three held leaded windows with views across the Close and on to the nearby windows of the Cathedral’s quire and south transept. The higher glass was clear though pleasantly uneven with age. The lower five inches of each window had been stained with a stylized design of running water with, here and there, a darting fish.
‘What exactly were you hoping to read?’ Miss Dixon’s tone brought him back to earth.
‘Pardon me,’ he laughed, ‘but I’m sure you’re used to people gaping.’ She said nothing so he dug in his briefcase and brought out an index card. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘ Barrow 341 to start with then Memling’s Gravitas and Barrow 22 – that’s On the Nature of Briddes .’
‘Very à propos ,’ Petra Dixon commented as she left her desk to find Barrow 341 , a twelfth-century compilation of miracles, fables and saintly legends.
‘How so?’ asked Evan. ‘May I sit here?
‘Yes do. It seems you’d be interested in this morning’s little phenomenon.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, because we need to carry out drastic building works in the east end, the patron saint is having to be moved.’ She pulled over a set of rolling steps, flipped down the brake shoe with her foot and began to climb them.
‘Saint Boniface of Barrow?’
‘Yes. You’ve done your homework, only it’s pronounced ‘Brew’.
‘Sorry. He’s the tall one with the sparkler, yes?’
‘That’s right. Anyway there was a service this morning for the opening of his tomb and a flock of doves shot from inside.’
‘My word.’
‘At least, I say doves but I wasn’t there and my informant owned to having been between long-range and reading specs at the time. But they were certainly white.’ Miss Dixon grunted slightly as she tugged a large, vellum-bound volume from the shelf.
‘Here. Let me,’ said Evan, bounding
‘Professor Kirby?’
‘Yes?’
‘How do you do. Petra Dixon.’ She shook his hand and her reading spectacles bounced on their chain against her small, no-nonsense bosom.
‘I should have introduced myself on the train,’ he said.
‘But you didn’t know me from Adam and I certainly had no idea who you were, so I would have found it rather odd,’ she replied simply. ‘I ran into Mrs Merluza in the Close just now and she told me you’d be on your way so I thought I’d wait outside in case you got lost,’ she went on, unlocking the door on to a short spiral staircase. As he followed her, Evan noticed that her hair was not cut short as he had at first supposed, but grown long then brushed back tightly off her head and swept up in an unexpectedly baroque chignon with a black velvet bow.
‘I trust you didn’t miss the miracle,’ he ventured.
‘I jolly well did,’ she said, pausing to open a second door into the high, vaulted chamber above. ‘My temper gets filthy if I don’t have seven hours’ sleep and I never turn in until I’ve heard the shipping forecast.’
‘Oh,’ he said, nonplussed. ‘I see.’
‘My brother-in-law’s a lighthouse keeper,’ she explained, reading his expression. ‘It helps me feel in touch. Had you not seen photographs?’ she continued.
‘No,’ said Evan who was involuntarily gazing up at the ceiling. ‘It’s incredible.
‘Mmh’, said Miss Dixon, sitting sidesaddle at her desk to change into her comfortable shoes before opening the mail she had brought up with her from downstairs. ‘Thirteenth-century. The shelves are much later of course. Downstairs is much the same only without the view and with stone thrones in place of books.’
The central single pillar seemed far too delicate to support such a massive structure. A maze of tracery radiated from it. The effect was like a magnification of the underside of a beech leaf. Though the Chapter House seemed round on the outside, within it was octagonal. The staircase and door took up one of the eight sides, high oak bookcases laden with riches took up four and the remaining three held leaded windows with views across the Close and on to the nearby windows of the Cathedral’s quire and south transept. The higher glass was clear though pleasantly uneven with age. The lower five inches of each window had been stained with a stylized design of running water with, here and there, a darting fish.
‘What exactly were you hoping to read?’ Miss Dixon’s tone brought him back to earth.
‘Pardon me,’ he laughed, ‘but I’m sure you’re used to people gaping.’ She said nothing so he dug in his briefcase and brought out an index card. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘ Barrow 341 to start with then Memling’s Gravitas and Barrow 22 – that’s On the Nature of Briddes .’
‘Very à propos ,’ Petra Dixon commented as she left her desk to find Barrow 341 , a twelfth-century compilation of miracles, fables and saintly legends.
‘How so?’ asked Evan. ‘May I sit here?
‘Yes do. It seems you’d be interested in this morning’s little phenomenon.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Well, because we need to carry out drastic building works in the east end, the patron saint is having to be moved.’ She pulled over a set of rolling steps, flipped down the brake shoe with her foot and began to climb them.
‘Saint Boniface of Barrow?’
‘Yes. You’ve done your homework, only it’s pronounced ‘Brew’.
‘Sorry. He’s the tall one with the sparkler, yes?’
‘That’s right. Anyway there was a service this morning for the opening of his tomb and a flock of doves shot from inside.’
‘My word.’
‘At least, I say doves but I wasn’t there and my informant owned to having been between long-range and reading specs at the time. But they were certainly white.’ Miss Dixon grunted slightly as she tugged a large, vellum-bound volume from the shelf.
‘Here. Let me,’ said Evan, bounding
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