assistant verger, who had a habit of popping up unexpectedly in the Cathedral or the Close. I turned in my chair and found myself looking up at David.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting you. The dean’s trying to track down a model of the Octagon, and there’s a possibility it may be in here.’
I screwed the cap on my fountain pen. ‘Not that I’ve seen, I’m afraid. But please have a look.’
He glanced round the library and smiled. ‘It’s looking much more organized than when I last saw it.’
‘So it should be,’ I said. ‘Now what about this model?’
‘The dean thought it might be in one of the cupboards.’
He nodded towards the long cupboard behind the table where I worked. It was about six feet high and built of dark-stained pine. Canon Hudson had told me that before the room was converted to the library, it had been used as the choir vestry and the cupboard had probably been built to house cassocks and surplices. It was full of rubbish now, he’d said, and when Gotobed had a spare afternoon he would investigate it properly. I’d tried the doors but they were locked.
David produced a key and unlocked the nearest door. Then he opened the other two, pulling open the three sets of double doors so the whole cupboard filled with light. What I noticed first was the skeleton of a mouse lying at the foot of one of the doors. Dust was everywhere, soft and gritty. I saw a bucket, a small mountain of prayer books, an umbrella stand, a stack of newspapers, an object like a wooden crinoline with a torn surplice draped over it, a clump of candlesticks, some of which were taller than me, a lectern, empty bottles and a cast-iron boot-scraper. I bent down to pick up one of the newspapers. It was a copy of the Rosington Observer from 1937.
‘There we are.’ David lifted the ragged surplice from the ecclesiastical coat hanger. ‘Extraordinary, isn’t it? I wonder who made it.’
‘Is that it?’
He shot me an amused glance. ‘Were you expecting something more lifelike? This shows what you don’t see – the skeleton supporting the whole thing.’ He flapped the surplice at the model, dislodging some of the dust. ‘It’s very elegant. A mathematical figure in wood. If I get the dust off, do you think you could help me lift it out?’
I ended up doing the dusting myself. Then we lifted the model out of the cupboard. It stood like the skeleton of a prehistoric animal on the library carpet.
‘It’s as if it’s got eight legs,’ I said.
‘Each of them rests on top of one of the pillars below. They’re beams supporting almost all the weight. Amazing, really – nearly sixty feet long, and they taper from just over three feet at the base to twelve inches at the top where they meet the angles of the lantern.’
His long fingers danced over the wooden framework. I didn’t understand what he was saying. I really didn’t try. I was too taken up watching how his hands moved and the expression on his face.
‘And then look how they twisted the lantern itself round so its sides are above the angles of the stone Octagon below. It splits the weight of each angle of the wooden Octagon between two pairs of these main beams that run down to the piers of the stone Octagon. Its legs, as you said.’ Suddenly he broke off, frowning. ‘But there should be a spire. Where do you think it’s got to?’
I pointed into the cupboard at what I had assumed was an umbrella stand. Admittedly it was a peculiar shape for the purpose but it did have a broken umbrella jammed into it. With a cry of triumph David lifted it out. I applied the duster and then he raised it on top of the model of the Octagon. It slotted into place. We both stood back to admire it. The whole model now stood over six feet high. Nearly two feet of this was the slender framework of the spire, also octagonal.
‘It’s based on the Octagon at Ely,’ David was saying. ‘Ours is five or ten years later and rather smaller. In one sense it looks as if Ely
‘I hope I’m not interrupting you. The dean’s trying to track down a model of the Octagon, and there’s a possibility it may be in here.’
I screwed the cap on my fountain pen. ‘Not that I’ve seen, I’m afraid. But please have a look.’
He glanced round the library and smiled. ‘It’s looking much more organized than when I last saw it.’
‘So it should be,’ I said. ‘Now what about this model?’
‘The dean thought it might be in one of the cupboards.’
He nodded towards the long cupboard behind the table where I worked. It was about six feet high and built of dark-stained pine. Canon Hudson had told me that before the room was converted to the library, it had been used as the choir vestry and the cupboard had probably been built to house cassocks and surplices. It was full of rubbish now, he’d said, and when Gotobed had a spare afternoon he would investigate it properly. I’d tried the doors but they were locked.
David produced a key and unlocked the nearest door. Then he opened the other two, pulling open the three sets of double doors so the whole cupboard filled with light. What I noticed first was the skeleton of a mouse lying at the foot of one of the doors. Dust was everywhere, soft and gritty. I saw a bucket, a small mountain of prayer books, an umbrella stand, a stack of newspapers, an object like a wooden crinoline with a torn surplice draped over it, a clump of candlesticks, some of which were taller than me, a lectern, empty bottles and a cast-iron boot-scraper. I bent down to pick up one of the newspapers. It was a copy of the Rosington Observer from 1937.
‘There we are.’ David lifted the ragged surplice from the ecclesiastical coat hanger. ‘Extraordinary, isn’t it? I wonder who made it.’
‘Is that it?’
He shot me an amused glance. ‘Were you expecting something more lifelike? This shows what you don’t see – the skeleton supporting the whole thing.’ He flapped the surplice at the model, dislodging some of the dust. ‘It’s very elegant. A mathematical figure in wood. If I get the dust off, do you think you could help me lift it out?’
I ended up doing the dusting myself. Then we lifted the model out of the cupboard. It stood like the skeleton of a prehistoric animal on the library carpet.
‘It’s as if it’s got eight legs,’ I said.
‘Each of them rests on top of one of the pillars below. They’re beams supporting almost all the weight. Amazing, really – nearly sixty feet long, and they taper from just over three feet at the base to twelve inches at the top where they meet the angles of the lantern.’
His long fingers danced over the wooden framework. I didn’t understand what he was saying. I really didn’t try. I was too taken up watching how his hands moved and the expression on his face.
‘And then look how they twisted the lantern itself round so its sides are above the angles of the stone Octagon below. It splits the weight of each angle of the wooden Octagon between two pairs of these main beams that run down to the piers of the stone Octagon. Its legs, as you said.’ Suddenly he broke off, frowning. ‘But there should be a spire. Where do you think it’s got to?’
I pointed into the cupboard at what I had assumed was an umbrella stand. Admittedly it was a peculiar shape for the purpose but it did have a broken umbrella jammed into it. With a cry of triumph David lifted it out. I applied the duster and then he raised it on top of the model of the Octagon. It slotted into place. We both stood back to admire it. The whole model now stood over six feet high. Nearly two feet of this was the slender framework of the spire, also octagonal.
‘It’s based on the Octagon at Ely,’ David was saying. ‘Ours is five or ten years later and rather smaller. In one sense it looks as if Ely
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