College in Sussex, and I came through for him. I worked hard at my studies, was good at games, and won a scholarship to St Matthew’s College, Allminster. I’d been here ever since. My life was here: I still played rugger and boxed for my university, my work was here, and my best friends Claude and Tiernan were here.
Ever since our earliest undergraduate days, Claude, Tiernan and I had been extremely close. We were a triumvirate; a manly, drinking-hall-forged fellowship of esoteric jokes and shared tastes.
Claude was blond. From the Cotswolds. Extroverted for a scholar - he had been our ladies’ man until he’d settled down with Anne. Claude was the only man I referred to by his first name. Tiernan, who’d never liked his first name, and preferred us to use his last, was the best read and most intelligent among us. He was intense, handsome, dark. And as for me: I am the sportsman, the scholar-athlete.
* * *
Allminster Central Police Station was a large, square building erected just after the war. In this run-down area of Allminster it looked to be the newest structure for many blocks. There must have been fifty offices inside: the building was two storeys tall, municipal red brick with rows of clean, white-painted window frames spaced evenly along each level. Four wide steps led up from Crawford Road towards a swing-doored entrance.
As I neared, two black cars suddenly charged out of the station driveway and sped past, their urgent-faced, uniformed occupants presumably on serious police business. More policemen were out the front, smoking and talking, some in uniform, some not. I was surprised: this was Tuesday evening, but the station looked intensely manned, as though the police could not dare to relax their grip on Allminster.
I leaned my bicycle against the wall by the steps and made my way inside, wondering what on earth I was doing there.
2
“The Saxons, like almost all the people living in Germany,
are ferocious by nature. They are much given to devil
worship and are hostile to our religion.”
The Life of Charlemagne, c. 830 AD
Aage Nielsen opened the frosted glass door of his office.
“Thank you, Coatsworth,” he said to the sergeant who’d led me from the front desk. “That will be all.” His accent was thickly Scandinavian. The officer nodded and left as Nielsen extended his hand to me. “You are Mr Haye, I presume. I am Detective Sergeant Aage Nielsen.”
Nielsen’s grip was firm. He was a tall, lean man in his late fifties, with striking blue eyes and combed silver hair. I noticed that he seemed modestly dressed except for his shoes, which were good quality, and polished to a high sheen.
The detective’s office was immaculate. Half a dozen grey filing cabinets lined one wall, and his oak desk was clear except for a folder and a calendar thoroughly annotated in the same small hand as the back of his calling card. The windows onto Crawford Road were spotless on both sides. Even the floor was clean.
“Have a seat, sir,” Nielsen said, walking slowly to one of the windows. He stood at ease, military style, and looked out onto the street.
“It will be a hot night, won’t it?” said the detective vaguely. He had the foreigner’s tendency to use fuller, more formal turns of phrase.
“Yes …” I said. There was momentary silence. I hoped he wouldn’t mention Claude or the stolen jet wolf.
“Now, you are no doubt wondering why I’ve called you in here, sir.”
“I am, Mr Nielsen.”
The detective turned and looked at me. He said: “It is nothing to do with your good friend, Mr Claude Pownall, I assure you.”
Nielsen made it sound as though Claude was in some sort of trouble. I hesitated; what did he want with me, then? “So how can I help you, Mr Nielsen?”
“You work at St Matthew’s College, Mr Haye. You are an English History don.”
I was guarded. “Yes, I’m an Anglo-Saxon history specialist …”
“The fifth to eleventh centuries, is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you speak Latin, sir?”
“I can lecture in Latin if required.” I paused for a moment, conscious of my hasty overconfidence. “I’ve studied the language since I was eight, and it’s the language that much of the material relevant to my field is written in.”
“Very good. Please bear with me a moment, sir.”
The detective went to one of the filing cabinets and opened its bottom drawer. Painstakingly, he removed the hanging folders and put them in a neat pile on the floor. He then carefully took out a folded oilskin roughly two feet wide by two long. From his gentle treatment of the cloth, it appeared to me that there was something delicate inside. A familiar odour reached my nose: the stink of rotting parchment …
Nielsen spread the dark brown oilskin on his desk and waved his hand over it, once more looking at me directly with those brilliant eyes. “I have here some things written in Latin. Can you translate them into English for me?”
I went over for a quick look. There were seven or eight sheets of parchment, each about one and a half by two feet, covered in tiny writing. The script was still quite legible, and definitely Latin. Suddenly I felt much surer that my being here might not have anything to do with Claude.
“Yes, of course, Mr Nielsen,” I told him. “It’ll probably take a couple of hours, though.” Looking around the detective’s office, I noticed something else. “Those windows are pretty small, and the light here’s not good. Can you arrange a lamp for me, please?”
“You can use the interview room. It has very bright lights.”
“All right. And I’ll need some things from my office: my Latin dictionary, a couple of textbooks.”
Nielsen frowned, as though I’d overstepped a mark. “I have a Latin dictionary here. You are welcome to make use of it if you must.”
He took it from a shelf behind him. It was appallingly basic, a beginner’s guide. How could I work with that? “I’ll at least need a better dictionary, sir -”
“I am sorry,” Nielsen interrupted, “there is simply no time. Please, let us go to the room. Whatever you can manage will be sufficient.” He wrapped the parchment again in the oilskin.
Suppressing considerable agitation, I left the room with him. What was the point of calling me in to translate something if I couldn’t even access a decent dictionary? And why wouldn’t he properly explain the context of my summons?
We walked down the linoleum-tiled corridor, past the dozen other frosted doors that I had passed on my way from the front desk. They had names and titles painted on them in black. Detective Inspector Bernard Kraay … Superintendent M. K. Joyce … Motor Division … Armoury … The station was busy. Telephones rang shrilly, typewriters clacked, uniformed and non-uniformed policemen scurried back
