The Book of Souls (Inspector McLean #2)(61)

‘Those markers, Inspector McLean, are all books Donald Anderson stole from our monastery when it burned to the ground twenty-five years ago. We had an extensive library, perhaps the most valuable collection of rare early religious works outside the Vatican. The sole purpose of our order was the protection of those books. So when the fire destroyed them, those of us who survived were distraught. We split up, went our separate ways. Travelled the world, as you say, spreading God’s word to try and atone for our sins.’

‘Except for Anderson. He came here, set up his bookshop and started murdering women. That doesn’t sound very holy to me.’

Father Anton sighed. ‘I liked Donald, truly. He was a friend for many years. I should have seen the change in him, should have realised what was going on. He knew the risks, more than any of us. But his heart was pure, that’s why he was given the task in the first place.’

‘What task? What is it Anderson’s supposed to have done? You say he stole books from your library. Do you think he set the fire in the first place?’ McLean suppressed the urge to shout. This really wasn’t something he wanted to deal with right now. Not after what had happened earlier in the day.

Father Anton didn’t answer straight away, so McLean let the question hang. It was a technique that worked well with criminal low-lifes, not so much with elderly ex-monks.

‘This is hard for me,’ Father Anton said eventually. ‘I swore a vow of secrecy. I made an oath in front of God. To break that is no small thing.’

‘If it helps, I can promise not to tell anyone else, unless it is absolutely necessary.’ McLean wasn’t sure why he was being so helpful all of a sudden.

‘Understand this, inspector. Some books, like those marked there in that catalogue, are rare and beautiful things. They are filled with the devotion of the monks who inscribed them centuries ago. Some of them took decades to complete. Lifetimes. They are special. They can inspire great deeds in men.

‘But there are other books that influence their readers far more directly. Not the words within them, not the meaning. For want of a better word, you might call them magic. But they don’t contain spells. They are spells.’

McLean could see where this was going, felt the stirrings of anger as his mind connected the dots. But there was something about the old monk’s voice, the sincerity in his face, that held him back.

‘One such book is the Liber animorum,’ Anton said. ‘The Book of Souls. It was our greatest treasure and our greatest curse. Some say that it was dictated to a monk by the devil himself; others that it was copied from words found painted in blood on the walls of the great crypt beneath the Temple of Solomon. Whatever the truth, it is a terrible thing. Those who read it are either driven mad or blessed beyond compare. It weighs your soul, you see inspector. And if your soul’s found wanting, then the book keeps it. And with each new corrupted soul, the book becomes darker, more powerful and less forgiving.’

Father Anton slumped back in his chair, as if the telling of this children’s tale had exhausted him. He reached for the mug of black, unsweetened tea in front of him and took a long, noisy drink.

‘And you think Anderson took this book.’

‘Took it, yes. Read it, too. And he was found wanting. That’s why he turned bad. It consumed his soul.’

McLean looked at the old man sitting in his kitchen; a total stranger to him. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was giving him the time of day, let alone listening to his mad tales. He was tired, irritable from days of frustration, lack of sleep and the slow picking of old scabs.

‘I can’t do anything for you,’ he said.

‘But inspector—’

‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave. I’ve had enough of people making excuses for Anderson. He wasn’t mad, wasn’t possessed by some demonic book. He was just evil, and now he’s dead.’

Father Anton didn’t move, just sat at the table, his hands cupped around his mug, shuddering gently as if even the warmth of the tea couldn’t reach him.

‘Look, if Anderson stole your books, all you need to do is contact the auctioneers. They’ll pull the sale until it’s all been cleared up.’

‘Those books are unimportant now.’ Anton nodded at the catalogue lying on the table. ‘In truth, they were never that important, though their value is immeasurable. Call them camouflage, if it helps. They were there to hide what our order was charged with protecting. What we failed to protect.’

Anton picked up the catalogue and flicked it open, leafing through the typed pages far too quickly for McLean to register any of the details within.

‘If something good comes of their sale, then so be it. At least the people who can afford them will know how to look after them.’

‘So why did you come here then? Surely the tea’s not that good.’

Anton didn’t raise a smile, but he shifted his gaze, stared McLean straight in the eye.

‘I’ve been through this list a dozen times. Donald never sold any of the books he stole from us; they’re all still there. Except one. It’s missing, inspector. The Book of Souls is gone.’





40





Boxing Day morning, early. Most of the country would still be in bed, sleeping off hangovers or hiding from their disappointment. McLean sat at the kitchen table, hands cupped around a mug of coffee as he stared out the window at the rising dawn; cold sunlight bouncing off the ice that had crackled onto every available surface. Mrs McCutcheon’s cat lay curled on a rug in front of the Aga, purring to no one in particular. Everything else was silence.