The Scroll Read Online Free Page A

aloud.
    “Then sell it to them, at whatever price an impartial assessor considers to be fair,” Inglis replied, rising to his feet.
    How could Monty explain the power the old man had exerted, the extraordinary emotions in his face that Monty could not ignore. Put into words it sounded absurd.
    “I’ll get an assessment,” was all he could think of to say.
    Ingles smiled. “Good. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
    Monty did not get home until late, and the following day was taken up with matters of business at the shop. There was a great deal of paperwork to be attended to, access to bank accounts, dry but very necessary details.
    In the evening Monty went to his favourite pub to have supper in familiar and happy surroundings. He had called Hank to join him, but Hank had not yet returned home and was not answering his mobile, so Monty was obliged to eat alone.
    He had a supper that should have been delicious: freshly cooked cold pork pie with sharp, sweet little tomatoes, then homemade pickle with Caerphilly cheese on oatcakes, and a glass of cider. He barely tasted it.
    The setting sun was laying a patina of gold over the river bank and the trees were barely moving in the faint breath of wind beyond the wide glass windows. Monty was looking towards the west when he saw the man walking across the grass towards him, up from the riverside path. He seemed to have the light behind him as if he had a halo, a sort of glow to his very being.
    To Monty’s surprise the man came in through the door and across the room straight towards him, as if they knew each other. He stopped beside Monty’s table.
    “May I join you, Mr. Danforth?” he said quietly. “We have much to talk about.” Without waiting for the reply, he pulled out the second chair and sat down. “I do not need anything to eat, thank you,” he went on, as if Monty had offered him something.
    “I have nothing to talk about with you, sir,” Monty said a little irritably. “We are not acquainted. I have had a very long day. One of my close friends has just died tragically. I would prefer to finish my dinner alone, if you please.” He was aware of sounding rude, but he really did not care.
    “Ah, yes,” the man said sadly. “The death of poor Mr. Williams. Yet another victim of the powers of darkness.”
    “He was burned to death,” Monty said with sudden anger and a very real and biting pain at the thought. “Fire is hardly a weapon of darkness!”
    The man was handsome, his face highbrowed, his eyes wide and blue, filled with intelligence. “I was speaking of the darkness of the mind, Mr. Danforth, not of the flesh. And fire has been one of its weapons since the beginning. We imagine it destroys evil, somehow cleanses. We have burned wise women and healers in the superstitious terror that they were witches. We have burned heretics because they dared to question our beliefs. We have burned books because the knowledge or the opinions in them frightened us and we did not wish them to spread. And pardon me for bringing it back to your mind, but you have seen the results of fire very recently. Did you find it cleansing?”
    In spite of himself Monty’s mind was filled with the stench of burning and the sight of Roger’s charred and blackened body on what was left of the bed. It made him feel sick, as though the food he had just eaten were revolting.
    “Who are you and what do you want?” he said harshly.
    “I am a scholar,” the man replied. “I am someone who could add to the world’s knowledge, without judgment as to who should know what, and who should be permitted to conceal truth because they do not agree with it, or have decided that this person or that one could find it difficult or uncomfortable. I would force no one, but allow everyone.”
    “What do you think is in it?” Monty asked curiously.
    “A unique testimony from the time of Christ,” the scholar replied. “One that may verify our beliefs—or blow them all apart. It will be a