The Scroll Read Online Free Page B

new truth—or a very old one”
    Monty already knew what he was going to say, but he asked anyhow.
    “And why do you approach me at a time of grief and interrupt my supper?”
    “Actually you have finished your supper,” the man indicated Monty’s empty plate with a smile on his finely sculpted face. “But I find it hard to believe that you do not already know why I have come. I wish to buy from you the scroll, at whatever price you believe to be fair. I would ask you to give it to the world, if I thought that would prevail upon you, but I know that you have some responsibility to the estate of which it is presently a part. And please do not tell me that it is not within your power. With Mr. Williams’ most unfortunate death, it is more than within it, it is your obligation.”
    Monty felt the sweat break out on his brow in spite of the closing in of the evening, now that the sun had definitely faded.
    “You are not the only person seeking to buy it,” he answered.
    “Of course not,” the scholar agreed with amusement. “If I were, I would begin to doubt its authenticity. The Church, at the very least, will bid high for it. But surely money is not your only consideration? That would disappoint me very much, Mr. Danforth. I had thought far more highly of you than that.”
    “I have not yet been able to get anyone in to verify what it is,” Monty prevaricated. “It is impossible to put a price on it.”
    “When you have verified it, it will still be impossible,” the scholar responded. “But you are being disingenuous. I think you have at least an educated guess as to what you have. And I assure you it is what you believe it to be.”
    “I have no beliefs as to what it is,” Monty insisted angrily.
    The scholar’s face was filled with awe, his eyes almost luminous in the waning light. “It is the lost testament of Judas Iscariot,” he said so quietly his voice was barely audible. “We have known of its existence for centuries. It has been hunted by all manner of people, each with his own reasons either to hide it or to make it known.”
    So it was true. Monty sat on the familiar river bank in the English twilight and thought of Jerusalem two thousand years ago, of betrayal and sacrifice, of blood, pain, ordinary human feet trudging in the dust on a journey into immortality. He thought of faith, and grief, and human love.
    “Is it?” he asked.
    “I think you know that, Monty,” the scholar answered. “It must be given to the world. Mankind has a right to know what is in it—a different story, or the one we all expect. And in simple morality, does not the accused have a right to testify?”
    The thought whirled in Monty’s head, and he found no words on his tongue. The enormity of it was too great. Little wonder he could not photocopy it!
    The scholar leaned across the table closer to him. “You would be a benefactor to justice, Monty,” he said, unable to keep the urgency out of his voice. “An honest man, a true scholar who sought the truth above all emotional or financial interest, a man of unsoiled honesty.”
    For a moment Monty was overwhelmed by temptation. He drew in his breath, and then he remembered the old man with his granddaughter, and the promise he had made him. Why did he want it? He was the only one who had given no reason. He remembered again the knowledge of time and pain in his eyes.
    “I will consider it,” he said to the scholar in front of him. “If you leave me an address I will be in touch with you. Now please leave me to have another glass of cider and a piece of cake.”
    Actually he did not bother with more cider, or the cake. He paid his bill and left. As soon as he was in his car he tried Hank again on his cell phone. This time Hank answered.
    “I must see you immediately,” Monty said before even asking how Hank was or what he was doing. “Please come to the bookshop. I’ll wait for you.”
    “Are you alright?” Hank said anxiously. “You sound terrible.