Read Caroline Minuscule for Free Online Page A

place. The book was there; it was a glossy production, bound in green imitation leather with gilt lettering on the spine. Dr Pooterkin evidently had a high opinion of the value of his contribution to scholarship. Dougal leafed through it and was gratified to find that the Augustine manuscript was listed. It was still in the library there, surviving the Reformation and the upgrading of Rosington to the status of a cathedral.
    The lassitude which afflicted him in libraries (it had made being a library assistant a particularly hazardous occupation) surged over him as he stood there with the book in his hand. Oh, God, he wanted to go home and collapse in an armchair with a cup of tea. And talk to Amanda. It was only three o’clock. Perhaps if he took the book out he could work at home as efficiently as here. Besides the question of provenance, which Pooterkin could settle perfectly adequately, there was only the translation to do.
    The inside cover of the book sported, for some unfathomable reason, the red Reference Only label. Dougal glanced swiftly around him. There was no one behind him and on the other three sides he was protected by shelves. With practiced ease he slipped the book into his waistband, at the back where his jacket sheltered his bottom from prying eyes. Fortunately, the book was relatively thin; the only discernible effect, he thought, was that it possibly gave him a more upright carriage than usual as it nudged against his spine.
    At the entrance to the tube station he bought a
Standard
. Gumper was on page three: MAFIA - STYLE MURDER OF LECTURER ; it told Dougal less than Primrose knew.
    When he got back to Chiswick, Amanda was typing away with a frown on her face and a growing pile of used Tipp-Ex in the ashtray.
    Dougal made a pot of tea and settled down to translating. He had finished within an hour and wished he had arranged to meet Hanbury this evening instead of tomorrow.
    Next morning, Thursday, he dozed towards midday in the virtuous knowledge that there was no reason to get up. Amanda did: she went shopping and later brought him coffee and
The Times
in bed. As he leafed through the paper in the direction of the crossword, his eye caught a name he knew in the obituary column.
    H ANBURY ,
James Edward. Suddenly on February 8 in London. Funeral private.
    Dougal felt as if a safety curtain had been lowered between him and a golden future.
    He didn’t try to find out more about Hanbury’s death. It would have been stupid to push his luck. Perhaps Hanbury’s bosses were covering their tracks. Or maybe an old grudge from Hanbury’s past had caught up with him. Instead, Dougal counted his blessings: Hanbury’s 200 pounds retainer and the comfort of knowing that he was clear of a dangerous business.
    He intended to use the money to pay off his arrears of rent. Amanda persuaded him that they deserved a night out first. It was the sort of night which ends with breakfast at the Cafe Royal. After that, there seemed little point in using the remainder for debts.
    Dougal temporarily quashed his misgivings. It was a very pleasant weekend indeed – for some reason he and Amanda were happiest when the moving parts of their relationship were oiled by money. For a while they could forget the dank seediness of London. Even the weather seemed better when you had money for taxis.
    His happiness was accentuated by the absence of Gumper and Hanbury – it was something just to be alive in a world where people died with such alarming frequency.
    Beneath this realization lurked a less comfortable consequence of the week’s events. By Sunday morning Dougal could no longer pretend to himself that it wasn’t there. He extracted Amanda’s attention from the colour supplement and tried to explain it to her.
    â€˜Two murders, and I saw one of the bodies and collaborated with the killer. The funny thing was, it didn’t revolt me. And it doesn’t now.’
    â€˜You were sick after