Lucifer's Crown Read Online Free PDF

saints. So far he had completed St. Joseph of Arimathea, St. Bridget, and St Denis, the fresh colors of the new paintings glowing amongst the ghosts of the old. Now Thomas squeezed out a blotch of lapis lazuli and dabbled his brush in it. Kneeling, he touched the brush to the blue cloak of Mary, Queen of Heaven.
    The sound of footsteps made him spin around. “Ah—Alf. Good afternoon."
    "And to you, Thomas.” Alf Puckle squeezed through the door. “Here's the mobile. Canon O'Connell wants a word."
    Thomas wiped his hands and reached for the tiny device. “I never intended for you to play my secretary, Alf. These modern contrivances that are to be our servants make servants of us."
    "Right you are,” Alf said with a chuckle. “No rush bringing back the phone, Bess and I are laying on a high tea for the Americans. There's always an extra scone for you."
    "Thank you.” Thomas waited until Alf had paced away, then raised the telephone to his face. “Good afternoon, Ivan."
    Ivan O'Connell's cultured voice said, “I'm afraid it's not that good an afternoon, Thomas. The relic has been stolen."
    The relic. The Word as a work of Art. The book known as the Lindisfarne Gospels. Thomas sagged as though an assailant had just delivered a blow to his stomach. So it was happening, then, after all.
    "The curators of the British Library moved the Book to the new building two years ago,” O'Connell went on. “Or thought they had done. But Jane Buckley, their authority on medieval manuscripts, noticed that some details of the artwork were wrong. She made tests, and has pronounced their book a forgery."
    "A forgery,” Thomas repeated.
    "The thief went to the trouble to use the appropriate parchment and ink, and to copy the drawings line for line and color for color. Save that the copy is perfect."
    "Those details of the patterns the original artist left unfinished, to show his humility, are now complete."
    "Yes, just that. Jane, knowing my keen interest in the Book, rang me this morning."
    "Is the cover of the copy a forgery as well?"
    "No, it's the 1853 metalwork cover. An ordinary thief would pry off the gems and melt down the silver, I suppose, but..."
    "...an ordinary thief would not have gone to such great lengths to duplicate the Book. Nor would he have the resources to do so.” But then, Thomas told himself with grim certainty, Robin Fitzroy was no ordinary thief.
    "Scotland Yard are interviewing everyone who had access to the Book during the move,” O'Connell went on.
    "The secular authorities do excellent work. Even though I doubt if the theft of the Book is totally within their sphere, I trust you'll keep in contact with them."
    "Of course. Thomas, I must confess that when old Lionel Weston told me a canon of Canterbury has been the guardian of the Lindisfarne Gospels ever since the Book was brought south, and asked me to succeed him in that post, I thought the entire business was one of those English traditions preserved under glass, a quaint custom whose origins have been lost. Thanks to you, I'm no longer certain of that."
    "Thanks to you,” Thomas said, “for bringing me the news."
    Outside, automobile doors slammed. Judging by the cries of “awesome” and “is this cool or what?” the Americans had arrived. Those young, unclouded voices made Thomas feel dreadfully old and tired.
    "Well then,” O'Connell said. “How are you getting on with the chapel?"
    "I'm just now finishing the portraits on the rood screen."
    "Lovely. I'll be there December twelfth for the re-consecration."
    December twelfth . Six short weeks away, with the end of the year soon after. Judgment Day, perhaps. Perhaps the Apocalypse, that old Greek word meaning “revelation.” Thomas had intended for this chapel to be his offering to a Glastonbury renewed in faith as well as to God. But now he wondered if his work would, at the end, be naught but mockery.
    "I'll remember you and the Book in my prayers,” O'Connell concluded. “May the