“Sandra’s crotch!” yelled the chief librarian, hopping about like a good ’un.

And then the crowd gave a bit of a surge and the fists began to fly.

Omally got his hands on the treasure chest, but the mate, who wasn’t giving up without a struggle, head-butted him in the stomach, knocking him into the hole. The lady in the straw hat began to belabour all and sundry with her handbag. The young man with the beard, whose name was Paul and who knew not only about the blues and Socratic irony but also Dimac, brought down the bloke who was kicking Pooley with a devastating blow known as the Curl of the Dark Dragon’s Tail.

And as if on cue, for always it seems to be, the distinctive sound of a police car siren was to be heard above the thuds and bangs and howls of the growing melee.

Omally clawed his way up from the hole. “The mate’s getting away with the chest, Jim,” he shouted. Jim, now in the foetal position, responded with a dismal groan.

The police car swerved to a halt and three policemen leapt from it. One had a face to be reckoned with, another rejoiced in the name of Joe-Bob.

“Let’s give those new electric batons a try,” said the one with the face.

And things went mostly downhill after that.

13

“No,” said Professor Slocombe. “No, no and again no.” He gestured to the muddy casket on his desk. “Impossible! Ludicrous!”

“I’m sure it’s the real deal,” said Jim.

“Oh, I’m quite sure it is. But I have been searching for the scrolls for years – decades – and you… you…”

“Found them,” said John. “We’re quite proud of ourselves really.”

“Ridiculous! Absurd!” Professor Slocombe shook his head.

“We thought you’d be pleased,” said Jim.

“Oh, I am. I am.” The Professor peered at Pooley. “Why is your hair sticking straight up in the air like that?”

Jim made a very pained expression. “I was doubled on the ground and this policeman came up behind me with an electric truncheon and stuck it right up my…”

“Quite!” The Professor waved his hands in the air. “I don’t think we want to go into that.”

“Exactly what I screamed at the policeman. But it didn’t stop him.”

The Professor fluttered his fingers. “Just sit down,” he told Jim.

“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

Professor Slocombe sighed and fluttered further.

“Go on,” said John. “Open the box. You know you want to.”

“Of course I want to.” The Professor sat down at his desk. “But it’s all so…”

“Impossible?” said Jim.

“Ludicrous?” said John.

“Those, yes. How did you find the scrolls?”

“We’ve Jim to thank for that.” John patted his companion on the shoulder. “Jim put himself into a mystical trance and travelled mentally back in time.”

“There’s no need to take the piss,” said Professor Slocombe.

“I’m not. That’s exactly what Jim did.”

Professor Slocombe shook his head once more. “You two must have done something good in a former lifetime,” he said.

Two heads shook.

“Quite the opposite,” said Jim.

“Well, you must tell me all about it.”

“There was this monk,” said Jim, “and he…”

“At some other time.” Professor Slocombe ran his fingers lightly over the casket. “Have you opened it already?”

“Ah, no,” said Omally. “You see, we couldn’t run and open at the same time.”

“I don’t think I quite understand.”

“There was a bit of bother,” said Jim. “A minor fracas.”

“Hence the policeman with…” Professor Slocombe made the appropriate wrist movements.

“Amongst other things. Two yobbos nipped off with the library bench, you see, and the chief librarian ran amok with a pneumatic drill.”

“They had to restrain him in a straitjacket,” said John.

“But not before he’d destroyed the police car,” said Jim.

“Was that before or after he fractured the gas main?” John asked.

“After,” said Jim. “Remember, you were being beaten up by the hole-bloke’s mate when you smelt the gas.”

“So it wasn’t the chief librarian who set off the explosion?”

“No, it was the policeman’s electric truncheon. We were both running away by then.”

“Most people were running away by then.”

“Well, they would, what with all those blokes abseiling down from the helicopters and everything.”

“And the tear gas,” said John. “And the horses.”

“That hole-bloke’s mate gave you a right seeing to,” said Jim.

“Yes. I loved every minute of it.”

“What?” said Professor Slocombe.

“The hole-bloke’s mate was an eighteen-year-old college girl on work experience,” Jim explained.

“She was fast, too,” said John. “She outran the police dogs.”

“But a marksman brought her down with a rubber bullet.”

“I thought it was the fellow on the water cannon.”

“Gentlemen,” said Professor Slocombe. “Gentlemen.”

“Yes?” said John and Jim.

“Will you both shut up!” He rang his little brass bell.

Presently Gammon arrived with a bottle of champagne and three glasses.

“Fetch a glass for yourself, Gammon,” said the Professor. “We should all celebrate this together.”

“I’ll be fine, sir,” said the retainer, taking a swig from the bottle. “Oh, do excuse me. I had a bit of trouble getting back from Budgens, what with the army having closed off most of the streets and declaring martial law…”

“And everything,” said Jim.

And Everything.

The champagne glasses clinked together, toasts were called and soon the bottle emptied.

Professor Slocombe sat down at his desk and placed his hands upon the casket. “Before I open this,” he said. “I am going to ask you to close your eyes for a moment of silent prayer.”

Jim looked at John.

And John looked at Jim.

“Something serious is corning, isn’t it?” said Jim.

“Something very serious. Just humour me.”

Sunlight streamed in through the French windows. And outside in the magical garden the birds ceased their singing. As the four men closed their eyes and held their breath, the air within the study seemed to offer up a sigh. And just for a second, or two, or was it ten, or was it a lifetime of seconds and minutes and hours and days, there was absolute peace and tranquillity.

Absolute.

And then the moment passed. Each man exhaled and somehow felt embarrassed and uncomfortable. As if they had lain themselves utterly bare. And had experienced something so special and so moving that it physically hurt.

“Something happened,” said Jim, clutching at his heart. “Something wonderful happened. What was it?”

Professor Slocombe smiled. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Something wonderful is just beginning.” He put his hands to the casket’s lid and lifted it. And then the study air filled with the scent of lilacs.

John Omally crossed himself. “The odour of sanctity,” he whispered.

“Correct, John, the perfume that issues from the incorruptible bodies of the saints.” Professor Slocombe spoke the Latin benediction, reached into the casket and took out something wrapped in a red velvet cloth. And this he laid upon his desk. Gently turning back the covering he exposed the scrolls. Latin-penned, embossed with the papal seal.

“Oh yes,” said Professor Slocombe. “Oh yes indeed.”

“It is them, isn’t it?”

The snow-capped scholar looked up at the man with the electric hair-do, the two black eyes and the bloody nose. “You have been through quite a lot for these, haven’t you, Jim?” he said. “But do you really know just what you’ve found?”

“The Brentford Scrolls,” said Jim, proudly.

“The Days of God,” said Professor Slocombe. “Jim, you may very well have altered the entire course of human history through your discovery.”

“Sandra’s…”

“No,” said John. “No, don’t say that.”

Professor Slocombe spoke. “When Pope Gregory changed the calendar from the Julian to the Gregorian, he did it for purely practical reasons. There was nothing mystical involved. But, you see, the precise date of Christ’s birth had never been known for certain. The coming millennium, the year 2000, is only an approximation. The Pope wasn’t aware that when he signed the papal bull authorizing the Days of God, he would be creating the wherewithal for someone in a future time to ensure that the millennium was celebrated on the correct day of the correct year.”