“Well, yes, dear, you wanted to know about the ‘Young William’ ballad, didn’t you? It was Hughes who brought Monty the illuminated manuscript on which the ballad was based. A very nice young chap he was too, Monty says. And even at the time, of course, not without literary ambitions of his own. Anyway, this illuminated manuscript. It was done by one of the monks at Belham Abbey in Buckinghamshire apparently, and had somehow found its way to Germany after the Dissolution of the monasteries. A friend of Hughes’s had only recently rediscovered it there and brought it back to England and so Hughes showed it to Monty, who was, of course, one of the great medieval scholars of his age. Oh, Monty can still be very cross on the subject of the Dissolution, let me tell you. Especially in regards to the frightful carelessness about the books, you see. Aside from the most cursory listing by Leland, King Henry took absolutely no care whatsoever to preserve the monastery books! Isn’t that awful? All those lovely illustrated manuscripts that the dear monks took such pains over—lost, just lost. It upsets Monty quite terribly; I don’t even like to mention it in front of him.”

“No doubt,” Harper murmured, chewing her pipestem with great vigor. “And so you say Hughes somehow came into possession of this illuminated manuscript. And gave it to James. And James based a ghost story on it?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no!” cried Rose Ponsonby in her high screak. “Mr. Hughes based his dear little ghost story on it. That one you mentioned: ‘Black Annie.’ That was inspired by the medieval manuscript. All Monty did was translate the manuscript itself. From the Latin, you know. He had thought to publish his translation in the Cambridge Antiquary Society Publication, but doubts about its provenance prevented him. And, of course, he considered it far too shocking for his Western Railway guide to the abbeys. So it was never published at all.”

Harper had now leaned so far to the edge of her sewing chair that she was in danger of slipping off. She peered eagerly through her glasses at Rose Ponsonby. “Rose. My love. What happened to this manuscript? The one written by the dear monk and so forth. The one from Belham Abbey.”

“Yes,” said Rose, wistfully lifting her chin. “It was put in the British Museum.”

“Ah.”

“And destroyed, I’m afraid, on May tenth, 1941. German bombs, you know. It was burned along with two hundred and fifty thousand other books. A terrible loss.”

Harper felt her throat going dry. “Yes. No doubt. And what about James’s translation?”

“Oh, that was in the library at Kings.”

“But …”

“But it was stolen, apparently, some twenty years ago.”