Page 55 of The Secret Christmas Library

The power was back on in Buckie, where the RNLI station was.

The blessed warmth of the cabin of the boat, the hot tea they were given, the warm red blankets they were all wrapped in felt like very heaven.

A medic checked them out, bandaged Theo’s poor head and announced them shocked but otherwise very lucky.

A passing tanker had called in the fire.

Mirren kept apologising to them for it being so early on Christmas morning, and a few of the kindly men and women laughed and one or two said their kids would be up already so it didn’t really make much difference, but that the rest of them had volunteered that day, and would they like to stay and share their Christmas breakfast?

None of them could sleep and nobody had anywhere to go. Theo, though, had thought to grab his phone, and he plugged it in. There were a zillion messages, and he looked at it, grimaced and was tempted to switch it off again.

There were boiling hot showers and fresh T-shirts with RNLI written on them and clothes that went in a tumble dryer and came out fluffy and delicious and everything they needed to feel cosy again, even though Mirren occasionally shivered despite herself.

She kept seeing the castle, outlined against the starry sky.

They all devoured an enormous amount of porridge with thick cream and a slug of whisky for Christmas; then sausage, haggis and potato scones, washed down with mug after mug of tea and thick slices of fried toast. It was the most delicious meal she had ever tasted.

Jamie clearly agreed with her, and Esme didn’t even make any remarks about whether anyone was being a vegetarian or not, so that was something.

Apart from that, they hardly spoke, each counting up the cost of what had happened, and what was left. As if they even knew.

‘I’ll need to call Mum,’ Jamie murmured to Esme.

‘She won’t care,’ said Esme, and Mirren squeezed his hand, sad that it was true.

‘So, it was all for nothing,’ said Theo, eventually. ‘We didn’t find anything.’

Jamie glanced up from the table, where he’d been eating a fourth slice of toast.

‘Oh, my God,’ he said. ‘I nearly forgot!’

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, hanging on the wall.

‘Thank God I didn’t put it in the tumble dryer,’ he said, and he took out the little packet. ‘Have you seen this before?’ he said to Bonnie, who shook her head.

They all gathered round.

‘It might be nothing,’ warned Jamie. ‘More letters, or directions to something that might not be there any more.’

He unwrapped the envelope, which was padded.

‘Hang on,’ said Theo, feeling in his trouser pocket. ‘I think I still have . . . ’

‘You rescued your gloves?’ said Mirren.

‘I’m here in a professional capacity!’ said Theo. ‘Are you?’

And Mirren blushed, even as he grinned at her to let her know he was only joking.

Under the utilitarian bare bulb of the lighthouse common room, Jamie donned the gloves and unwrapped, carefully, the layers and layers of bubble wrap.

Inside, there was a small, crumbling, ancient book.

On the wooden cover was the rough outline of a bearded man, in what had clearly once been gold, and some lettering Mirren couldn’t make head nor tail of.

None of them touched it; they just looked at it.

It was beautiful, the lettering carefully placed and stamped, even though faded to a dull dried blood colour; the cover ancient painted wood.

It was clearly terribly, terribly old. The drawn man’s face was serious; hooded eyes looked out from down the centuries.

‘I don’t even want to . . . ’ Jamie started, obviously loath to open it.

‘Don’t touch it,’ said Theo suddenly, his voice stricken, all his playfulness gone.

They all turned to look at him.

‘What is it?’ said Jamie.

‘I don’t know for sure,’ said Theo. ‘I don’t know, but . . . ’ He pulled out his newly charged phone. ‘I think . . . it can’t be.’ He did some frantic Googling. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Ooohh! No. It can’t be.’

‘What?’

‘The Protoevangelium,’ he shook his head. ‘No. No. I don’t believe it.’

Mirren looked at the incredibly ancient thing, amazed it could cause such a reaction.

‘The proto what?’ said Esme.

‘The Protoevangelium,’ he looked at them. ‘It’s a gospel.’

‘What, like Matthew, Mark, Luke and John?’

‘Yes’ breathed Theo. ‘But not by them. By James.’

‘Which James?’ said Esme. ‘Grandfather?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Theo. ‘I mean James. James, the brother of Jesus.’

There was silence.

‘Jesus had . . .?’

‘It’s controversial,’ said Theo, ‘to say the least. It’s a nativity gospel. The story of Jesus’s birth.’

They all stared at it.

‘From that time?’

‘No, no, we don’t have . . . this is a printing.

This is it printed. It was printed . . .

in 1552. The Church suppressed it. Too much Mary in it.

There is one – one – extant in the entire world.

It’s in the Musée National du Moyen ge in Paris.

It’s a Greek translation from the original Syrian, from a long, long time ago.

Which is – well, people think it’s very like what they might have spoken in Galilee.

It might be as close to a contemporary account as we have. ’

They all stared at it.

‘It’s from 1552?’ said Mirren.

‘We don’t know,’ said Theo. ‘But it’s very important that we get it to someone who does.’

He swallowed hard. Bonnie patted him.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you emotional,’ said Mirren.

‘This is something very, very special,’ said Theo, in awe, wrapping it up carefully. ‘Can you look after it?’ he said to Jamie.

‘God, no,’ said Jamie. ‘We’ve already lost something precious tonight. Mirren, can you hold on to it?’

Mirren looked at Theo.

‘You take it,’ she said softly. ‘Then you can have your name in the British Museum too.’