Hays Mews, London
‘There’s a second page?’ Emily’s revelation came as an unexpected bolt to Michael.
‘Andrew and I were looking over it last night,’ she answered. ‘Since you were staying over at your office for the working weekend on your new delivery, he had my sole attention for a good grilling. You know how curious he’s always been about our work.’
Despite her trauma, Emily took comfort in being able to say ‘our’, and stepped closer to Michael. His shift of career into academia – and, in particular, ancient history – following her adventures five years ago, had been a welcome joining of the minds. He’d proved just as good at it as she’d known he would be, and she often found herself wondering if his talents wouldn’t catch him up to her academic stature a little faster than pride might prefer. But today, in this moment, that affinity was a welcome support.
‘I was pointing out a few of the document’s peculiar phrases and vocabulary,’ Emily said. ‘When we were finished, I put it in the drawer nearby. It was late.’
Michael looked at the folder in Emily’s hands. The purpose-constructed manuscript file was nearly an inch thick, foam padding protecting the ancient document within.
‘Can I see it?’ he finally asked, motioning towards the file.
Emily took the folder to the dining table where she could lay it open carefully, motioning Michael to follow.
Contained within the lining was a single page of yellowed parchment, covered in carefully penned, medieval French script. Whoever had written the text had done so in a thick, black ink that had only slightly faded with age. The scribe had been diligent: there were still faint signs of the shallow indentations he had scored across the page to ensure straight and even rows of text.
As Michael examined it, his curiosity grew. To his right, Emily’s eyes reddened at the sight of something that was now more than an object of historical interest. This page bore some connection to the men who had killed Andrew. It was the only connection she had.
‘You can see,’ she said, stepping closer and forcing out her words, hoping that emotional overload might be avoided through a concentrated focus on the facts, ‘the script is of a style that would have been common in the fifteenth century. We’ve tested the parchment to confirm roughly that age, but we still suspect a later forgery. A forger could have had access to older materials. Molecular ageing can’t be faked.’
‘It’s in good condition, Em.’
‘I know, and that’s surprising, since it obviously wasn’t a terribly important document when it was written.’ Emily motioned towards a crossed-out correction, midway through the page, her mind supplementing the narrative with words she didn’t speak.
An unimportant document, typos and all. Of all the things to die for.
‘A rewrite?’ Michael questioned, examining the marking.
‘Just the one, in a passage on a series of shops in a town market. The original phrase translates as “thirty-two hands south-west,” but it’s been crossed out with a correction of “thirty-five”. That wouldn’t have been allowed in a formal document. This might have been a draft, or something for local use.’
Bastards.
Michael’s head bobbed in understanding. ‘The text itself, what’s it about?’
‘A pretty typical historical reflection on a Cathar community in the Languedoc countryside.’
‘Cathar,’ Michael repeated, looking up from the ancient document. That reference again. Emily had mentioned it on the phone.
His thoughts not yet fully formed, Michael found himself muttering, half under his breath. ‘Hard to not see a pattern.’
Emily studied him. ‘What do you mean?’ Something in Michael’s expression beckoned – a glint of a puzzle he wasn’t quite sure connected.
‘I’m not sure I should speculate,’ he caught himself, ‘given your emotional state.’
Emily’s expression instantly went hard.
‘Don’t you dare coddle to my “emotional state”!’ she snapped. ‘Emotions are about all I’ve got right now, but if you’ve got something more, you’re damned well going to tell me!’
Michael took the scolding calmly, recognizing his poor choice of words. Emily was not one to be condescended to. For all her strengths, it was one thing she was never willing to accept, especially from him.
‘I’m sorry. You’re right. But bear in mind, it’s probably all just coincidence.’
‘I will once you tell me.’
‘For months, right up to this morning,’ Michael started, his discomfort at the speculative line of thought showing through in his posture, ‘I’ve been pursued by a group seeking access to Coptic texts at the museum. Coptic Gnostic texts, dealing with various sects of the fourth and fifth centuries. Nothing unusual on its own, but then this morning my boss tells me to switch on the telly, and there’s a news report of a lad in the US who’s been arrested, calling himself a “Gnostic terrorist”.’
An unexpected comment. Emily felt a slight increase to her pulse.
‘But, that’s back in the States.’
‘I know. Coincidence, like I said. But then, this same morning, men break into our house and steal a document recounting the history of the Cathars, a French Gnostic sect.’
Three curiosities, all in a row, all with a common theme. Emily could see the intrigue, but it was too much coincidence to be consoling, even amidst the grab-for-anything hopefulness of her raw emotions.
‘They can’t be connected,’ she said. ‘My manuscript is about the Cathars, who had no real connection to the old Egyptian Gnostics. They were in a different part of the world, and they lived a millennium later.’
‘But they felt themselves to be a continuation of those earlier groups,’ Michael pointed out, for the moment strangely compelled by the curious ties between the three events that had consumed his morning. ‘And they held the same basic Gnostic beliefs: a radical division between body and spirit, a belief in the saving power of true, secret knowledge. In the request I rejected this morning, a letter by an Arthur Bell sought the museum’s manuscripts that dealt with precisely those themes.’
Emily froze, her skin suddenly clammy.
‘What did you say?’
Her eyes drilled into his, shaped by a new emotion Michael could read as if it were transcribed on her forehead.
Shock.
‘Which part?’ he asked.
‘The name, of the man who wrote to you.’
‘Arthur Bell,’ Michael repeated.
‘The map . . .’ Emily muttered, her memory surging. ‘They said the map was what he would need.’
‘Who would need?’ Michael was now completely lost.
‘They never said his last name.’ Emily grabbed her husband’s shoulders and turned him squarely into her face.
‘But they mentioned his first. I can’t forget it. The name was Arthur.’