Hays Mews, London
Whether Emily was driven more by grief or by reason Michael could not say. What he could not deny, however, was that the connections he had suspected were gaining hints of being something more. The sensationalist labelling of an American news report to one side, the fact that a man called Arthur was behind the attack on their home and the theft of a Gnostic manuscript, while at the same time a man called Arthur was harassing him for Gnostic manuscripts at the museum, was a little too much for coincidence.
‘Are you sure of the name?’ Michael asked. If it was a misremembered detail, there might not be any connection at all.
‘I’m positive. I can still hear their words, muffled by the linens in the closet.’
Michael’s doubts faded. Emily’s memory could rarely be faulted. It was an attribute that had helped her excel in academics from her youth. It had also been extremely annoying in their marriage, though most of the time Emily politely pretended that she didn’t remember every single faux pas committed by her husband since the first day they had met.
Michael’s voice took on an edgier tone.
‘Listen,’ he said, sliding the paper evenly between them, ‘you told me before that Catholic University suspects this manuscript might be a forgery, right? That’s why you were able to buy it so cheaply.’
A nod in affirmation.
‘Well, if that’s the case and these men were as certain as you say that they were looking at a map, then maybe their certainty might be a clue. Maybe it’s a forgery after all. Maybe the text is fake, designed to conceal what’s really here.’ Michael pointed down at the second page.
‘A map,’ Emily whispered.
‘There are plenty of ways that could be done.’
Emily’s mind started to speed through the possibilities.
‘If it’s a later manuscript, all sorts of avenues open up. The seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were filled with coded documents, layered inscriptions and the like.’
Suddenly, Emily’s shoulders sagged. She let her head loll forward, her appearance deflated. Michael could see the self-defeat start to spread over her features, and suddenly more than anything in the world he wanted to keep it from taking possession of her. Emily was a Midwestern girl-done-good, a woman who had risen to the top of her field thanks to a strength and resilience that seemed, to others, unending; but above all else Emily was his wife, and he knew there were weaknesses, too. Fragility. The appearance of her frailty brought out every protective impulse Michael had ever possessed. He reached out a hand, took her by a wrist, and placed the ancient manuscript in her grasp.
‘I don’t think so, Em. I think there might be more to this, and I know you’d want to chase up any possibility.’ He signalled to the page.
‘The men who killed Andrew thought there was more to this manuscript. The fact that they didn’t take this second page means we have a way to find out whether they were right, and maybe find a link to whoever they are in the process.’
Emily stared at the antique lettering covering the browned page. Michael softly touched her chin, turned her face towards his.
‘We’ve got to figure out what this text is hiding.’