London, England 2014
If young Terry Preston had known taking a photograph would cost him his life, he would never have touched his mobile phone. But he didn’t know, and he died.
The last night of his life was a very pleasant occasion spent with long-time friend Michael Barrow, thirty-one and strongly built with dark hair and blue eyes, at Barrow’s flat in Knightsbridge. Preston, six years Barrow’s junior, was his opposite in build, with a full head of unruly, fair hair. He wore thick glasses, which Barrow said made him look like an owl. They drank wine and ate a superb dinner of beef wellington prepared by Barrow, who was, in Preston’s words, a damn fine cook. Following the after-dinner coffee and liqueurs they played a game of chess which Preston won handily as he almost always did, thanks to Barrow’s utter lack of patience and consequent ill-considered decisions.
After a flourishing declaration of checkmate, Preston chuckled and shook his head. “You never learn, Mike. You need to take the time to set a strategy, not just charge forward with everything on the board as if you were storming the Bastille.”
“I know,” said Barrow, with a rueful grin, “but the blitzkrieg gambit does work sometimes, even on you.”
“Only when I’m tired,” said Preston, “and in case you didn’t know, blitzkrieg was very carefully planned and highly organized.”
“More brandy?” asked Barrow. “There’s another bottle of the best sitting there in the kitchen feeling alone and neglected.”
Without waiting for an answer, he made for the kitchen, but muttered, “Damn,” as his mobile phone chirped its electronic summons. Glancing at the screen, he smiled apologetically and said, “It’s the boss,” and disappeared into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
Preston, left alone, looked around the spacious, expensively furnished sitting room. He knew it well. Leather sofa and deep armchairs, a sizeable flat screen television on one wall with all the auxiliary sound and video accoutrements anyone could wish for. Old maps and documents, all elegantly matted and framed, hung on the other walls. To his left, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stood on either side of a glass door providing access to a small balcony which overlooked the building’s landscaped central courtyard.
Preston often wondered where Barrow got all his money. He said he worked for a firm of consultants headquartered in Germany but evaded any further questions.
“Can’t tell you much more,” he would say. “Security and all that, you know.”
Occasionally, Preston conjectured that Barrow might work for MI 5 or 6, or some other such agency, and lived a James Bond-like existence. It was an entertaining thought, but somehow, he couldn’t see his friend suavely insinuating himself into the inner sanctums of foreign governments, much less into the beds of glamorous female spies from the Balkans, or anywhere else, for that matter. He was not a bad-looking fellow, Preston reflected, but no one would have said he was handsome. His parents had not been particularly well off — he made no secret of that — his father having gone from one dead-end job to another all his life. However, they now lived in a posh retirement development in Bristol, the colossal rent covered by Barrow faithfully each month. Preston also knew Barrow travelled a good deal, although he never revealed his destinations, saying only it was all part of the job. Preston concluded, therefore, whatever his consulting work was, it paid bloody well, and that was certain.
Barrow’s muffled voice drifted out to Preston as he let his eye wander over the bookshelves. He was on the point of deciding he would go and get the brandy himself, when his attention was unexpectedly arrested by something he had never seen before. The bookshelves were devoted to almost everything except books, but Preston knew his friend was not a great reader. When he did read — salacious novels usually — it was almost always in electronic form, so in the general absence of books, the shelves were home to porcelain vases and Toby jugs, crystal glassware, and other pieces of costly ornamentation. What brought Preston to his feet and hurrying across the room, however, was none of those things. What he had seen, resting on a carved wooden stand, was a flat, roughly oblong piece of bone, divided into squares by fine grooves, and about the size of a dinner plate. The bone, which was, in fact, the plastron or underside shell of a freshwater turtle, was partly covered by columns of small symbols which had been incised into its surface, and the surface itself displayed a network of cracks radiating like the root tendrils of grass from a point at the top where the bone was slightly blackened. Preston stared at the object for a moment, hardly able to believe what he saw, before whipping his phone from its belt holster, nearly dropping it in his haste, and taking a picture. Quickly entering a series of commands, he watched as the image was emailed away.
Willard needs to see this, he thought. The old boy’s going to go apoplectic with excitement.
“Sorry about that,” came Barrow’s voice from behind him. “I’ll just get that bottle of rotgut.”
“Mike,” said Preston, pointing to the bone as Barrow returned with the brandy, “where on earth did you get that?”
Barrow’s eyes narrowed, giving him a momentary look akin to wariness, or even guilt, but when he spoke, his voice was casual, off-hand.
“That? Oh, I picked it up in an antique shop a few days ago. Why?”
“Do you know what it is?”
“Haven’t a clue,” said Barrow, decanting the brandy into their glasses, his voice still neutral. “Just thought it looked intriguing, that’s all.”
“It’s a jiagu.”
“A what?”
“A Chinese oracle bone,” said Preston, grinning. “You can find loads of fakes, but this one’s real. Dates from the bronze age, you see. Around thirty-six hundred years ago, give or take a century or two.”
“Hardly,” said Barrow, coming to stand next to Preston and handing him his drink. “It only cost me fifteen quid.”
“No, it’s genuine,” said Preston, studying it again. “I’ve seen others, and I can read most of the characters on this one. In fact, I’ve seen it before, or a photo of it, at any rate.”
“Oh yes,” said Barrow, “I keep forgetting you’re into Chinese epi-something-or-other.”
“Epigraphy,” Preston said. “The study of inscriptions.”
“Right.”
“Oracle bones,” Preston went on as they reseated themselves, “were used for divination, just as the name suggests. That one’s especially interesting, because the inscription — ”
“Oh, no, Terry,” Barrow held up his hands, laughing, “I surrender. Please…not another Chinese history lecture.”
“All right,” said Preston, chuckling, “no lecture. But suffice it to say the inscription on that bone solves a couple of significant problems in Chinese history.”
“Okay,” said Barrow, after a sip of brandy, “I’ll take your word for it, but it’s a little hard to believe.”
“Well, it’s true,” said Preston, “and I took a photo of it and emailed it to Dr. Willard, my tutor at Oxford.” He paused for a moment before adding, somewhat diffidently, “I…I hope that was okay, Mike. I didn’t think to ask, I’m afraid.”
“No worries,” answered Barrow, with a wave of his hand, his blue eyes shining. “What did you tell him?”
“Nothing at all,” said Preston, with a grin. “I just sent the image. He’ll be beside himself with curiosity by the time I see him.”
“That’s a dirty trick,” said Barrow, laughing.
“Old Willard can read bronze age inscriptions as easily as he can a newspaper,” said Preston, “and if I’m right about what it says on that bone, we may have to re-write some history.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really, and I know something else as well. When word gets out, every sinologist from here to Mongolia will be clamoring to hear more about it.”
“Sounds all very dramatic,” Barrow observed.
“So, what’s the name of the shop where you found it?” Preston asked, after another mouthful of brandy. “Did they have any more of them?”
“You know,” said Barrow, frowning slightly, “I can’t recall the name just now, but I think that was the only one I saw. I told you it was cheap. Are you certain it’s not a fake?”
“Yes,” said Preston, “it’s authentic, and it really belongs in a museum.”
“No kidding?” said Barrow, with a grin. “Then maybe I can make some money off it.”
“Maybe,” said Preston, thinking it a little odd Barrow should so soon have forgotten where he bought the bone, but he mentally shrugged it off for the time being. The first priority was to translate the inscription, and then he’d try to persuade Barrow to donate the bone to the Ashmolean, Oxford University’s ancient and venerable museum of art and archeology. He hoped Willard would be able to see enough from the photo to translate what was there. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of asking Barrow if he could take it with him to Oxford but decided against it. He did not want to be responsible for it, and it was probably perfectly safe where it was.
By eleven o’clock, the tide had gone completely out in the bottle of brandy, and Preston got to his feet.
“I must get me gone, as Shakespeare would say. I’m off back to Oxford tomorrow, and I want to get an early start.”
“Well,” said Barrow, walking over to the glass door and peering out into the darkness, “I think it’s raining, and I know it’s damn cold, so let me give you a lift.”
“Heaven forefend,” said Preston, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. “You’re much too full of alcohol. I can easily walk. It’s not that far.”
“It is in this weather,” countered Barrow. “You could catch a bus.”
“Not worth the wait,” said Preston. “I’ll be fine on foot.”
“You sure?” asked Barrow, as Preston retrieved his hat and coat from their peg in the hall.
“Perfectly, thanks anyway, Mike. I’ll be home in a quarter of an hour. Twenty minutes, tops.”
Preston shrugged on a heavy raincoat and planted a wool cap firmly on his head before bidding Barrow a cheery farewell, and a promise to be in touch again soon.
“I’m sure you’ll be interested in what old Willard says about that jiagu,” he finished, as he walked out into the corridor. “’Night Mike.”
Once outside, Preston turned right and set off at a brisk pace through the chilly February night. The road and sidewalk glistened in the incandescence of the streetlamps, and vehicles passed in a hiss of flying spray, their headlights speckled by the drizzling rain. Oblivious to the weather, however, he strode on, preoccupied with thoughts of the oracle bone. He was dwelling on its potential significance as he rounded the corner and started down the street on which he lived and was so absorbed he failed to notice the dark-clad figure stepping out of a shadowed alley as he passed. Preston hit the pavement a moment later, having never so much as heard the muffled cough of the silenced pistol shot that killed him.