Steve Ruskin's Blog - Posts Tagged "mystery"
Newton Cipher—Excerpt #6
For the next week or so, at the request of the publisher, I'll be posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. Enjoy! And if they whet your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher
EXCERPT #6
-------
ALFIE GILL
British Library
London
The guard buzzed them through the Staff Only door, and Trina followed Alfie Gill into the bowels of the British Library. They passed narrow rows of shelves stacked with books ten-feet high, ducked behind heavy, fireproof doors and down hallways, making their way into the bowels of one of the world’s largest libraries. Gill chattered the entire time.
“... Edelstein came highly recommended by Professor McFee. But then he recommended you just as highly. I cannot tell you how happy we are to have someone with your expertise to look at these pages.”
“Why me—or Edelstein?” she said. “Surely there must be a dozen British scholars who can authenticate a Newton manuscript?”
“True, true,” he said, leading her to a locked door. Fishing a key out of his pocket, he opened it and ushered her through with a gentlemanly sweep of his arm. Their labyrinthine journey had ended in a small room. Trina looked around. There was a table with a gray archival box and two sets of white cotton gloves; two simple chairs were nearby. Gill closed the door and offered her one of the chairs.
“British scholars will of course make the official announcement. But, as I’m sure you can understand, before we make a public statement we want to make sure what we’ve found is indeed authentic. Imagine: never-before discovered papers of Sir Isaac Newton! It will be the historical discovery of the decade. But should we announce such a thing too quickly and they turn out to be forgeries, we would look ridiculous. The concern of our director is that British scholars would not be impartial in this matter. They might ... jump the gun. So we turned to Edelstein, and now, to you.”
“But what about Professor McFee, at Cambridge? She must know about this. After all, you said she was the one who first recommended Edelstein.”
“I only told her that we needed some seventeenth-century documents authenticated and asked if she could recommend someone— someone outside Britain. And of course, I must insist you not take any photos of these documents during your investigation. I’m sure you understand. Shall we get started?”
“I understand. And yes, lets.”
He pulled on a pair of gloves and she did the same. Oils from their skin, or dirt from their hands, could damage the old, fragile documents.
“Are they all paper?” she asked. “Rag or some sort of flax pulp?”
“Partly,” Gill said, taking the lid off the box. “The bundle we found contained documents that seem to have been produced at different times. Two have been identified as standard paper pulp, beaten from combed flax.”
“Stamper?” she said, referring to the type of large wooden press used in the Middle Ages and Renaissance to help flatten wet pulp into sheets of paper.
“Yes. They bear the standard, pre-Hollander beater marks.”
Trina was thrilled to be talking shop with a fellow expert. “That certainly fits with the late-seventeenth, early eighteenth century time frame. Well within the parameters of Newton’s life.”
“Yes.”
“You mentioned that they were partly paper. Was there vellum as well?”
“Indeed,” Gill said. He dipped into the box and pulled out the first of the documents, a broad sheet that bore multiple fold marks. At the bottom was an attached ribbon, affixed with a wax seal. “This one is vellum parchment.”
“Thin sheepskin,” Trina said. “Far more expensive back then, but made to last a very long time. And reusable—you could just scrape the ink off and write over it today, if you wanted to.”
“I can’t tell you how many vellum parchments we have in our collection that look like they were just written a few decades ago, if not yesterday. Astounding stuff.”
“Is that a royal seal?” Trina reached forward and gently lifted the hard, coin-shaped blob of red wax that dangled at the bottom of the parchment’s ribbon. It looked like a polished stone—it was almost certainly hundreds of years old. Impressed into the wax on one side was an image of a seated ruler holding an orb and scepter—the standard symbology of a king. On the other was an image of a galloping horse and a rider holding a sword. Around the edges was an inscription in Latin.
“Regius Caroli II ... King Charles the Second. That also checks out.”
“This is a contract,” Gill said. “I’ve gone over it. My Latin is rusty, but it contains multiple provisions for some kind of work-for-hire. In addition to a lot of what we would call boilerplate, it specifies the delivery of two products. One is referred to as the ‘medicine,’ medicinae, and the other as the ‘cleanser,’ or purgo. You are welcome to review it at your convenience. But here ...” he pointed to the bottom of the contract “... is the signature.”
*Is. Newton, baccalaureus artium.
EXCERPT #6
-------
ALFIE GILL
British Library
London
The guard buzzed them through the Staff Only door, and Trina followed Alfie Gill into the bowels of the British Library. They passed narrow rows of shelves stacked with books ten-feet high, ducked behind heavy, fireproof doors and down hallways, making their way into the bowels of one of the world’s largest libraries. Gill chattered the entire time.
“... Edelstein came highly recommended by Professor McFee. But then he recommended you just as highly. I cannot tell you how happy we are to have someone with your expertise to look at these pages.”
“Why me—or Edelstein?” she said. “Surely there must be a dozen British scholars who can authenticate a Newton manuscript?”
“True, true,” he said, leading her to a locked door. Fishing a key out of his pocket, he opened it and ushered her through with a gentlemanly sweep of his arm. Their labyrinthine journey had ended in a small room. Trina looked around. There was a table with a gray archival box and two sets of white cotton gloves; two simple chairs were nearby. Gill closed the door and offered her one of the chairs.
“British scholars will of course make the official announcement. But, as I’m sure you can understand, before we make a public statement we want to make sure what we’ve found is indeed authentic. Imagine: never-before discovered papers of Sir Isaac Newton! It will be the historical discovery of the decade. But should we announce such a thing too quickly and they turn out to be forgeries, we would look ridiculous. The concern of our director is that British scholars would not be impartial in this matter. They might ... jump the gun. So we turned to Edelstein, and now, to you.”
“But what about Professor McFee, at Cambridge? She must know about this. After all, you said she was the one who first recommended Edelstein.”
“I only told her that we needed some seventeenth-century documents authenticated and asked if she could recommend someone— someone outside Britain. And of course, I must insist you not take any photos of these documents during your investigation. I’m sure you understand. Shall we get started?”
“I understand. And yes, lets.”
He pulled on a pair of gloves and she did the same. Oils from their skin, or dirt from their hands, could damage the old, fragile documents.
“Are they all paper?” she asked. “Rag or some sort of flax pulp?”
“Partly,” Gill said, taking the lid off the box. “The bundle we found contained documents that seem to have been produced at different times. Two have been identified as standard paper pulp, beaten from combed flax.”
“Stamper?” she said, referring to the type of large wooden press used in the Middle Ages and Renaissance to help flatten wet pulp into sheets of paper.
“Yes. They bear the standard, pre-Hollander beater marks.”
Trina was thrilled to be talking shop with a fellow expert. “That certainly fits with the late-seventeenth, early eighteenth century time frame. Well within the parameters of Newton’s life.”
“Yes.”
“You mentioned that they were partly paper. Was there vellum as well?”
“Indeed,” Gill said. He dipped into the box and pulled out the first of the documents, a broad sheet that bore multiple fold marks. At the bottom was an attached ribbon, affixed with a wax seal. “This one is vellum parchment.”
“Thin sheepskin,” Trina said. “Far more expensive back then, but made to last a very long time. And reusable—you could just scrape the ink off and write over it today, if you wanted to.”
“I can’t tell you how many vellum parchments we have in our collection that look like they were just written a few decades ago, if not yesterday. Astounding stuff.”
“Is that a royal seal?” Trina reached forward and gently lifted the hard, coin-shaped blob of red wax that dangled at the bottom of the parchment’s ribbon. It looked like a polished stone—it was almost certainly hundreds of years old. Impressed into the wax on one side was an image of a seated ruler holding an orb and scepter—the standard symbology of a king. On the other was an image of a galloping horse and a rider holding a sword. Around the edges was an inscription in Latin.
“Regius Caroli II ... King Charles the Second. That also checks out.”
“This is a contract,” Gill said. “I’ve gone over it. My Latin is rusty, but it contains multiple provisions for some kind of work-for-hire. In addition to a lot of what we would call boilerplate, it specifies the delivery of two products. One is referred to as the ‘medicine,’ medicinae, and the other as the ‘cleanser,’ or purgo. You are welcome to review it at your convenience. But here ...” he pointed to the bottom of the contract “... is the signature.”
*Is. Newton, baccalaureus artium.
Newton Cipher—Excerpt #7
For the next week or so, at the request of the publisher, I'll be posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. Enjoy! And if they whet your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher
---------
Excerpt #7
REPLACED
British Library, London
Sunday Morning
Trina was at the entrance of the British Library promptly at nine the next morning, passing again beneath the statue of Newton. The sculpture seemed less welcoming today, distracted and focused on his measurements.
She greeted him anyway. “Morning, Mister Newton.”
The doors were locked, but through the glass she saw the guard who had checked her in the day before.
He looked half asleep.
She rapped the glass with her knuckles. At first he ignored her, and then, when she was persistent, he held his two forefingers up next to each other and mouthed “open at eleven.”
“Alfie Gill!” she shouted. Then, with exaggerated lip movements, mouthed “ALFIE GILL!”
That seemed to jog a memory in the guard, and he stood slowly, consulted a clipboard, then came to the door.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Trina Piper. Mr. Gill said I could come after nine.”
“Right,” the guard said, ushering her into the foyer and locking the door behind them. “Mr. Gill has other visitors this morning, and I forgot you were on the list.”
She signed in and followed him through the silent library. Lights were off in many of the offices. It was Sunday, after all. The guard’s keys jangled in his fingers with each door they passed through, until finally she recognized the small hallway with the room she’d occupied the day before.
The guard’s keys jangled one final time as he unlocked the door. “Mr. Gill requests you wait in here, please.”
At the far end of the hall, in what must have been someone’s office, she heard raised voices. One was Gill’s voice, and he sounded frustrated.
“... being entirely unreasonable!”
Trina only heard part of the response, as there seemed to be a few other voices as well, some in another language.
“... decision was over my head, Alfie.” The guard cleared his throat.
“In here, Miss Piper.”
“Sorry.”
The guard closed the door. The room was as she’d left it yesterday— the manuscripts were still out on the table, the still chairs angled slightly out from under the table.
She had just powered up the computer when the door opened and Gill came in, looking flustered.
“Alfie,” Trina said, turning. “I’ve got exciting news! The symbols of Manuscript B are Enochian, and I’ve—”
She stopped short as two more men, and then a woman, appeared in the doorway as well. One of the men had wire-rimmed glasses that pinched his nose, giving him the appearance of a weasel. That man, and the woman, were both of average height, and both had cropped hair and wore dark clothes.
But they were mostly hidden—dwarfed would be the more appropriate term—by the third man, who looked to be well over six- and-a-half feet tall. His dark hair was parted over his high, pronounced brow, and a well-manicured mustache and beard framed the bemused expression on his face. He was staring at Trina with contempt.
Gill shot her a warning glance—shhh!—and positioned himself between her and the three strangers.
“A few moments, please,” he said to them, “while I explain the situation to Miss Piper here. You can wait in my office.”
Gill practically had to push the tall man back out the door, who moved back into the hallway reluctantly. When the door was finally closed, Gill leaned his back against it and closed his eyes, as if he’d just eluded a pursuer.
“Is everything okay?” Trina said.
“Miss Piper—ah, I, um ...” Gill began. “I’m afraid there’s been an unfortunate change of plans.”
---------
Excerpt #7
REPLACED
British Library, London
Sunday Morning
Trina was at the entrance of the British Library promptly at nine the next morning, passing again beneath the statue of Newton. The sculpture seemed less welcoming today, distracted and focused on his measurements.
She greeted him anyway. “Morning, Mister Newton.”
The doors were locked, but through the glass she saw the guard who had checked her in the day before.
He looked half asleep.
She rapped the glass with her knuckles. At first he ignored her, and then, when she was persistent, he held his two forefingers up next to each other and mouthed “open at eleven.”
“Alfie Gill!” she shouted. Then, with exaggerated lip movements, mouthed “ALFIE GILL!”
That seemed to jog a memory in the guard, and he stood slowly, consulted a clipboard, then came to the door.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Trina Piper. Mr. Gill said I could come after nine.”
“Right,” the guard said, ushering her into the foyer and locking the door behind them. “Mr. Gill has other visitors this morning, and I forgot you were on the list.”
She signed in and followed him through the silent library. Lights were off in many of the offices. It was Sunday, after all. The guard’s keys jangled in his fingers with each door they passed through, until finally she recognized the small hallway with the room she’d occupied the day before.
The guard’s keys jangled one final time as he unlocked the door. “Mr. Gill requests you wait in here, please.”
At the far end of the hall, in what must have been someone’s office, she heard raised voices. One was Gill’s voice, and he sounded frustrated.
“... being entirely unreasonable!”
Trina only heard part of the response, as there seemed to be a few other voices as well, some in another language.
“... decision was over my head, Alfie.” The guard cleared his throat.
“In here, Miss Piper.”
“Sorry.”
The guard closed the door. The room was as she’d left it yesterday— the manuscripts were still out on the table, the still chairs angled slightly out from under the table.
She had just powered up the computer when the door opened and Gill came in, looking flustered.
“Alfie,” Trina said, turning. “I’ve got exciting news! The symbols of Manuscript B are Enochian, and I’ve—”
She stopped short as two more men, and then a woman, appeared in the doorway as well. One of the men had wire-rimmed glasses that pinched his nose, giving him the appearance of a weasel. That man, and the woman, were both of average height, and both had cropped hair and wore dark clothes.
But they were mostly hidden—dwarfed would be the more appropriate term—by the third man, who looked to be well over six- and-a-half feet tall. His dark hair was parted over his high, pronounced brow, and a well-manicured mustache and beard framed the bemused expression on his face. He was staring at Trina with contempt.
Gill shot her a warning glance—shhh!—and positioned himself between her and the three strangers.
“A few moments, please,” he said to them, “while I explain the situation to Miss Piper here. You can wait in my office.”
Gill practically had to push the tall man back out the door, who moved back into the hallway reluctantly. When the door was finally closed, Gill leaned his back against it and closed his eyes, as if he’d just eluded a pursuer.
“Is everything okay?” Trina said.
“Miss Piper—ah, I, um ...” Gill began. “I’m afraid there’s been an unfortunate change of plans.”
Newton Cipher—Excerpt #8 (Last one!)
For the past week or so, at the request of the publisher, I've been posting short excerpts from my new supernatural thriller, The Newton Cipher. I hope you've enjoyed them! And if they've whetted your appetite an you want to read the entire book, you can find it here: The Newton Cipher
------
Excerpt #8
NEWTON’S TOMB
Westminster, London
After lunch, the Tube’s Jubilee line deposited her at the Westminster stop, right in the heart of London’s tourist district. If she needed proof she was in London, this was it. The buildings of Parliament were there, with the massive Gothic clock tower that tourists called Big Ben—although, as Trina read in a guidebook she downloaded to her phone, Big Ben wasn’t the name of the tower itself, but rather the nickname of large bell inside the tower. The tower everyone called Big Ben was actually called the Elizabeth Tower.
You learn something new every day.
The river Thames flowed slow and wide behind Parliament, and across Westminster Bridge she saw the London Eye, a huge ferris wheel. Unlike the tiny, two-person seats on the ferris wheels she’d ridden at the Wyoming state fair as a kid, the London Eye had thirty or so glass- enclosed capsules that could hold over twenty people each. And they could stand and walk around inside, too.
Trina stared at the wheel, wondering if she had enough time for a ride. The views from the top must be magnificent. The guidebook said it rose four hundred feet in the air.
But it was past three o’clock now, and the sun was close to setting. Reluctantly she turned away and walked past the buildings of Parliament, toward the beautiful, thousand-year old collection of religious buildings known as Westminster Abbey.
The biggest of the Abbey’s buildings was the main church. As she approached the tourist entrance she noted with pleasure there were no lines waiting to get inside.
Until she got closer ... and her heart sank. The ticket office was closed. The church itself was closed; opening hours were Monday through Saturday only.
“Shit,” she said aloud. An elderly couple walking by glared. “Ah ... sorry.”
She scurried around to the front of the church and was surprised to see the doors open, a man in a suit and overcoat standing at the main door. He had the door open a crack, and was peeking inside. There was no one waiting to get in. A limo was parked nearby, in the semi-circular drive that came off Victoria Street, and suddenly Trina recognized where she was from the televised royal weddings she’d seen—it was the same place the crowds had watched as Diana and Charles, and much later Kate and William, arrived and departed for their own weddings in horse- drawn carriages.
And now it was nearly empty, just another old church on a blustery November afternoon.
A placard nearby said: No Entry. Wedding in Progress.
Clearly whatever ceremony was going on inside was no royal wedding, given the lone usher out front and the single waiting limo. Then she saw a discarded invitation on the ground nearby, and picked it up.
-----
Mr. & Mrs. Francis Carlisle, of Chelsea, London Request the Honor of your Presence
at the Marriage of their Son
Rupert Frederick
to
Ms. Emma Mary Hobarth, of Houston, Texas at the Church of the Abbey of Westminster
On Sunday, November ...
at 3 o’clock
-----
Trina did a double take as her memory flashed back to breakfast. Hobarth ... Texas .... Wasn’t that the name of the family she’d overheard at the cafe that morning? The one planning their day, and with the sick family member in the hotel?
She glanced at her phone. It was 3:23 p.m. The usher was still peering into the church. Outside the limo was idling quietly, its driver reading a paper in the warmth of the front seat.
A few tourists were walking by, taking pictures in the fading light. At the far end of the semi-circular drive, past the waiting limo, Trina saw a man, quite tall, in the shadow of an arched stone doorway. His dark hair was parted, and she caught a glimpse of his moustache and beard, a darkness that framed the rest of his face. But it was the cruel, amber eyes she instantly recognized from earlier that morning.
The tall Russian.
Trina turned, eager to leave, and saw, across the road, a man and a woman strolling slowly toward her. Both had short, cropped hair, and she saw the glint of streetlights reflecting off the smaller man’s spectacles.
Shit.
Behind the limo, the tall man had stepped down onto the sidewalk and was coming her way. He moved his hand in a circular motion between them, and at first Trina thought he was giving her some sort of wave. But then his face set in a scowl, and he pushed his hand toward her. The air around her was suddenly freezing. Or maybe it was her blood. He increased his pace, as she suddenly began to feel weak ... slow ... cold ...
Shit!
Suddenly her chest felt hot, and she inhaled rapidly. Energy rushed back. Instinct, or fear, or panic—maybe all three—urged her to act, to do something, anything to get away. Trina jogged up the steps and approached the usher.
“Hey, um, I’m so sorry I’m late—cough, cough. I’ve been sick and was supposed to stay in the room, but I simply couldn’t stand to miss, uh, Ella’s wedding.”
“Emma?”
“Right, Emma,” Trina said, leaning in. Achoo! “My head’s a little foggy. All that cold medicine.” Sniffle.
The usher backed away, and pulled a list from his coat pocket. “And you are?”
“Jenn—Julie Hobarth,” she corrected quickly. Please be Julie, please be Julie.
He looked her over, clearly unimpressed by her attire: jeans, running shoes, and a Notre Dame sweatshirt (“Go Irish!” it said, which could mean something very different on this side of the Atlantic), and her puffy coat.
“I know, I know, but I’ve been sick, like really sick. Never had a chance to get my, uh, dress fitted.”
“I’m quite sure no one has ever worn denim to a Westminster wedding,” he scoffed. “What exactly is your relation to the bride?”
“I’m Emma’s, ah, aunt.”
“It says here you’re one of her cousins.”
“Ha!” Trina laughed, then feigned a spasm of coughing to cover her sheer panic. “Whoops! It’s so hard to keep track. You know us Texas Hobarths, there’s so dang many of us.”
“I’m quite sure I do not,” the usher said.
She hawked a faux wad of phlegm and spat it at his feet. He jumped back.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Trina said. “They say it’s best to get rid of the gunk right away. So, can I go in or what?”
“You’re rather late. It started half an hour ago.”
“Oh, come on, please?” she glanced around. The tall Russian was still there, watching her intently from the sidewalk beyond the limo. The other two were pretending to take pictures of a nearby ceremonial column, but they were inching closer. “Please? Emma would kill me if I missed her special day, with, um, Roger.”
“Rupert,” the usher said, icily.
“Oh, so you know him?”
“We were at Oxford together.”
“Oxford! I hear that place is off the hook! And so full of well-
dressed men, too.” She reached in, as if to stroke the lapels of his coat, then suddenly tripped forward, right into his chest, while letting loose with the wettest Ahh-choo! she could muster.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, regarding her with a look of utter revulsion. “Fine. But for God’s sake, be quiet. Go through the Nave, the ceremony is in the Choir. Bride’s family on the left.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.
“Such a gentleman,” she said. “But don’t let Emma’s daddy hear you goin’ and cussin’ like that. We Baptists don’t take kindly to hearing the Lord’s name taken in vain. Especially at church.”
Trina gave him her cheeriest smile and ducked into the church’s dark interior.
“Americans,” she heard him mutter as he closed the door behind her.
✽✽✽
The Nave of the church rose high overhead, delicate stone columns merging into pointed Gothic arches that hung like stone curtains draped high above. It was astounding to think that stone could be made to appear so weightless, like fabric, especially having been crafted so many centuries ago. Between each column, on the outside walls, stained-glass windows that depicted kings and queens, and bishops and saints, turned the last light of day into rainbow shadows that tinted the tile floor.
It was quiet, and Trina took a breath to calm her nerves. What the hell were the Russians doing here? It was Sunday. Maybe Alfie Gill kicked them out of the library early. But why come here? Were they following her?
Toward the front of the Nave, in a space enclosed by elaborately carved wooden screens, she heard the rustle of a seated crowed and the amplified voice of someone leading a ceremony.
The wedding was still going on, which meant she had time.
Walking quietly, thankful for the rubber soles of her running shoes, she crept from column to column until, in an alcove near the choir, she found—
Isaac Newton.
Not the real Isaac Newton, of course, but a Greek-god-like version, sculpted in marble, draped in rippling stone robes, all muscled and square-jawed and serene. He was reclining on four carved-marble books, representing his most important publications, including the Principia Mathematica and Optiks. His work on alchemy was, Trina noticed, conspicuously absent.
------
Excerpt #8
NEWTON’S TOMB
Westminster, London
After lunch, the Tube’s Jubilee line deposited her at the Westminster stop, right in the heart of London’s tourist district. If she needed proof she was in London, this was it. The buildings of Parliament were there, with the massive Gothic clock tower that tourists called Big Ben—although, as Trina read in a guidebook she downloaded to her phone, Big Ben wasn’t the name of the tower itself, but rather the nickname of large bell inside the tower. The tower everyone called Big Ben was actually called the Elizabeth Tower.
You learn something new every day.
The river Thames flowed slow and wide behind Parliament, and across Westminster Bridge she saw the London Eye, a huge ferris wheel. Unlike the tiny, two-person seats on the ferris wheels she’d ridden at the Wyoming state fair as a kid, the London Eye had thirty or so glass- enclosed capsules that could hold over twenty people each. And they could stand and walk around inside, too.
Trina stared at the wheel, wondering if she had enough time for a ride. The views from the top must be magnificent. The guidebook said it rose four hundred feet in the air.
But it was past three o’clock now, and the sun was close to setting. Reluctantly she turned away and walked past the buildings of Parliament, toward the beautiful, thousand-year old collection of religious buildings known as Westminster Abbey.
The biggest of the Abbey’s buildings was the main church. As she approached the tourist entrance she noted with pleasure there were no lines waiting to get inside.
Until she got closer ... and her heart sank. The ticket office was closed. The church itself was closed; opening hours were Monday through Saturday only.
“Shit,” she said aloud. An elderly couple walking by glared. “Ah ... sorry.”
She scurried around to the front of the church and was surprised to see the doors open, a man in a suit and overcoat standing at the main door. He had the door open a crack, and was peeking inside. There was no one waiting to get in. A limo was parked nearby, in the semi-circular drive that came off Victoria Street, and suddenly Trina recognized where she was from the televised royal weddings she’d seen—it was the same place the crowds had watched as Diana and Charles, and much later Kate and William, arrived and departed for their own weddings in horse- drawn carriages.
And now it was nearly empty, just another old church on a blustery November afternoon.
A placard nearby said: No Entry. Wedding in Progress.
Clearly whatever ceremony was going on inside was no royal wedding, given the lone usher out front and the single waiting limo. Then she saw a discarded invitation on the ground nearby, and picked it up.
-----
Mr. & Mrs. Francis Carlisle, of Chelsea, London Request the Honor of your Presence
at the Marriage of their Son
Rupert Frederick
to
Ms. Emma Mary Hobarth, of Houston, Texas at the Church of the Abbey of Westminster
On Sunday, November ...
at 3 o’clock
-----
Trina did a double take as her memory flashed back to breakfast. Hobarth ... Texas .... Wasn’t that the name of the family she’d overheard at the cafe that morning? The one planning their day, and with the sick family member in the hotel?
She glanced at her phone. It was 3:23 p.m. The usher was still peering into the church. Outside the limo was idling quietly, its driver reading a paper in the warmth of the front seat.
A few tourists were walking by, taking pictures in the fading light. At the far end of the semi-circular drive, past the waiting limo, Trina saw a man, quite tall, in the shadow of an arched stone doorway. His dark hair was parted, and she caught a glimpse of his moustache and beard, a darkness that framed the rest of his face. But it was the cruel, amber eyes she instantly recognized from earlier that morning.
The tall Russian.
Trina turned, eager to leave, and saw, across the road, a man and a woman strolling slowly toward her. Both had short, cropped hair, and she saw the glint of streetlights reflecting off the smaller man’s spectacles.
Shit.
Behind the limo, the tall man had stepped down onto the sidewalk and was coming her way. He moved his hand in a circular motion between them, and at first Trina thought he was giving her some sort of wave. But then his face set in a scowl, and he pushed his hand toward her. The air around her was suddenly freezing. Or maybe it was her blood. He increased his pace, as she suddenly began to feel weak ... slow ... cold ...
Shit!
Suddenly her chest felt hot, and she inhaled rapidly. Energy rushed back. Instinct, or fear, or panic—maybe all three—urged her to act, to do something, anything to get away. Trina jogged up the steps and approached the usher.
“Hey, um, I’m so sorry I’m late—cough, cough. I’ve been sick and was supposed to stay in the room, but I simply couldn’t stand to miss, uh, Ella’s wedding.”
“Emma?”
“Right, Emma,” Trina said, leaning in. Achoo! “My head’s a little foggy. All that cold medicine.” Sniffle.
The usher backed away, and pulled a list from his coat pocket. “And you are?”
“Jenn—Julie Hobarth,” she corrected quickly. Please be Julie, please be Julie.
He looked her over, clearly unimpressed by her attire: jeans, running shoes, and a Notre Dame sweatshirt (“Go Irish!” it said, which could mean something very different on this side of the Atlantic), and her puffy coat.
“I know, I know, but I’ve been sick, like really sick. Never had a chance to get my, uh, dress fitted.”
“I’m quite sure no one has ever worn denim to a Westminster wedding,” he scoffed. “What exactly is your relation to the bride?”
“I’m Emma’s, ah, aunt.”
“It says here you’re one of her cousins.”
“Ha!” Trina laughed, then feigned a spasm of coughing to cover her sheer panic. “Whoops! It’s so hard to keep track. You know us Texas Hobarths, there’s so dang many of us.”
“I’m quite sure I do not,” the usher said.
She hawked a faux wad of phlegm and spat it at his feet. He jumped back.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Trina said. “They say it’s best to get rid of the gunk right away. So, can I go in or what?”
“You’re rather late. It started half an hour ago.”
“Oh, come on, please?” she glanced around. The tall Russian was still there, watching her intently from the sidewalk beyond the limo. The other two were pretending to take pictures of a nearby ceremonial column, but they were inching closer. “Please? Emma would kill me if I missed her special day, with, um, Roger.”
“Rupert,” the usher said, icily.
“Oh, so you know him?”
“We were at Oxford together.”
“Oxford! I hear that place is off the hook! And so full of well-
dressed men, too.” She reached in, as if to stroke the lapels of his coat, then suddenly tripped forward, right into his chest, while letting loose with the wettest Ahh-choo! she could muster.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, regarding her with a look of utter revulsion. “Fine. But for God’s sake, be quiet. Go through the Nave, the ceremony is in the Choir. Bride’s family on the left.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to her.
“Such a gentleman,” she said. “But don’t let Emma’s daddy hear you goin’ and cussin’ like that. We Baptists don’t take kindly to hearing the Lord’s name taken in vain. Especially at church.”
Trina gave him her cheeriest smile and ducked into the church’s dark interior.
“Americans,” she heard him mutter as he closed the door behind her.
✽✽✽
The Nave of the church rose high overhead, delicate stone columns merging into pointed Gothic arches that hung like stone curtains draped high above. It was astounding to think that stone could be made to appear so weightless, like fabric, especially having been crafted so many centuries ago. Between each column, on the outside walls, stained-glass windows that depicted kings and queens, and bishops and saints, turned the last light of day into rainbow shadows that tinted the tile floor.
It was quiet, and Trina took a breath to calm her nerves. What the hell were the Russians doing here? It was Sunday. Maybe Alfie Gill kicked them out of the library early. But why come here? Were they following her?
Toward the front of the Nave, in a space enclosed by elaborately carved wooden screens, she heard the rustle of a seated crowed and the amplified voice of someone leading a ceremony.
The wedding was still going on, which meant she had time.
Walking quietly, thankful for the rubber soles of her running shoes, she crept from column to column until, in an alcove near the choir, she found—
Isaac Newton.
Not the real Isaac Newton, of course, but a Greek-god-like version, sculpted in marble, draped in rippling stone robes, all muscled and square-jawed and serene. He was reclining on four carved-marble books, representing his most important publications, including the Principia Mathematica and Optiks. His work on alchemy was, Trina noticed, conspicuously absent.
