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
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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.
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