Philip looked puzzled.
'It's a revisionist work — Newton as some wacko sorcerer or something. . Now I remember,' she added and tapped the opened book with her fingers. 'It hinged on the idea that Newton was a dedicated alchemist.'
'Yeah,' Philip replied. 'I remember it too. The book came out a few years back. I read a review in The Times'
'Newton wasn't just an alchemist,' Laura replied and looked up from the book. 'Looks like he was seriously into black magic. Says here: "Newton was an adept in the black arts. Evidence for this astonishing fact may be found among the writings he kept hidden until his death. These were held in secret by his disciples for fear of tarnishing the great man's enormous scientific reputation. It was only in 1936 under the auspices of the economist and Newton scholar John Maynard Keynes that these documents were rediscovered — more than a million words on occult subjects ranging from divination to alchemy.'" 'So he published the legitimate scientific stuff, but kept the risque material well away from prying eyes?'
'Apparently. He couldn't have let his interest in the occult become known; it would have destroyed his career.'
'And you think this Principia Chemicum could have been one of his secret works?'
'Not sure yet.' Laura flicked to the index of the biography in her lap. 'He wrote all his documents in Latin, it was the standard form of the time.' 'But it's odd that he should use the Latinised version of his name. But. . Ah-ha,' she said after a moment. 'Listen. . "Newton's most famous work, his Principia Mathematica is sadly not paired with a Principia Chemicum — what would have been a definitive work describing his alchemical findings. He leaves us clues and hints, but no manuscript offering an account of success in producing the mythical Philosopher's Stone. This is because, like many hundreds of researchers before and after him,
Newton, for all his extraordinary talents, never did accomplish his ultimate aim. He never did forge the Stone with which he could find the method of producing gold from base metal; he was not offered eternal life, and he never could commune with the Almighty, at least not as a living man.'"
A few minutes later they entered the cutting into the Chilterns and began the long, steep descent crossing the border from Buckinghamshire into Oxfordshire. In the dark they could see little of the magnificent panorama that daylight could offer, a patchwork quilt of cultivated fields stretching to the horizon.
Laura closed the book, flicked off the interior light and switched on the radio. 'Fancy some music?'
Pushing a preset button marked '1' all they got was static. '2' and '3' were the same. With '4' the car was filled with power chords, a Van Halen track from the mid-1980s. Philip started to head-bang. 'Yeah, baby. .'
Laura pushed button number five and turned the volume down. A cacophony of atonal sounds cascaded from the speakers. 'Must be Radio 3,' Philip said. 'Concerto for three sinks and a vibrator, anyone?' he quipped. 'For God's sake, let's have Van Halen.'
'Not likely,' Laura laughed. She switched through a couple of French long-wave stations, some rap coming from a local independent and then found Radio Oxford and what sounded like the tail end of the news.
. The head of the Estonian delegation, Dr Vambola Kuusk, declared that the meeting had been a great success and that he hoped the European commission would abide by their earlier recommendations.' There was a pause.
'And now to some local news. Police are becoming increasingly concerned over the whereabouts of Professor James Lightman, Chief Librarian at the Bodleian Library. His car was found around ten o'clock this morning, left abandoned on Norham Gardens in North Oxford. Police say there was no sign of a struggle and that the professor left his briefcase on the passenger seat and that his keys were still in the ignition. We will be providing a phone number at the end of the programme for anyone with information that may help Thames Valley police.'
Chapter 31
Oxford: 12 August 1690. Close to midnight.
For a few seconds, John Wickins thought he was going to pass out with the heat and the pain. In spite of Robert Boyle's soothing balm and careful ministrations, the burn on his arm was almost as painful as it had been that morning, and the headache he had suffered all day was only a little less oppressive.
He, Boyle and Hooke had passed through the labyrinth, and now they stood gasping for breath in the corridor that led to the chamber beyond. They had glimpsed the three men in front of them just once, as they entered the wine cellar of Hertford College — Newton, du Duillier and another figure, hooded, whose identity they were not certain about, had entered the tunnels ahead of them and disappeared into the maze.
Now the members of the cabal that had formed around Newton, and who shared his dark secrets,
had entered the chamber. A faint sliver of light emerged where the door had been left slightly ajar.
Outside, the three Guardians were pressed against the slimy wet wall of the corridor, each of them trying to hold their breath. They had extinguished their single torch and were preparing for action. From the chamber they could hear a man's voice chanting barely discernible words, long monologues that were punctuated periodically by unintelligible phrases intoned by all three voices. A rivulet of sweat meandered down Wickins's back and he tightened his wet palms on the handle of his blade. To his right stood Hooke, cursing under his breath, his face and tunic soaked with sweat. To his left, Boyle had unsheathed his sword. It caught the narrow beam of light from the opening into the chamber and in this reflected light Wickins could see the old man's faint profile. He was staring ahead at the door, every muscle tensed. As Wickins studied him, Boyle moved away from the wall and took three long, rapid, silent strides towards the chamber. Reaching it, he beckoned to the other two. They crossed the space, and Boyle yanked the door wide open. The three men ran into the room with their swords at the ready.
The smell of turpentine, sweat and human flesh, the oppressive wet air and the hum of the unholy incantations assaulted their senses. The three members of Newton's cabal, hooded and dressed in heavy black and grey satin robes, stood before the pentagram at the far end of the room. The central figure held aloft a small red orb.
The Guardians had the element of surprise on their side and Boyle was determined not to squander it. He dashed forward towards the man with the orb, grabbed him around the neck and dragged him away from the pentagram. The ruby sphere fell to the floor and rolled across the stone where it came to rest under the pentagram. Pulling the man to his feet, Boyle pressed his sword to his throat. The other robed figures stood rooted in shock as Hooke and Wickins ran forward and stopped with the tips of their blades only inches from their shrouded faces.
Boyle released his grip on his captive and whirled the man round. They could all hear him snarl from under his hood. But he was powerless. Boyle had his rapier against the man's Adam's apple. 'All three of you, remove your hoods,' Boyle commanded.
None of the men moved. 'Remove your hoods,' Boyle repeated. He had not raised his voice, but there was a new venomous intensity to it.
Slowly, Newton obeyed. His long greying locks were stuck to his damp face. Through the veils of hair his black eyes burned with fury and loathing. 'Who in God's name do you think you are?' he hissed. 'What authority to you have here?'
Boyle did not flinch, but held Newton's gaze. 'Unlike you,' he said, 'I have every right to be here, Professor Newton.'
Newton smirked, the skin of his face folding into moist creases. He looked like a caricature of Mephistopheles. 'You interfering fool!' he hissed, his thin voice trembling with pent-up fury. 'I am the Master here. I alone understand the words of the sages. I am the true inheritor of the Light, the Path, the Way'