The paper was the letter that Steven had sent to Winston Twain a year before, articulating his theory on the origin of the Voynich Manuscript.
Steven perused the document and a chill ran down his spine.
The letter was partially smeared with blood.
The blood of the late Professor Winston Twain.
Steven studied the letter in silence, and then squinted as he tried to make out a handwritten note that the Professor had scribbled on the left hand side of the letter. He read it aloud: “Theory wrong, but close. Call Cross, have a chat.”
Steven looked up at Natalie. “Then he hadn’t ignored my letter after all.”
“No,” Natalie said. “He didn’t. I found the letter under his head. When he died…” Natalie paused, and swallowed hard. “When he died, his head collapsed on the desk, and your letter was under it. The coroner said he died of a massive aortic aneurism, and that he probably broke his nose when it hit the desk. That’s why—”
“Yes, I understand,” Steven said and looked at the bloodstained letter again. “But now I’m really puzzled. You keep saying your father was murdered by Frank, and yet you just described a congenital defect as the cause of death. Those don’t add up. Either he was killed, or he died of natural causes. Which is it?”
“I believe that he was being tortured when the aneurism ruptured. The coroner also found some unexplained abrasions on his hands, but ultimately said they were inconclusive. I don’t think they were. I believe Frank lost patience and came for the Scroll,” Natalie insisted.
Steven sighed. “You realize that’s completely impossible to prove, right? I mean, you could also theorize that the devil was having a drink with him when his aorta burst. It doesn’t make it so. I’m not trying to be difficult…”
“I can appreciate your skepticism. But it doesn’t change my opinion.” She gestured to the letter in Steven’s hands. “I wanted you to see this first because you need to know that my father respected your skills,” she said.
“I’ll take that as a high compliment. But none of this really sheds any light on whether your father was able to study the Scroll and make heads or tails of it,” Steven said matter-of-factly.
“I’m sure he didn’t. My father and I were close, and he hadn’t called to tell me of any significant discovery. If he found something new about any of his projects, he would call me immediately. He was like a child. Always excited, always wanting to share with me first.”
Steven offered a sympathetic smile. “I can understand that.”
She gave an almost imperceptible nod of thanks.
“How did you come by the Scroll?” Steven asked.
“He gave it to me before he died,” Natalie said. “He insisted that I safeguard it as soon as he had it in his possession.” She stared at the Picasso lithograph on the wall behind Steven’s head. “It’s almost as if he knew someone would be coming after him sooner or later.”
Steven frowned.
“What?” Natalie asked, noticing the change in his expression.
“If your father and Frank had an agreement to share the Scroll, why would he kill him? Assuming your torture theory is right.”
“Because my father, for all of his failings, was in the end a religious man. He was torn — his academic side wanted to decrypt it, but he didn’t want to do anything overtly sacrilegious or damaging to those who shared his faith. I know it caused him a great deal of anxiety. Once he’d seen the Scroll I think his conscience got the better of him, and he told Frank that the information contained in the Scroll was best left undiscovered,” Natalie said. “My father told me that he was going to sell his entire retirement portfolio of stocks and bonds, as well as his summer home in Aspen, and give Frank back his money so there could never be contentions that Frank had any claim on the Scroll.”
Steven let out an exasperated sigh. “Let’s say I completely buy all this and agree that this Frank is a monster. The obvious question is, how can I help you? What do I have to do with any of this, other than having written a letter even I forgot about? And how do I even know that the Scroll, which I’ve never heard of until you mentioned it, has anything to do with the Voynich?”
Natalie silently extracted a battered container from her bag, easing off the lid as she regarded Cross from across the desk.
“My father did describe how the Scroll was connected to the Voynich,” Natalie said at last.
Steven nodded indulgently. “Okay, I’ll bite. We’ve come this far. What did he say was the link?”
Natalie carefully took out a sheaf of parchments from the canister that were clearly hundreds of years old. He’d seen enough medieval documents in his time to recognize the signs of antiquity, as well as the distinctive scent of centuries past.
“My father told me that the Holy Scroll was one of the missing chapters of the Voynich Manuscript, Dr. Cross,” Natalie said slowly. “Quire 18, to be precise.”
The room seemed to spin for a few moments as Steven took in the details of the dog-eared parchments in Natalie’s hands. His eyes roamed over the ancient canister, then returned to the quire. This was impossible. It was akin to someone walking in off the street and unfurling a lost Rembrandt. The missing section of the Voynich had disappeared early in its life, along with another chapter, quire 16, and even though there were vague rumors of forbidden knowledge that periodically surfaced when one studied the history of the document, nobody had ever seen the lost pages. Through the ages, speculation as to their contents was sparse and often contradictory. They were phantoms, nothing more.
“Quire 18…are you…are you sure this is what your father told you?”
“Yes,” Natalie said. “He put its date at around 1450.”
Steven couldn’t believe his ears.
In front of him was the lynchpin — the key — to solving one of the greatest mysteries the world had ever known.
CHAPTER 10
“May I see it, Natalie?” Steven asked, his voice catching on her name.
Natalie handed him the pages across the desk. His hands were steady, thankfully not betraying the surge of adrenaline, as he took them from her.
Steven carefully unfurled the document and spread the sheets on his desktop, which was empty except for a telephone, his computer and a coffee cup full of pencils and pens.
The vellum was in remarkable condition, showing inevitable minor degradation after weathering the ages, but beyond that, in extraordinary shape. He glanced again at the canister. It had done its job admirably, protecting the treasured Scroll from the elements so that, even now, the document was pristine.
The distinctive pseudo-alphabet used in the Voynich was unmistakable — the glyphs were unique. The first pages were filled with the unusual, and yet to Steven, familiar, illustrations that were in keeping with the medicinal character of quire 19. Steven knew most of the quires from memory, having devoted hundreds of hours to study them. The Scroll was definitely consistent with what he would have expected quire 18 to look like, although there was something odd about the drawings; something niggling, but off. He studied them closely, but couldn’t put his finger on what he was sensing. The harder he scrutinized them, the further away the elusive sensation got.
“What do you think?” Natalie walked around the desk and stood by Steven’s side as he pored over each page. He was jarred back into the present by her proximity, and he could detect a subtle aroma of cinnamon emanating from her skin, along with a hint of fragrance, a light floral perfume. Steven realized his focus had slipped even as he simultaneously had a burst of insight: Natalie smelled extremely good.