Equinox

Chapter 21

James Lightman's house was one of the finest in Oxford. Although he had come from a relatively ordinary background — his lawyer father and teacher mother had been intellectually solid but never wealthy — his deceased wife, Susanna Gatting, had been the only child of one of the most powerful and influential men in England, Lord Gatting. Once a Chancellor of the Exchequer, Neville Gatting had been able to trace his family and their vast fortune back to the time of George I.

Lightman's father-in-law had died almost twenty years earlier. Susanna's mother had succumbed to cancer two years before her daughter was killed; and, as a result, Lightman had inherited the Gatting billions. His four-storey Georgian house in North Oxford served as a city home while a staff of a dozen maintained the Gatting estate in Brill on the Oxfordshire-Buckinghamshire border.

'Three visits in one week, Laura? People will start to talk,' Lightman said.

Laura laughed and walked over to peck him on the cheek. 'Strictly business, I'm afraid, James.'

'How disappointing. Anyway, come into the study, dear girl.'

Laura sat down in one of a pair of old leather chairs close to a homely blaze burning in the fireplace. She had been disappointed at first when the front door was opened by Malcolm Bridges, the assistant whom she had first met a few days earlier at the library. He had asked her in politely enough but had seemed to resent the intrusion. Then James had emerged from his room, full of welcoming smiles and banter. Bridges had taken her coat and headed off quickly to the kitchen to make some tea.

'I thought your assistant worked just at the library,' Laura said.

'You don't like him, do you, Laura?'

'I didn't say that. I was just surprised to see him here.'

'There's nothing sinister about it, dear girl. He helps out here to earn some extra money. Malcolm's a post-doc research assistant.in the Psychology Department. He has a girlfriend and a potholing passion to support, apparently.' Lightman jabbed the burning logs with an ornate antique poker before settling back into the other chair a few feet from Laura. 'Anyway, I have a bone to pick with you.'

'Oh?'

'You weren't entirely honest with me the other day, were you?'

'What do you mean?'

'About the plot of your novel.'

'Yes, I'm sorry,' Laura said. 'I wasn't really telling a lie. I am planning a contemporary novel, but these recent murders were the inspiration. I should have been straight with you. I knew you would find out sooner or later.'

'To be honest, I don't usually take much notice of the news. I only heard about this because Malcolm happened to mention it this morning.'

'Well, that's good — because I need your help again.'

'Hah!' Lightman laughed. 'I always admired your cheek.'

'I thought that if the Chief Librarian at the Bodleian, and a world authority on ancient literature, couldn't help, who could?'

'You say all the right things, Laura. Cheek and charm — a deadly combination. So, what is it?'

'In the novel I want to build part of the plot around a mysterious document, an ancient manuscript, perhaps a Greek or Latin text that has something to do with the murders.'

'And you're basing this on something real?'

Laura paused for a moment and looked into the fire, watching the flames lap around the glowing logs. 'Well, that's really what I wanted to ask you. What is the likelihood of something like that turning up?'

Lightman was about to reply when Malcolm Bridges appeared with a tray and walked over to the fireplace.

'I hope tea is all right,' he said to Laura.

'Perfect,' she replied. Bridges laid the tray on the table. Pouring tea and milk into two cups, he handed one to Laura.

'Sugar?'

'No, thanks.'

Bridges was about to go when Lightman said. 'Malcolm, ancient manuscripts surfacing in the modern world? What are the chances?'

Laura turned towards Lightman, feeling surprised and irritated, but he was not looking her way. She realised immediately that her old mentor had done this just to be annoying, so she said nothing.

'Manuscript? What sort of manuscript?' Bridges looked a little startled by the question.

'I don't know.' A brief sardonic smile played across Lightman's lips. 'Laura was about to explain. Do sit down, dear boy'

Bridges took a seat by the desk.

'Laura's plotting a new novel and wants to introduce the idea of an ancient document or text appearing in the twenty-first century.' Lightman turned back to Laura. 'Have you thought about what sort of ancient manuscript is discovered?'

'Well, I was hoping you would have some idea, James. But if. .'

'There have been some amazing finds in recent decades,' Lightman declared. 'The most famous of all, of course, was the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls over fifty years ago in Wadi Qumran. So it does happen. However, that said, I haven't heard of anything new appearing for quite some time. Have you, Malcolm?'

'Nothing very recent,' Bridges replied. 'There was the Elias Ashmole material found at Keble College, of course, but that was almost thirty years ago.'

'And don't forget the Codex Madrid , the Leonardo notebooks. They were found in some discarded boxes in a Spanish library in the 1960s. Oh, and Wainwright's unearthing of that manuscript attributed to Herodotus, but that was found, when? 1954, 1955?'

'OK,' Laura said, distractedly. 'So at least it's not silly fantasy.'

'No, no, not at all,' Lightman replied. 'Just, well, extremely rare. . sadly.' He took a sip of tea and was about to add something when the front doorbell rang.

'That will be Professor Turner,' Bridges said. 'He was due here at 9.45.'

'Oh hell,' Lightman said. 'I'd completely forgotten about him. Look, I'm sorry, Laura, but I have to see Turner now — I've put him off twice already. Wants to talk about a new annexe to the library — frightfully boring, but essential, I'm afraid.'

Although she had hoped to delve deeper, Laura hid her disappointment. 'No problem, James,' she said. 'I feel very reassured.'

They walked towards the door of the study. 'There was one other quick question I had for you, though. Can you spare just a second?'

Lightman nodded.

'Have you ever heard of a serial killer in Oxford in 1851?'

Lightman hesitated for a second. Then he said: 'You know, I do recall hearing of something along those lines. It was the year of the Great Exhibition. Two young women. But that hardly constitutes a serial killing, does it? I'm sorry, Laura. Goodness, I haven't been of such great service today, have I?'