Newton’s Fire

THIRTY
I

The Triforium had only recently been opened to the public, and it showed in the washed stonework, the waxed display cases, the fresh white gloss of the window-frames. By contrast, the library itself was deliberately gloomy thanks to the tattered drapes that had been hung over the tall windows to protect the old books from direct sunlight.

The only person inside was a man in clerical garb with ruffled grey hair and a fluffy beard who was studying tiny holes in a leather binding through a magnifying glass. They went to stand across his worktable from him. He evidently hoped that they’d leave if he ignored them long enough, but they waited him out and finally he sighed and looked up. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘What are those holes?’ asked Luke, in an effort to break the ice.

‘What do they look like?’

‘They look like woodworm.’

‘Well, then,’ he said.

‘In leather?’

‘The leather’s only a thin cover,’ murmured Rachel. ‘There are actually thin panels of wood beneath.’

The man smiled in surprise. ‘Very good, my dear,’ he said.

‘Maple?’ she asked.

‘Oak.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked Luke.

The man nodded at Rachel, inviting her to answer. ‘The grain imprints itself on the leather,’ she said. ‘Each wood has a different signature.’

‘I never knew that.’

‘Why would you?’

The man set down his magnifying glass, finally prepared to give them his attention. ‘What may I do for you?’

‘We’re looking for a Clarence,’ said Rachel. ‘You wouldn’t be a Clarence, by any chance?’

‘Dear me, no,’ he said. ‘I’m not a Clarence. I’m a Trevor. A Clarence is in Finland, I’m afraid. Finland or Norway. One of those places. The eagle owls are about to fledge, I’m told. But maybe I can help.’

‘We’re trying to find out about Isaac Newton’s involvement with the committee to complete St Paul’s.’

‘Oh, yes. That really is a matter for a Clarence, I’m afraid. Not at all the right area for a mere Trevor like myself.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘The week after next, I believe. Eagle owls are no respecters of schedules. They fledge whenever they damned well please. But you could always consult the records of the Wren Society if you’re in a rush. They’ll have what you need, I imagine.’

‘You don’t have a set here, by any chance?’

‘We do, we do, we most certainly do; but I’m afraid to say we’re not that kind of a library. Try the British Library or the Guildhall. They’ll let just about anyone read their books.’

Luke thanked him and made to leave, glad to get away before impatience got the better of him. But Rachel wasn’t quite done yet. She paused at the door, glanced back. ‘I don’t suppose you Trevors would know anything about a man called John Evelyn, would you?’

‘A man called John Evelyn?’ said Trevor. ‘A man called John Evelyn!’ He shook his head with great good humour, pushed himself to his feet, came round to join them. ‘I once wrote an article for the Church Times on a man called John Evelyn. On his book comparing ancient and modern styles of architecture, to be precise. At least, not Evelyn’s book so much as his translation of the essays put together by de Chambray. But you get the idea. It caused a tremendous sensation.’

‘Your article?’ asked Rachel sweetly.

Trevor laughed affably, as though to acknowledge that he’d earned a little chaffing. ‘No. Chambray’s book, and Evelyn’s translation of it. I couldn’t even interest my own dear mother in my article.’

‘So what was it about?’ asked Luke. ‘Evelyn’s book, I mean?’

‘He liked architecture to reflect the divine mind. That was why he was so bullish on Corinthian columns. Designed by God Himself for Solomon’s Temple, you know.’

Luke shared a glance with Rachel. ‘Is that right?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes. And his plan for rebuilding London after the Great Fire was based on the Kabbalah. The original Kabbalah, I mean, not the ridiculous red-string bracelet travesty so favoured by Madonna and her ilk. Specifically, on the Sephirot, the Jewish Tree of Life. You’ve come across it, I imagine.’

‘Not in connection with city planning.’

The Trevor looked around for something to write on, but there was nothing to hand, nothing that he dared use at least. ‘It’s essentially an arrangement of ten or eleven small circles along three parallel lines,’ he said. ‘Three circles along each of the outside lines, four or five along the central one. Now lay the whole thing on its side and join the circles together like in a map of the underground and that’s pretty much Evelyn’s plan for London. All the circles were existing landmarks, of course, with St Paul’s in pride of place bang in the middle. We corresponded with the Sephirah for Tipheret, if I recall correctly, which represents the sun.’

Shrieks of laughter sounded in the corridor outside. Heels slapping on tiles, schoolchildren testing the bounds of discipline. They waited until they’d passed and silence was restored. ‘So what happened?’ asked Rachel. ‘To Evelyn’s design, I mean?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘It was too ambitious ever to be workable, frankly. Landowners kicked up too much of a fuss. So they gave it up and settled for widening the streets a little instead, improving the building codes.’

‘And that was the end of the Tree of Life?’

‘Yes. Unless you listen to a particularly exasperating correspondent of mine who insists that Wren incorporated Evelyn’s ideas into St Paul’s.’

‘Really? How?’

‘Send him a letter and ask. He loves to receive a letter.’

Rachel touched his wrist. ‘Can’t you just give us a hint? Please.’

‘I can’t believe you’d have me make his case for him,’ sighed Trevor. He looked around furtively, almost as though fearful of being seen. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’