Newton’s Fire

II

There was little Croke could do to help search Crane Court, so he settled himself into a penthouse apartment and watched it live on a vast plasma TV. Speculative reports were interspersed with loops of footage, one of which even included a brief clip of himself and Morgenstern arriving earlier. But every so often they’d cut to aerial shots, and there was something perversely satisfying about being able to hear those selfsame helicopters clattering above his head.

His mobile rang. He checked the number. Walters. ‘Are you in Oxford yet?’ Croke asked him.

‘On our way,’ said Walters. ‘But we may have found something. Thought you’d want to know at once.’

‘Go on.’

‘Redfern and the others stopped off in a place called Oddington. Kieran’s been checking it out and the house nearest where they parked belongs to a woman called Olivia Campbell. An Olivia Campbell runs something called the Museum of the History of Science in Oxford, about fifteen minutes walk from where they parked. Thing is, they put on a History of Chemistry exhibition there a few years back. The programme’s on their website. And guess who helped organize it? Only our friend Pelham Redfern.’

‘Then that’s where they’ve gone,’ said Croke.

‘So it would seem. We’ll find out soon enough.’

‘And you three can take care of them yourselves, right? Only I want to keep this to ourselves if we can.’

‘Let us check it out. I’ll call you back if we need help.’

‘Good.’ Croke finished the call, stood there frowning. A museum in the heart of Oxford. What an odd place to go to ground. He was still brooding on this when Morgenstern came in.

‘Just completed the second scan,’ he told Croke. ‘Nothing. And we double-checked those anomalies against the plans, like you suggested. But they’re all water or sewage or other utilities.’

‘You’re saying it’s not here?’

Morgenstern gave a shrug. ‘Police scanners are designed to find recent disturbances, organic remains, explosives, that kind of shit. For something like this, we should maybe get in some geological or even archaeological equipment.’

It was the word ‘archaeological’ that did it, for some reason. Croke held up a hand for quiet, to buy himself time to think. The Museum of the History of Science. What if Luke and the others hadn’t gone to ground? What if they knew something he didn’t? ‘Bear with me a moment,’ he said. ‘I want to make a call.’

He tried Jerusalem first, but Avram wasn’t answering, so he rang his nephew in London instead.

‘Yes?’ asked Kohen.

‘The Museum of the History of Science in Oxford,’ said Croke.

A moment’s silence. ‘Ah,’ said Kohen. ‘Yes.’

Anger descended upon Croke like the holy spirit. ‘Tell me.’

‘The Museum of the History of Science used to be the Ashmolean. The Ashmolean was also once thought of as Salomon’s House. In fact, if the E.A. in Newton’s message refers to Elias Ashmole, as seems plausible under this hypothesis, then it’s probably more likely to be the …’

Croke held his cellphone down by his side to prevent himself from yelling. When he’d calmed a little, he raised it again. ‘Are you telling me we closed down half London to search in the wrong fucking place?’ he asked. He gave Kohen the chance to reply, but all he got was silence, so he ended the call before he said anything unforgivable.

‘We’re searching in the wrong place?’ asked Morgenstern.

‘So it would seem.’

‘And this Oxford Museum of yours? That’s the right place?’

‘That’s how it looks.’

Morgenstern nodded as he digested this. His lips tightened and a little colour rose in his throat. He could use this as an opportunity to distance himself from this fiasco, Croke knew, or he could remind himself that this was his Commander in Chief’s top priority. Thankfully, he chose the latter option. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘then we’d better get down there, hadn’t we?’