The Moses Stone

15

A quarter of an hour later, Angela checked her messages and immediately spotted the one sent by her ex-husband. She glanced at the four pictures of the clay tablet on the screen of her desktop computer and printed a monochrome copy of each of them, because the definition would be slightly better in black and white than in colour. Then she leant back in her leather swivel chair and studied the images.

Angela had occupied the same office ever since she'd first arrived at the museum. It was small, square and organized, dominated by a large L-shaped desk, on the short arm of which stood her computer and a colour laser printer. In the centre of the larger section of the desk was a collection of potsherds – part of her current workload – and several files and notebooks. In one corner of the office was the wooden bench where she carried out the mechanical aspects of her conservation duties, working with a collection of precision stainless-steel tools, cleaning fluids, various types of adhesive and other chemicals. Beside that was a row of filing cabinets and above them a couple of shelves lined with reference books.

The British Museum is simply huge: it has to be to accommodate the one thousand permanent staff who work there and the five million visitors who pass through the doors every year. The structure covers about 75,000 square metres – that's four times larger than the Colosseum in Rome, or the equivalent of nine football pitches – and contains 3,500 doors. It's one of the most spectacular public buildings in London, or anywhere else, for that matter.

Angela stared at the photographs she'd printed, then shook her head. The quality of the images was nothing like as good as she'd hoped and expected. The object in the pictures was clearly some kind of clay tablet, and she was reasonably sure she could identify the language used, but transcribing it was going to be difficult because all four photographs were so badly blurred.

After a minute or so, she replaced the pictures on her desk and sat in thought for a few seconds. Looking at the images had inevitably started her thinking about Chris and that, as usual, revived all the confusion and uncertainty she felt about him. Their marriage had been brief but it hadn't been entirely unsuccessful. They had at least remained friends, which was more than a lot of divorced couples could say. The problem had always been the unacknowledged third person in their relationship – the shadowy presence of Jackie Hampton, the wife of Bronson's best friend. And that was almost a cliché, she realized, a wry smile playing across her lips.

Bronson's problem had been his unrequited desire for Jackie, a desire that she knew he had never expressed, and that Jackie had been blissfully unaware of. There had never been any question of his being unfaithful to her – Bronson was far too loyal and decent for anything like that – and in one way the failure of the marriage had been Angela's fault. Once she'd realized where his real affections lay, she had found she simply couldn't cope with playing second fiddle to anyone.

But now Jackie was dead and Bronson's feelings had inevitably changed. He'd been trying – trying hard – to get closer to her, to spend more time with her, and so far Angela had done her best to keep him at arm's length. Before she would allow him to re-enter her life, she had to be absolutely sure that what had happened before would never be repeated, with anyone. And so far, she didn't feel she had that assurance.

She shook her head and looked back at the photographs.

'I was right,' she muttered to herself. 'It is Aramaic.'

Angela could understand a little of the language, but there were several people working at the museum who were far better qualified than her to translate the ancient text. The obvious choice was Tony Baverstock, a senior member of staff and an ancient-language specialist, but he was far from being Angela's favourite colleague. She shrugged, picked up two of the printed photographs, and walked down the corridor to his office.

'What do you want?' Baverstock demanded, as Angela knocked, walked in and stood in front of his extremely cluttered desk. He was a stocky, grizzled, bear-like individual in his late forties, who had the indefinably scruffy appearance common to bachelors everywhere.

'And good morning to you, too, Tony,' Angela said sweetly. 'I'd like you to look at these two pictures.'

'Why? What are they? I'm busy.'

'This will only take you a few minutes. These are a couple of pretty poor photographs of a clay tablet. They're not good quality, and don't show the text – which is Aramaic, by the way – in enough detail to be fully translated. All I need from you is an indication of what the inscription is about. And if you could hazard a guess at its date, that could be useful.'

Angela passed the pictures across the desk and, as Baverstock glanced at them, she thought she detected a glint of recognition in his eyes.

'Have you seen it before?' she asked.

'No,' he snapped, glancing up at her and then quickly dropping his gaze back to one of the images. 'You're right,' he said grudgingly. 'The text is a form of Aramaic. Leave these with me and I'll see what I can do.'

Angela nodded and left the office.

For a few minutes Baverstock just sat at his desk, staring at the two photographs. Then he glanced at his watch, opened a locked drawer and pulled out a small black notebook. He slipped it into his jacket pocket, left his office and walked out of the museum and down Great Russell Street until he came to a phone box.

His call was answered on the fifth ring.

'This is Tony,' Baverstock said. 'Another tablet's turned up.'