The Decrypter: Secret of the Lost Manuscript (Calla Cress Techno Thriller Series: Book 1) (22 page)

He meandered to the police room.  This time, fewer police officers pored over evidence in hopes of piecing the Deveron puzzles together. Herr Brandt, the museum director stepped in.  “Herr Eichel, I was hoping to find you here.  When can we reopen the museum?  This closure is bad for business.”

Eichel shifted his weight from one foot to the other and nodded a greeting.  “As soon as there’s no more threat.”

“Can we open tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry, Herr Brandt.  No.  I’m only trying to protect the interest of the museum and national treasures.”

“Preposterous! What’s the hold up now?”

Eichel shrank from his scrutinizing eye. “You can resume operation once we’ve concluded our investigation.”

Brandt cast him a cold glance before stomping out the narrow entrance.

Eichel rummaged for his cell phone and dialed a familiar number.  “Peter, please give me a lab report on the Deveron crime scene by morning?”

“Jawohl,”
answered Peter.  “By the way, as requested, we didn’t stop Cress at Tegel Airport when she left yesterday.  There was nothing out of the ordinary.”

Eichel took hold of some notes an officer held out to him.  “I’m looking at a fax of her exit report.  Did she meet with anyone after leaving the museum?”

“Not to our knowledge.”

“What can the hotel staff tell us?”

“She received a delivery. A diplomatic package, so we couldn’t intervene.”

“Is that so?”

“I did find it strange for a curator to receive diplomatic correspondence,” Peter said.

Eichel stroked his chin.  “It doesn’t make sense.  The artifacts are gone and we have no more clues.  The Cress woman’s meeting with Allegra Driscoll is our only lead.”

Peter’s voice rang with concern.  “I think we should follow the Sanax angle.  I dug up some research and know that the billionaire businessman, Rupert Kumar, has had some links to the development of the chemical.  Do you suppose it could have been used on Driscoll?”

Eichel groaned.  “Okay, you follow that and keep this from the media.  I’m going to London.  I’ve a contact there that may be able to help us.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

DAY 7

6:02 A.M.

M40 Highway

The pristine Maserati zipped out of London on the M40 highway.  Early sunrise peered behind rolling hills, escorting them on the curvy journey, giving Calla and Nash magnificent conditions for a drive. 

Nash enjoyed the thrill of the sports car’s sound as it flew northward out of London.  He pressed down the ‘sport’ button, a throttle-quickening feature that livened up the car’s performance, opening up the exhaust cylinders.  The Italian creation cleared its mechanical throat, until its renowned V8 engine, capable of revving up to the more than 7000rpm, roared like a ravenous Tyrannosaurus Rex. 

The speed placed a grin on Calla’s face.  “They say, it’s a boy’s car, but I’m sure I could corner it as well as you.”

Calla had opted to sit in the passenger seat with her electronic tablet, scrolling through some research.

Nash negotiated a tight bend. “I’ll take you on, anytime.”

She placed a gentle hand on his knee. “We need to find the Chair Professor of Poetry once we get to the University, a certain Dr. Norman Guilford.”

“Will he talk to us?”

“I hope so.  He’s been in office three of his five allocated years.”

Calla scanned a Guardian newspaper article she’d pulled up on Norman Guilford.  “There’s nothing unusual in this man’s career.  He’s fairly elderly as is the privilege of most professors.  They work as long as they like.”

She glided her fingers over the touch screen.  “His duties, amongst others, include lecturing on poetry, giving public speeches each term and generally encouraging the art of verse at the university.”

Nash quickly glanced her way before returning his eyes to the road.  “I’m still not sure if this is getting us any closer to deciphering the manuscript, Calla.”

“Be positive.”

The northwest route out of London took them through commuter villages, displaying a prime example of the wealth trickling out of London.  They sliced through the Chiltern Hills, an area of stupendous, natural magnificence with its discreet hamlets, stately homes, shimmering chalk streams and intensely wooded valleys. 

The hills were bounded on the south by the River Thames and to the north by a long line of scarp slopes. After crossing ninety kilometers flying on mostly triple lanes, they reached Oxford.  Nash swung the car up a lane and parked on a quiet street near the town’s main railway station. 

“Let’s walk from here,” Nash said.  “It’s only a short distance to the university campus.”

Calla pulled her cell phone from her pocket.  “We need to find the Faculty of English.”

He cast her a heartfelt smile.  “The most illustrious school of English in the world, I take it.”

“That’s right.”

After a ten minute walk, they found the facility, a large, arresting building on the corner of Manor and St. Cross Roads.  Calla hesitated, standing a few meters in front of the contemporary building, a structure made up of three interlinking cubes of dissimilar sizes.  The effect was a stock of immense cubic blocks, built in buff brick, as if carefully selected to complement the stone of the neighboring Holywell Manor and St. Cross Church.

She inspected the lengthy strips of plate-glass windows, boxed in metal frames that broke up the brickwork.  Calla stopped to breathe in the fresh air.  “Think of all the great works and minds that have come out of these very premises.”

Nash puckered his brow, still not convinced about the trip. 

But then again neither am I really
. She bit her lower lip in anticipation, as a drop of rain landed on her cheek. 

She wiped it away.  Above them, the clouds gathered, yet the sun held out.  They moseyed through the faculty, which housed a central common area, lecture theaters and other study rooms.  The internal construction was formed by different sized brickwork, astutely woven together at different levels, which gave the area a fairly uncluttered feel.

They continued up a monumental staircase, leading from St. Cross Road to the English and Law Libraries on the top floor, settling on the upper floor of the building for several minutes.  They took in the glass-ceiling and galleried central space of the Bodleian Law Library. 

“We need to ask someone for information,” Nash said. “It’s close to 9:00A.M.  I’m not sure when classes get going but let’s ask someone here if Guilford is anywhere close by.”

  On the far side of the library, they spotted a group of students.  Calla approached them, walking up to a ginger-haired, chatty girl who conversed with her serious-looking friend. 

“Hi, we're looking for Professor Guilford’s office,” Calla said.

The girl tossed her hair from her face.  “Most faculty members don’t have an office in the St. Cross building.  You’re looking for the English Faculty Library. I think his office has recently been moved there.”  She pointed to the door ahead and gave them the exact directions.  “I think he’s also lecturing right now.”

“Thank you,” Calla said.

They followed her directions to the lower medium sized cube.  Once inside, they spotted the office the student had indicated, which stood behind a half-open door.  A young woman sat at a desk concentrating at a computer.

Calla poked her head through the door.  “Hello.  We’re looking for Dr. Guilford.  Would it be possible to speak with him?”

The student assistant reflected as she toyed with a pencil in her hand.  “Professor Guilford will be done in a few minutes.  You can wait in here if you’d like.”

Calla and Nash took a seat in the cramped waiting space.  Sun rays drilled in through the dusty windows, casting light inside the stone structured room.  The student continued reading some work on an iMac that hid her completely from view.

Nash shot up, probably because he felt that he needed to do something.  He forged ahead to the wall behind a cluttered desk on one side of the room and carefully eyed various displayed accolades.  Several framed newspaper clippings hung, each taken from noted literary journals and publications.  A mounted article dating back a few centuries drew particular interest.

Nash placed a hand on the framed certificate.  “I take it Robert Lowth was a keen critic of William Shakespeare?”  

He seemed to be addressing himself, but it drew a curious look from the student. “Yes, interesting isn’t it?” she pointed out. 

Calla joined Nash and set a cool hand on his broad shoulders.  “Lowth was known as the first critic of William Shakespeare’s plays.”

“Indeed, he was,” thundered a compelling voice behind them.  They flipped round to see the owner of the commanding tone.

Short and elderly, a robust man, exercising a distinctive stage voice, leaned against the door frame contemplating their curiosity.  The graceful gentleman extended a hand.  “I’m Professor Guilford.  Are you waiting to speak with me?”

Calla drew in a deep breath.  “Yes, professor.”

Guilford ambled into the room.  “How can I help you?”

Calla watched the professor, amused by his poise and delighted that his reception was a rather cordial one. “I’m Calla Cress, a curator from the British Museum in London.  This is Nash Shields, my colleague.  We were wondering if you could tell us about Robert Lowth.”

“For research purposes,” Nash added.

“I see.  Please come into my office and I’ll see what I can do.”

The pair escorted him through a door off the waiting area and marched into his private office.  Piled to the brim with books, Calla and Nash searched for a seat in the small area.  Volumes piled up across the entire shelf spaces.  Some hardbacks had even found a home on the floor.  Though cluttered, the room breathed of sophistication in its own distinguished way, speaking of solace, study and exuding the pride of an eminent scholar.  More honors adorned the walls, this time more personal to Guilford.

Professor Guilford eased into a seat at a large desk. “Please, sit down.”

Calla and Nash squeezed onto the tired sofa opposite him.

“Thank you, Dr. Guilford.  We’re conducting some research on the topic of the formalization of English grammar and the English language at large.  Could you possibly tell us more about Lowth’s work here?” Calla said.

“What is it about Lowth that intrigues you?”

Calla glimpsed at Nash. How much could they reveal?  She placed her sweaty palms on her lap.  “Was Lowth what one may call the father of the English language?”

Guildford twiddled his thumbs, amused by the pair.  “I’m always intrigued by anyone wishing to learn.”  His face broke into a wide smile.  “Well, it all depends on what perspective you’re looking at.  Oh how rude of me, can I offer you a drink?”

“I’m fine,” blurted Calla.  She glanced at Nash. 

“No thanks,” he said as his eyes scanned the room with heightened interest.

Calla questioned Nash’s gaze.
What are you looking at?

Almost non-detectable to the human eye, small calligraphic scribbling repeated in patterns along the edges of the wallpaper, circling the entire office.

Nash turned to Guilford, caught a little off guard.  “Tell me, Professor, I'm quite interested in the inscription patterns on the wallpaper.  Do you recognize the script?”

“Ah,” said the professor his eyes gleaming.  “Many have inquired about those.  Rumor has it that Professor Lowth wrote those symbols himself.  In recognition of his contribution to the English language and the university, we’ve left those there.”

“Do you know what they mean?” Calla said.

“Not exactly.  We’ve always thought of it as art.”

Not wishing to seem disinterested in what the professor was saying, Nash strayed his gaze from the scribbles and back to the professor.  “Intriguing.”

Norman edged against the back of his seat and intertwined his stout hands. His eyes questioned Calla and then Nash.  “Is there anything else you would like to know?”

Calla met Guilford’s gaze.  “Could you tell us more about Lowth and his work with the university?”

The question was politely addressed to disguise the awkward nature of their most recent discovery. 

Nash directed Calla a knowing glare. 

He’s onto something.

* * *

11:53 A.M.

Guilford continued his account.  “Lowth was a Bishop of the Church of England, a scholar and a professor of English here at Oxford.  He’s the author of one of the most influential textbooks of English Grammar—”

Calla and Nash half-listened. Her mind mentally registered the symbols on the wall, almost second nature by now.  As she tuned out Guilford’s narrative, she grouped them according to type, her articulate concentration categorizing each symbol as it circulated the wall. 

Some were new, but most were similar to those in the Deveron.

 “…In 1762, Lowth published
A Short Introduction to English Grammar,
a piece of work that he’s proudly remembered for
.
  He was prompted by the absence of simple and pedagogical, grammar textbooks at that time in history.  He sought to remedy the situation.”