THE HISTORY OF THINGS TO COME: A Supernatural Thriller (The Dark Horizon Trilogy Book 1)

by Duncan Simpson

  ‘Tell me about the Principia,’ said Blake. ‘I’ve seen later copies for sale at auction houses over the years, but why is it so special?’

  Jenkins stopped scratching his finger and leant forward in his chair with an air of evident superiority. ‘The Principia Mathematica is quite simply the most important scientific book ever written. Those of us who aren’t of a religious persuasion might even argue it is the most important book ever written. It is a masterpiece of breath-taking genius. The Principia is the rulebook of the universe. It codifies mathematically the laws of motion and the theory of universal gravity.’ Jenkins looked over to Blake, making sure that his words were registering with the substitute policeman. He wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Look, it proved for the first time that the force that makes an apple fall from a tree is the same force that keeps the planets moving in their orbits. Think about it for a moment. It is a truly profound notion: a force operating over gigantic interstellar distances that connects every object in the universe together. The pages of the Principia provided the first evidence that mathematics govern the behaviour of the very universe.’

  Blake decided not to think about it. To his mind, the bullet that had entered Vittori’s skull may have followed Newton’s laws of motion, but his corpse wouldn’t be moving anywhere in the near future.

  ‘And this particular volume, it’s special?’

  ‘It’s unique,’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s Newton’s own copy of the first edition. I simply couldn’t put a value on it.’ Jenkins swallowed down the returning taste of blood in his mouth.

  ‘It’s the same for the other objects they stole.’ Sabatini rejoined the conversation, her voice less fragile than before.

  ‘Yes, the other objects,’ said Blake firing up his smartphone. He quickly found Milton’s report of the stolen objects emailed to him just hours before.

  ‘First edition of the Principia Mathematica, 1687. Walking stick belonging to Isaac Newton: carved bone handle, hickory wood stick. Lock of Isaac Newton’s hair presented in a silver locket, allegedly part of a larger lock in the possession of the Earl of Portsmouth. Newton’s personal notebook, used firstly as a Latin exercise book from his time as a schoolboy at Grantham School, and later as an account book recording his expenses as an undergraduate at Trinity College, 1661. A letter authored by Isaac Newton, Professor of Mathematics, University of Cambridge, to Robert Hooke, Curator of Experiments, Royal Society, London, dated 28 November 1679. Ah yes … and, finally, the pocket watch.’

  Blake could feel the large smooth object weighing down the material of his jacket breast pocket. It had already undergone detailed fingerprint and DNA testing in the mobile forensic laboratory parked in the grounds of the college, and Milton had requested Blake to cross-reference it against the list of rare stolen timepieces on Blake’s personal database. It was unlikely, but his database might uncover a connection to another stolen watch. Blake took it from his pocket and placed the transparent plastic evidence bag with the watch on the table. It made a small thud as the metal made contact with the hard surface, causing Jenkins to send Blake a disapproving look.

  ‘Dr Jenkins, can you remember anything out of the ordinary in the days leading up to yesterday’s events? Anything at all, no matter how small: perhaps an out-of-the-ordinary request to see the Newton exhibits, or a tour of the college grounds?’

  Jenkins had been asked the same question by at least three police officers and the novelty had thoroughly worn off.

  ‘Mr Blake, if there had been, Detective Milton would have been the first to know.’

  With that, Blake got up from his seat. ‘Thank you both for your cooperation. I won’t keep you any longer, but if you do think of anything, please don’t hesitate to give me a call, day or night.’

  Blake picked up the evidence bag containing the pocket watch from the table and held it up to the light, like a child staring at a goldfish just won at a fair. As he turned the object 360 degrees, his eye caught the glint of something engraved on the outer edge of its back casing. Trying to improve his angle of view, he pulled the bag closer to his face and stretched the plastic tight around the smooth surface of the watch.

  The closer he looked, the more convinced he became that there were three small engravings grouped close to the rim. He slowly rotated the watch under the ceiling light, stopping at the precise angle to reveal an area of tiny lettering. The slightest movement obscured it again in shadow. Blake turned his body a fraction and the engraving became clear. He slowly read the characters aloud: ‘D2.25. No it’s a 7, that’s it. D7.25, D12.7 and R12.14.’

  Blake peered over the transparent plastic bag to Jenkins, who returned a quizzical look. Jenkins had been curator of the library exhibits for over three years, but this was the first time he had been made aware of any kind of inscription pertaining to the watch.

  ‘Have a look for yourself. It’s on the inner rim of the back plate, just beneath the winder. It’s very easy to miss.’ He handed Jenkins the evidence bag containing the pocket watch and looked as the academic studied its reverse side under the bright ceiling light.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned. You’re absolutely right. Extraordinary! It must be a manufacturer’s mark of some kind, perhaps a silver mark?’

  ‘No, I know exactly what it is,’ said Sabatini staring into mid-air. Blake and Jenkins looked at her. ‘They’re verses from the Bible: Daniel 7:25, Daniel 12:7 and Revelation 12:14.’

  ‘Dr Sabatini, what makes you so sure?’ said Blake, slightly taken aback.

  She turned to Blake. ‘They are verses that Nathan obsessed over. He even had them written on the inside cover of his bible.’

  ‘Obsessed over? What do you mean?’

  ‘Recently, Nathan had become preoccupied with Newton’s religious writings and was convinced that these particular verses were of special significance.’

  ‘Newton’s religious writings?’ Blake felt himself wading out far beyond his depth.

  ‘Today, it surprises a lot of people to know, but Newton was a deeply religious man and a devout believer in God. During a good part of the 1670s, he shunned the scientific world and focused his energies on a massive programme of biblical research. He taught himself Hebrew and set out to decode the writings of the great biblical prophets, especially Ezekiel, Daniel and St John the Divine, directly from their oldest sources. He wrote more about theology than any other subject, well over a million words, and it wouldn’t surprise me if Nathan had read every one of them,’ said Sabatini. ‘According to Nathan, Newton thought that these three scriptures were important to unlocking the truth about God’s ultimate plan.’

  ‘So what are they about?’’

  ‘What are they about? I wish I knew. They are the visions of prophets who lived a couple of thousand years ago.’

  Chapter 32

  Friday 27 November

  The three men stood in a room adjacent to where the press conference would be taking place. Blake, Milton and Chief Constable Peter Lewis from the Cambridgeshire Constabulary all stood silently by the door, waiting for the signal to enter. Lewis, a man who had carved out a formidable reputation during his meteoric rise through the force, was the embodiment of a new breed of policeman and the antithesis of the two men who flanked him. Milton trusted him as far as he could throw him, and whilst the notion was appealing, it wouldn’t be very far.

  Blake looked down at his hands and noticed how much they looked like his father’s. The dark red band of discolouration surrounding his left index finger, a birthmark that he shared with his father, seemed to have become more pronounced over the last month. The notion made him feel strangely uneasy.

  Earlier, a make-up woman had offered him her services ‘to make him look his best in front of the cameras.’ She had installed a temporary mirror on the wall and had been armed with a bag of cosmetics and brushes. Following the path of least resistance, Blake had complied with h
er instructions and sat in her chair. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He knew it wasn’t going to be good, but he was still taken aback by what he saw. Though his eyes were bright and clear, the flesh around them looked like it had started to melt. His skin was on a downward trajectory, its progress only temporarily retarded by the bones of his face. Blake watched as the make-up lady struggled to find a complementary tone to his pale skin colour. He asked her if they made a blusher called ‘off-white,’ but before she had time to register the comment, Blake had vacated the chair.

  The din coming from the other side of the door gradually fell silent. Lewis sent Milton a nod signalling that proceedings were about to start. After several firm knocks, the door opened slowly and in stepped the same policewoman who had attended yesterday’s interview with Sabatini and Jenkins. She looked tired and was not relishing the role of chaperoning the head of Cambridgeshire’s police force through a tense media event.

  ‘It’s time, sir,’ she said.

  The press conference was packed. The room, the size of a large railway waiting room, was creaking at the edges with photographers, journalists, and film crews, all jostling each other for the best positions. In the short time since the incident had been announced to the press, the story had gained such momentum that it had drawn interest from all over the world. A murder committed under the hallowed spires of the University of Cambridge was sensational enough, but the murder of a Vatican priest, committed during the heist of rare artefacts belonging to Sir Isaac Newton, was journalistic dynamite. Blake hated press conferences with a vengeance, and as he walked into the crammed room, he sensed a feeding frenzy about to happen.

  The three men sat close together in the middle of a long table situated at one end of the room. A bank of microphones along with three bottles of water and three glasses were stationed next to them. Milton noticed that a large thumbprint had been left on the side of the glass closest to Lewis. For a split second, it lifted his mood.

  Blake had only been partially successful in resurrecting his spare suit from the bottom of his bag after breakfast. He had hung it in the bathroom whilst the steam from his bath had permeated the creases. However, compared to the smartly dressed policemen to his right, his suit looked crumpled and clung strangely to his body.

  Lewis looked out to the audience and cleared his throat. Even before he said a word, a series of camera flashes went off metres away from his face. He paused, regained his composure and started reading from a prepared statement.

  ‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. I am Chief Constable Peter Lewis. To my right is Detective Lukas Milton and to my left Dr Vincent Blake. I have called this press conference to give an update on our investigations surrounding the murder of Father Nathan Vittori at Trinity College, Cambridge. Father Vittori died from a fatal gunshot wound to the head, sustained during a robbery at the Wren Library. Our investigations have now entered a critical phase, and today we are asking for assistance from the public with our enquiries. This was a particularly callous crime, and my officers will not rest until these criminals are brought to justice.’

  Lewis clicked the end of his Cambridgeshire Constabulary police pen, signalling the end of his introduction.

  ‘Let me now hand you over to Detective Milton, the officer in charge of the case.’

  Milton looked like a heavyweight prize-fighter preparing to announce his retirement from the sport. His heavy physical frame, several years past top fighting condition, still looked formidable. In contrast to his powerful physique, Milton spoke to the audience in a quiet and measured way, delivering each word in a rich baritone voice. The assembled media listened intently to the particulars of the case as he read aloud from his notes. All the time, he was acutely aware that his every movement was being recorded by the collection of television cameras stationed around the room. After a few minutes, he came to the end of his report and squared his papers on the table top before placing them in front of him. Milton looked directly into the BBC television camera positioned between the chairs on the front row.

  ‘If there are members of the general public who have any information regarding the robbery, anything at all, we are requesting that they come forward as soon as possible. I cannot overstress the urgency. Every hour is critical to our investigations.’ Milton looked over to Lewis to see if he wanted to add anything else and was greeted with a subtle but unmistakable shake of the head. Milton moved about in his seat and felt a cold drop of sweat run down the centre of his back. His mouth felt dry and he had a strong urge to light a cigarette.

  ‘Are there any questions?’ Milton’s request was immediately met by a forest of hands waving back at him. Milton picked a familiar face.

  ‘Leonard Rowling, Channel 4 News. What is the estimated monetary value of the stolen objects?’ It was always the first question a journalist asked about a robbery, even in a robbery involving a murder. A headline needed a figure, even more than it needed the name of a victim. Blake was ready with the standard answer and Milton was only too happy for his associate to field the question.

  ‘Each item taken is unique. They were the personal property of Isaac Newton and are highly sought after by collectors. In an open auction, they would probably fetch in excess of a million pounds. However, each object has been meticulously catalogued by the library, and we would be quickly aware of their existence if they were sold through a legitimate auction house.’ From behind the table, Milton pointed to a portly middle-aged journalist whom he knew to be a criminal correspondent.

  ‘David Myers, The Times. So, if it is impossible to sell these objects on the legitimate open market, are we dealing with a private collector stealing to order?’ Out of the corner of his eye, Milton was aware that Blake’s body language had changed.

  ‘Mr Myers, because of their intrinsic value and their relatively small size, objects of this type are often used as collateral in drug deals. At this time, we are investigating this line of enquiry, along with all other possible avenues.’

  Before Milton had time to change to another journalist, Myers had put another question to the table.

  ‘Do the police believe the robbery is connected to the others?’

  Milton shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘Others?’

  While consulting his notebook, the journalist continued. ‘The strong room at the Token Hakubutsukan sword museum in Japan; the Royal Society in London; and most recently, in Cannes, the private collection of Didier Clerot: each robbery targeted manuscripts relating to Newton. There must be a connection, don’t you think?’

  The three men blinked at the blizzard of camera flashes.

  ‘As I have said, we are investigating all lines of enquiry. We have good channels of communication with our colleagues in Interpol and Japan’s Criminal Investigation Bureau.’ As Milton leant forward in his chair, his biceps strained the fabric of his suit. ‘But rest assured, the people who carried out yesterday’s brutal robbery will be caught and brought to justice.’

  A new voice shouted out from behind a cacophony of camera flashes. Milton struggled to locate its position in the crowd.

  ‘Reeta Hakim, Reuters. Detective Milton, you said that yesterday’s robbery seemed to be centred on a single display case in the Wren Library. Did they get away with everything?’

  Attempting to bring the questioning to a close, Lewis stepped in.

  ‘I’m sure you all understand that because of the urgency of our investigations, this really does need to be the final question.’ He paused. ‘No, not everything that was in the display case was taken. A pocket watch belonging to Newton remains in our possession.’ Lewis nodded across the table to Blake who retrieved the evidence bag containing the silver watch from deep within his pocket. Standing up, Blake raised the evidence bag for all to see and another storm of camera flashes went off all around.

  Chapter 33

  The Drakon began t
o shake the contents of the canvas bag onto the solid oak table. Once released from the folds of the bag, a silver pocket watch landed onto the wood with a dull thump and came to rest next to the haphazard collection of stolen objects. With a sense of reverence, the Drakon picked up the silver timepiece and began to examine its casing under a large magnifying glass. The heavy object felt strangely cold in the climate-controlled conditions of the underground strongroom. The trace of a smile appeared from the side of the Drakon’s mouth.

  Without warning, an audible alert sounded from the laptop stationed at one end of the table. Scanning the screen for the reason for the alarm, the Drakon began to type quickly on the keyboard. A few seconds later, a window displaying a BBC newsfeed began to play. A sombre-faced presenter announced that the next item would be rescheduled owing to the following coverage of a police press conference. A red banner running across the bottom of the screen read: ‘Live: Newton Murder. Special Update’. The picture cut to three men sitting behind a table, their profiles partially obscured by the bank of microphones positioned in front of them. The Drakon watched in silence as the detective in charge of the investigation described the details of a shooting at Trinity College, Cambridge.

  The television camera tracked the black police detective in charge of the case as he fielded questions from the assembled crowd of journalists. Don’t kid yourselves. You haven’t got a clue. The television coverage cut to a close-up of one of the other men sitting at the table. The subtitle at the bottom of the screen identified the speaker as Vincent Blake. His face was familiar. The picture zoomed in closer. Something in Blake’s hand made the Drakon sit up.