Equinox

by Michael White

  Little more than a week after going up to Oxford Laura had spent her first morning at the Bodleian revelling in the fact that she had a pass into the most exclusive library in the world. It was a particularly memorable experience. She was in the newly refurbished history of art section when a shelf had collapsed immediately above her head, sending a collection of heavy books down on top of her.

  She had been very lucky and was left only with a few bruises along her right arm, but James Lightman had been at her side almost instantly. Taking control in that gentle but firm way of his, he had insisted that she sit down and he had checked that she really was all right. In this same office he had offered her a cup of strong tea and a biscuit and had asked her about herself. It was the start of what was to become a close relationship that had been sustained throughout Laura's time in Oxford. It had survived her move back to America and infrequent visits to England. During her time at the university Lightman had been a kind of a surrogate uncle, a father figure far closer to hand than her real parents six thousand miles to the west. Although they worked in very different areas, they chimed intellectually. Something of a polymath and an eminent scholar, James Lightman was world-renowned as the foremost authority on ancient languages, with a particular interest in Hellenistic-Roman Literature. Laura's favourite era was the Renaissance with its revival of Classical influence in art, and she had heard of James Lightman from a book about Classical painting that she had read when she'd still been a precocious fifteen-year-old high-school kid in Santa Barbara.

  Laura had only learned after knowing the man for several months that Lightman had once been married to an heiress, Lady Susanna Gatting of Brill. But she and their daughter Emily had been killed in a car crash in 1981, less than a year before Laura had arrived in Oxford. Emily would have been almost exactly Laura's age if she had lived.

  Lightman was easing himself into a worn leather chesterfield in front of his desk and gesturing for Laura to do the same, when suddenly she became aware of someone else in the room. Sitting in an armchair near the wall furthest from Lightman's desk was a young man. He was wearing a neat black suit and a white shirt. His hair was long and greased back over his ears. He had a long birdlike nose and very prominent cheekbones.

  'You've not met Malcolm, have you, Laura? Malcolm Bridges, my personal assistant. Malcolm, this is Laura Niven.'

  Bridges stood up and extended a bony hand. 'I've heard a lot about you,' he said, his face expressionless. His voice was surprisingly deep, and a slight Welsh twang lent it something of an Anthony Hopkins intonation. It was a voice that seemed quite ill-matched to his appearance.

  'At least some of it good, I hope?' Laura studied Bridges's face. There was something about him that she disliked instantly, but she could not put her finger on it. Then she turned to Lightman. 'I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time.'

  'No, no, don't be silly,' the old man replied. 'Malcolm, we're finished with the details for the drinks evening, aren't we?'

  'Yes, I think we're done. I'll get things organised.' Bridges picked up some papers from a nearby coffee table. 'Well, I hope to see you again soon,' he said to Laura before he left.

  Lightman sat back on the chesterfield. 'So, what can I help you with, my dear?' he asked. 'You sounded very excited on the phone this morning.'

  Laura examined his familiar face. The dark brown eyes were heavily lidded and the white hair was long and unruly. At times he had the appearance of an elderly W.H. Auden, at others the look of a biblical patriarch without the beard. He was not yet seventy, she knew, but he looked older. His skin had a leathery texture to it, while his forehead was so covered in wrinkles and lines that up close it looked like a NASA image of the Martian surface.

  'It's the book I'm working on,' she said.

  'The Thomas Bradwardine novel?'

  'Well, no, actually.' She was a little embarrassed. 'I've decided to put that on the back burner. I'm going to write something with a contemporary setting: a murder mystery.'

  'Oh?'

  'I'm thinking of setting it here in Oxford, or maybe in Cambridge. Not sure yet.'

  'Oh, good God, Laura, don't go with "the other place", for heaven's sake. Unholy dump!'

  She smiled. 'I want to link the murders with something ritualistic. The killer leaves something significant at the scene of each murder. At first I was thinking of maybe a ceremonial knife, but last night I started to wonder about using coins. The police find them near the bodies of the victims.'

  'Coins?'

  'Yes, ancient coins. Trouble is, I know precisely nothing about the subject.'

  Lightman leaned over to pick up a strange V-shaped contraption that lay on an occasional table beside the chesterfield. It consisted of a tightly coiled spring with two handles. Laura looked puzzled.

  'Arthritis,' Lightman said. 'Doctor's told me I have to squeeze this thing for five minutes every hour or my wrist will seize up completely' He rolled his eyes. 'I'm not convinced.' After a couple of squeezes he stopped and looked at Laura. 'But how can I help? Coins are not really my thing.'

  'I. . well. I thought there would be some great stuff here at the Bodleian. Problem is, I'm no longer a member. Um … are American tourists allowed to join?'

  Lightman laughed. 'Only very special ones. I imagine you're in a hurry — you usually are.'

  Laura tilted her head to one side. 'Can't help it, I'm afraid.'

  'Well, we do have a very good numismatics section. I could take you downstairs and get you started. I think we can forget about form-filling for today'

  As Lightman stood up, he seemed to notice for the first time what she was wearing around her neck. 'Good gracious, Laura. That's the pendant I gave you. . when was that, now?'

  It was an opal on a delicate silver chain. Laura had put it on this morning without consciously realising that it was the one Lightman had given her. 'When I was a student,' Laura said. 'Must have been

  1983. Long time ago. I wear it almost every day, though.'

  'Did I ever tell you that was my daughter's birth-stone?'

  'No, you didn't.' 'Right, well. Let's go.'

  Downstairs in the main hall of the library Laura followed Lightman along the parquet-floored walkways that transected the room between rows of vast oak bookcases. They crossed the hall and, at the far end, Lightman led the way through a tall doorway. Turning left, they walked along a corridor, through an archway to the right and into another room, a smaller version of the main hall. Halfway along this room's walkway Lightman turned right again and stopped at a set of bookcases against the wall. In front of them stood a large table with a computer on top of it. They were alone in this part of the library.

  'This is the section,' Lightman said and scanned the shelves. 'I think you'll find everything you're after here, Laura. If you need anything, Mrs Sitwell is just around the corner.' He pointed to the far end of the room. 'She knows this section like the back of her hand. But if you want any more information from me, don't hesitate. I have some bureaucratic nonsense to sort out upstairs.' Leaning forward, he pecked her on the cheek. 'Come and see me before you go.'

  Laura sat down and looked up at the great array of books. She suddenly felt a pang of guilt over spinning a yarn for the old man. But, she reasoned, she couldn't have done much else.

  She had no clear idea exactly what she was looking for and plucked out a book entitled Ancient Coins , published by Oxford University Press. Then she pulled out the print that Philip had run off for her and the notebook containing her rough sketch of the other side of the coin.

  Within a few moments Laura had learned that although early coinage is known as a Greek phenomenon, the earliest known coins were actually from the Lycian region of Asia Minor, found beneath a sixth-century BC temple of Artemis. The coins left at the murder scenes looked like they might have come out of Egypt, but this book mentioned nothing about early coins from that part of the world. She took down another volume. Coins of Antiquity by Luther Neumann.

  Close to the
start it offered a couple of speculative paragraphs on Egyptian coins and currency from the period after Egypt had been absorbed into the Roman Empire. It didn't seem that important, though, and the author offered little more than a brief account of how some of the earliest coins in Egypt may have been designed by alchemists and occultists who were obsessed with gold and other precious metals. These men had been court magicians for some of the Pharaohs.

  Laura was about to return the book to the shelf when an odd thought struck her. It was something that James had said. 'The opal was my daughter's birthstone,' she repeated Lightman's words out loud, and she opened the book again. Turning to the page she had just read, the word 'alchemist' jumped out at her.

  Feeling her pulse quicken, she pulled the notebook over, flipped the page and wrote down: 'Alchemist, Magician, Ancient Egyptians, Birthstones, Gold and Silver' — followed by four large question marks.

  Returning Coins of Antiquity and Ancient Coins to the shelves, Laura ran a check through the computerised catalogue, looking for anything that might deal with the very earliest coins. She found just one title, a Victorian book called Lost Numismatics by a Professor Samuel Cohen. Then she ran another search for 'Egyptian Alchemists'. Apart from a clutch of modern sensationalist titles that she decided she couldn't trust, this again offered only one book of original scholarship, another ridiculously obscure Victorian tome: The Black Arts of the Pharaohs , written by one Erasmus Fairbrook-Dale.

  Laura was starting to enjoy herself. It reminded her of college days: fond memories of afternoons spent in rooms just like this one following leads that took her from one concept to another, a winding path through an intellectual maze. Maybe, she thought as she opened Lost Numismatics and turned the huge pages with exaggerated care, this was what had first inspired her to work in crime journalism, the thrill of sniffing out the clues to a mystery. If that was true, it had also led her inexorably onward to become a thriller writer.

  Then she saw it: in the centre of page nine, a picture of two discs, the dual aspects of a coin. The first disc showed an image of five women in long flowing robes holding a large deep bowl aloft at arm's length. Next to that, the other side of the same coin, was the head of a young Pharaoh. The face was slightly different to the one in Philip's photograph, but everything else about the coin was identical. With growing excitement she read the text printed beneath the pair of pictures:

  Known as the Arkhanon coins (c. 400

  BC

  , Napata region), these were handmade by the court magicians of King Alara. Each contains images reflecting the Ancient Egyptian concern with the unity of all things, the holistic pairing of complimentary elements. This example is a gold coin and it carries the image of a quintet of women holding a representation of the sun. Two other very similar Arkhanon coins have been found at the same site: a silver coin bearing the image of five women holding a bowl containing an image of the moon, and a third made from iron with another sphere (supposed by some authorities to be the planet Mars) held aloft by another quintet of robed female figures.

  'Christ,' Laura said aloud. 'Well, clever me.' Then turning to the second Victorian book, The Black Arts of the Pharaohs , she flicked through the pages, reading random sections until she reached a chapter entitled: 'The Birth of Holism'.

  Three hours later, Laura emerged into bright afternoon sunshine that burst through low black clouds. The road outside the library was glistening from very recent rain and a faint rainbow shimmered over the Radcliffe Camera, but Laura was almost completely oblivious to the sight. She was lost in an ancient world of magic and occultism, thrilled that she might just have stumbled on a crucial clue.

  Chapter 12

  The Acolyte was proud of the work that he had done. It came as the fulfilment of a long-cherished dream. He was working for one of the greatest men alive, doing work that made a difference, work that had meaning, purpose. And he was part of the great plan, the Great Work as it had once been called hundreds of years before his time.

  He had trained for many years so that he might complete the tasks for which he was now responsible. That training had been gruelling. He had studied at the best medical schools, practised in the operating theatres of three internationally respected hospitals, roved through disciplines and acquired many skills while honing his considerable natural talents. He had studied cryogenics, psychology and mathematics as well as pursuing occult studies that included numerology, astrology and alchemy.

  He pulled his inconspicuous black Toyota into a vacant visitors' space in the car park of Somerville College, Oxford and stepped out onto the gravel. The soles of his handmade black brogues crunched on the stones. He brushed imaginary flecks of dust from the front of his immaculate Cerruti suit, smoothed back a few strands of hair above his ears, straightened his already perfectly aligned silk Hermes tie and studied his reflection in the rear nearside car window before walking towards the main quad of the college.

  The Acolyte glanced at his Patek Philippe. It was almost three o'clock. Samantha Thurow, a third-year history and politics undergraduate, would, he knew, be emerging from Staircase 7 at any moment. From the second she appeared here until 9.08 p.m. precisely he would keep close track of her movements. In a broad sense, he already knew what those movements should be: he had wired her room in a student house in Summertown just north of the city centre and he had tapped her phone.

  As he recalled these facts and began to feel the first tingle of sweet anticipation, he saw Samantha walk from the darkness of the entrance of Staircase 7. She was talking to another student, a short Asian girl. Samantha was a tall and exceptionally pretty brunette with sensual almond eyes and full, brightly coloured lips. Her hair was arranged with care to look a mess. She was wearing a short tartan skirt over black woollen tights, a pair of black Doc Martens, a tight red sweater and a black cardigan.

  She was carrying an armful of books and had a small leather bag slung over her left shoulder. The Acolyte considered Samantha Thurow's sartorial choices with some distaste as he walked slowly around the quad, watching the two girls go past the Porters' Lodge into the street beyond.

  He had committed to memory almost every detail of the file he had constructed on Samantha Thurow. Born 19 May 1986 in Godalming, Surrey. Father an arms contractor; mother a teacher; two older brothers and a younger sister. A scholarship student in her third year at Somerville. Samantha was on the fast track, a high-flyer. Medical: perfect health, usual childhood illnesses, broken arm at the age of nine; kidneys in Al condition. Love life: current boyfriend Simon Welding, a trainee teacher, twenty-four. He shared a rented house in East Oxford with two other students, and Samantha stayed there at least twice a week during term time.

  Samantha unlocked her bike and pulled it away from the wall, waved goodbye to her friend and turned right, crossing St Giles and heading towards the city centre. The Acolyte knew where she was going and felt no need to hurry back to his car. Reaching the Toyota, he pulled on his gloves, removed a wipe from the packet he always kept with him and cleaned the driver's seat before lowering himself into the car. He cleaned the dash and the wheel and put the wipe into a small plastic bag that lay on the passenger seat. Then he smoothed his trousers and jacket and arranged himself so that he would suffer only the minimum of creasing to his suit. Turning the key in the ignition, he drove off.

  He passed Samantha along St Giles; she was cycling among a cluster of other bikes. Taking his time on the route around the city centre and along Cowley Road, he reached Princes Street and parked opposite number 268. Ten minutes later, Samantha appeared at the Cowley Road end of the street and cycled down the narrow road lined with gentrified terraced houses before drawing to a halt outside the one that the Acolyte was watching. There she wheeled her bike onto the path, secured it against the wall of the house and used her own key to open the front door.

  According to the schedule, her boyfriend Simon Welding would not be there for at least four hours, and Samantha was planning to study all afternoon. Du
ring most of the evening the two of them would be alone. The others who lived at number 268 were expected at a party in a nearby street. At just before 9 p.m. he would enter the premises with his equipment, and he would be out by nine-fifteen. A quarter of an hour after that he would be with the Master — and they would be one step closer to completing the Great Work.

  Chapter 13

  'So you're really going ahead with this?' Jo asked incredulously.

  'Don't be so dismissive. I'm hardly new to crime, now am I? Remember how I put food on the table before I became an illustrious author?' Laura retorted.

  Jo was up for the first time since the accident, reclining on Philip's sofa with a rug around her and a cup of soup in her hand. She was wearing cow-patterned pyjamas that were at least three sizes too big for her. The grandfather clock in the hall had just struck six o'clock, and Laura and Philip had finished explaining all that had happened during the past two days up to the point when Laura had gone to visit James Lightman earlier that afternoon.

  'Besides,' Laura added breezily, 'I think I've made a breakthrough.'

  Philip sat up in his armchair. 'What sort of breakthrough?'

  'The results of four hours' intensive research at the Bodleian, that's what. Turns out the coins are replicas of something called an Arkhanon. It's just about the oldest known Egyptian coin, dating from about 400

  BC

  Before that the Egyptians simply bartered. What's most important is that the Arkhanons were designed by alchemists who worked for the Pharaohs. According to one source, the image of the women and the bowl is linked with the alchemists' obsession with holism — links between seemingly unconnected things.'

  'Yes, of course, there were alchemists in ancient Egypt, weren't there? Philip said. 'I seem to remember reading that's when the whole obsession with making gold and the elixir of eternal life began.'