The Crystal Code

by Richard Newsome

  ‘You’re, um, pretty young to be an expert on old stuff,’ Gerald said.

  Dr Efron—‘Call me Lucy’—had her feet on a large desk. She rocked back in her chair, studying the paper Gerald had given her.

  ‘And you’re pretty young to be a billionaire,’ she said with a wink. ‘Never underestimate the power of a young mind on a mission.’ She ran her eyes over the symbols on the paper. ‘And this was in a bottle, you say?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Felicity said. ‘It looked pretty old.’

  ‘Who sends messages in bottles anyway?’ Sam asked. ‘It’s a pretty random way of getting in touch with someone.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Dr Efron said. ‘Bottles have travelled thousands of miles. Ocean currents can run very fast.’ She pulled a thick book from a shelf above her head and flicked through some pages. She stopped and compared the photocopy with a photograph in the book.

  ‘It’s a shame you didn’t keep the original,’ she said.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Gerald said.

  ‘Because it’s probably worth a fortune. This is a page that was torn from the Voynich Manuscript.’

  ‘Torn from the what?’

  ‘The Voynich Manuscript. It’s a cypher document from the late sixteenth century.’ Dr Efron looked up at four confused faces. ‘It’s written in a secret code. It supposedly contains the key to turning lead into gold, the recipe to the universal remedy and a bunch of other fantastical stuff.’

  ‘What do you mean “supposedly”?’ Ruby asked.

  ‘No one has ever been able to crack the code,’ Dr Efron said. ‘Even with modern-day supercomputers, the cypher has never been solved.’

  She spun the book around for them to see: a double page spread of paintings of mysterious herbs and lines of indecipherable symbols.

  ‘The manuscript was bought by King Rudolph II of Bohemia in the late 1500s for six hundred gold ducats—a small fortune at the time,’ Dr Efron said. ‘His castle was equipped with the best alchemy laboratories in Europe. Rudolph wanted to own the secrets of science. Alchemy would bring him endless riches and the universal remedy would cure him of any illness. He could rule for the ages.’

  ‘What happened?’ Ruby asked.

  Dr Efron closed the book. ‘He did his dough,’ she said. ‘The code is either unbreakable, or a complete hoax. I’d vote hoax.’

  Ruby studied the note from the bottle. ‘If the code is all symbols, what’s with the letters on the other side?’

  ‘I’d say those have been added long after Rudolph’s time. It’s an entirely different type of code. The date at the bottom says 1835—that’s about two hundred and twenty years after Rudolph’s reign.’

  Gerald took the note and held it under a desk lamp. ‘If this is a page torn from a manuscript, what happened to the rest of it?’

  ‘Until two weeks ago it was in a library of rare documents at Yale University in the United States,’ Dr Efron said. ‘But it was stolen. No one knows where it is.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ Ruby said. ‘Stolen two weeks ago?’

  ‘I wish I was kidding. A man pretending to be from an obscure research institute in the Netherlands made off with it. I’m guessing it was the Falcon.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Ruby said.

  ‘A professional document thief. He’s been raiding the collections of libraries and universities for years. The police can’t catch him.’

  ‘The Falcon?’ Gerald said. ‘Where have I heard that before?’

  ‘He called himself Professor Peregrine,’ Dr Efron said.

  Gerald looked at her blankly.

  ‘It’s a kind of falcon,’ she explained. ‘His idea of a joke, I suppose. He works for private collectors. They pay big dollars for rare documents like this.’

  ‘How big?’ Gerald asked.

  ‘If they want it badly enough? Millions of dollars. Collectors can be kind of obsessive.’

  Gerald folded the coded page back into his pocket and got up to leave. ‘An obsessive document collector with access to millions of dollars?’ he said. ‘That narrows the field a bit.’

  Gerald warmed his hands around the mug of hot chocolate in the museum coffee shop. ‘This has got Mason Green written all over it,’ he said. ‘An old document worth million of dollars gets stolen. And Green has suddenly escaped from jail. He’s got to be connected.’

  ‘Then why was Green’s apartment turned upside down in San Francisco?’ Sam said.

  ‘Maybe there’s more than one person searching for whatever it is they’re all looking for,’ Felicity said.

  Gerald looked at the photocopy. ‘If we could unscramble this code we might have some answers.’

  ‘I don’t fancy your chances if a supercomputer couldn’t manage it,’ Sam said.

  ‘That was on the original code,’ Gerald said. ‘Not this one on the back.’ He ran his fingers across the jumble of letters.

  ‘I wouldn’t blow a brain stem over it, Gerald,’ Ruby said. ‘It’s not going to get us any closer to finding our parents.’

  ‘Or Ox and Alisha,’ Felicity said.

  ‘I guess you’re right,’ Gerald said. ‘We should concentrate on that.’ He turned to Sam and Ruby. ‘I’ve got to go to some meeting that Mr Prisk has arranged this afternoon. But do you guys want to come round for dinner tonight? We can order pizza.’

  ‘Sounds great,’ Ruby said.

  Sam drained his mug and patted his stomach. ‘You had me at “dinner”,’ he said.

  Chapter 16

  ‘The Billionaires’ Club is one of the world’s most exclusive organisations. Membership is reserved for the thirty most wealthy people on Earth,’ Gerald read out loud from a letter, printed on heavy linen stationery. The texture of the paper felt like it had been recycled from old banknotes. Or even new ones. Felicity leaned in closer to hear over the drone of the helicopter. They had been in the air for fifteen minutes and still had a way to go.

  ‘Club membership is by invitation only,’ Gerald read on, ‘and your privacy is assured. After a meeting with the chairman of our admissions committee, Mr Jasper Mantle, both parties will assess whether the membership process should proceed to the next stage. However, experience has shown that invitees recognise the significant advantages that membership brings. In the club’s long history, all offers to join have been accepted. As you would appreciate, vacancies occur rarely, and I would encourage you to view this prospect with favour.’ Gerald looked up from the letter. ‘It’s signed Luis Garcia, Billionaires’ Club chairman.’

  Felicity looked at Gerald with wide eyes. ‘Gosh, Gerald. The thirty richest people in the world! How exciting.’

  Gerald scanned the letter again. ‘Considering their average age will be about a hundred and six, I don’t think it’ll be that exciting. Will it, Mr Prisk?’

  The Wilkins’ family lawyer leaned forward and retrieved the letter from Gerald. He slipped it inside a leather portfolio. ‘The Billionaires’ Club is not about excitement, Gerald. It is about opportunity.’ Mr Prisk eased back into the comfort of his helicopter seat. ‘Your great aunt was a longstanding club member until her tragic demise. This offer is about furthering the business of the Archer Corporation and not squandering Geraldine’s legacy. In tough business times such as these, making connections with other HNWIs is of paramount importance.’

  Felicity wrinkled her brow. ‘What’s an HNWI?’

  ‘High Net Worth Individual,’ Mr Prisk said. ‘Someone who is very, very wealthy indeed.’

  Gerald’s shoulders slouched forward. ‘Why can’t I just meet normal people? Isn’t it enough that I am filthy rich—do I have to hang around with them as well?’

  Mr Prisk inhaled sharply through his nostrils. ‘Jasper Mantle is an extremely successful businessman with mining interests in Africa, eastern Europe and So
uth America. As chairman of the admissions committee of the Billionaires’ Club, he wields enormous influence. If they want you to join, you should leap at the chance. Those types of connections can only help.’

  Gerald nudged Felicity with his elbow. ‘Six letter word starting with B,’ he said.

  Felicity covered her mouth to hold in the giggle.

  ‘The only word beginning with B you should be thinking of is “business”,’ Mr Prisk said. ‘You are responsible for the jobs of many thousands of people. You need to start thinking in those terms.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Prisk,’ Gerald said, a little curtly. ‘But I’ve had other things on my mind this week.’

  ‘As have we all, Gerald. And your parents and friends will be located and brought home safely. But business can’t grind to a halt while we wait for that. We have to move forward.’

  Gerald rolled his eyes at Felicity. ‘When was the last time you had a holiday, Mr Prisk?’ Gerald asked.

  The lawyer looked as if he’d just been accused of stealing from the church collection plate. ‘I had a very pleasant Christmas Day at my mother’s house, thank you,’ he said. ‘We ate mince pies while listening to the Queen’s message on the radio.’

  Gerald bit his lip. ‘You’re right, Mr Prisk. That does sound very pleasant.’ Gerald gave Felicity another cheeky look. But he was torn. He would give anything to be able to sit and listen to the Queen’s boring Christmas message, as long as his mother and father were there with him. And Alisha and Ox. And Mrs Rutherford and Mr Fry. Gerald looked out the helicopter window, and felt a lump form in his throat.

  The chopper buzzed onwards. The sun hung low in the afternoon sky, failing to impart any warmth on the day beneath it.

  ‘Is that the place down there?’ Felicity pointed to a colossal stone mansion in the distance.

  ‘That’s the place, Miss Upham,’ Mr Prisk said. ‘Blandford Park—Jasper Mantle’s country estate.’

  Felicity wriggled with excitement. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, her designer jeans tucked into a pair of stylish black boots. She wore the dinner jacket from San Francisco, freshly dry-cleaned, with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. The purple silk lining contrasted nicely with the crisp cream top she wore underneath and the cashmere scarf knotted at her neck.

  The chopper turned past the mansion and over snow-covered meadows. They left stables and barns behind them. Finally, they settled on a helipad about fifty metres from a huge structure of glass and steel—a hemisphere big enough to cover a sports field.

  The helicopter blades wound down to a rhythmic pulse. A voice crackled through the intercom. ‘Mr Mantle will meet you in the butterfly house,’ the pilot said.

  Mr Prisk hopped down first, holding the door for Felicity and Gerald.

  ‘Did he say butterfly house?’ Gerald asked. He pulled the collar of his fleece jacket to his ears as they walked along a cleared path towards the enormous glass dome.

  ‘Jasper Mantle has one of Europe’s greatest butterfly collections,’ Mr Prisk said. ‘He’s quite the lepidopterist.’

  Gerald winked at Felicity. ‘His mum must be very proud.’

  They reached the front of the butterfly house. ‘So we make nice with Mr Mantle and I join the club,’ Gerald said. ‘Too easy.’ He pushed on the revolving glass door.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit cold for butterflies here?’ Felicity asked as she followed Gerald.

  The moment they tumbled out the other side of the revolving door, the question was answered. It was as hot and humid as a tropical rain forest.

  Gerald peeled off his jacket. ‘Now this is more like the December I know!’

  They stood in a spacious foyer before a wall of glass that rose up five storeys above them. The wall held back a jungle, thick and mysterious and threatening to burst free in an explosion of bulging vines and whipping tendrils.

  Gerald noticed two men in a shadowy corner. They were deep in conversation, but they broke off and crossed to where Gerald, Felicity and Mr Prisk were standing. The shorter of the two men extended his hand.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, a broad smile on his face. The man was in his fifties and barely taller than Gerald. ‘Jasper Mantle. So very pleased to meet you.’

  The handshake was unremarkable. In fact, not much about the man was remarkable at all. Gerald could have passed him on the street and not noticed he was there.

  Gerald introduced Mr Mantle to Felicity and Mr Prisk. He was about to ask about the butterfly house when a sharp cough startled them.

  Jasper Mantle jumped a little at the sound. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘My fellow club member. Gerald, may I introduce Tycho Brahe.’

  Gerald switched his gaze to the other man. He was far more substantial than Mr Mantle. ‘Pleased to meet—’

  Gerald stopped mid-sentence. The man loomed over Gerald like a bear rearing up onto its hind legs. He had swimmer’s shoulders and a wrestler’s chest. A stern gaze and a strong jaw bristling with bushy dark whiskers. And a nose fashioned from a lump of silver.

  Tycho Brahe was clearly used to the sight of his face people taking by surprise. He took Gerald’s hand and shook it hard, wrenching a gasp from the young billionaire.

  ‘Don’t be nervous, Gerald.’ The man’s voice—deep and resonant—filled the foyer. ‘One thing about noses: they don’t bite.’

  Brahe clamped a sweaty hand on Gerald’s shoulder and pushed him towards the entrance to the main butterfly enclosure. ‘Come along,’ he said. ‘Jasper, let’s show our guests your bug collection.’

  A small voice followed after them. ‘Butterflies. Not bugs, Tycho.’

  ‘Whatever you want to call them, Jasper. They’re all creepy crawlies to me.’

  Automatic doors slid open. It was like walking into a tropical thunderstorm. The humid air poured down Gerald’s throat like a stream of warm custard. His lungs struggled to take it in.

  The jungle was a nest of moving colours. It took Gerald a moment to realise that the heaving mass of leaves that coated the branches was butterflies. Hundreds of thousands of butterflies, colonies of pulsating wings that seemed to beat and throb in unison, like a giant stained-glass heart.

  The sheer scale of life around them, the lushness and fertility, brought a hush over the small group. They stared in silent awe.

  Tycho Brahe nudged Gerald with his elbow. ‘Watch this,’ he said. Then he clapped his enormous hands together as if clashing a pair of cymbals, and let out a booming, ‘FLY!’

  A million butterflies took to the air. The enclosure was filled with the white noise of wings in flight. The jungle became a storm of insects, swooping and flittering in and out of the light. Butterflies swept around them in a multi-coloured blizzard.

  Brahe threw his head back and roared with laughter.

  Mantle had a pained look on his face. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t do that, Tycho. I lose hundreds each time they panic.’

  ‘Panic?’ Brahe said. ‘You make them sound like children crossing the street. They’re bugs. There’s millions of them. What’s a few hundred in exchange for a good laugh.’

  ‘Oh my gosh,’ Felicity said, a squeak of excitement in her voice. ‘Look at this.’

  She stood with her arms extended. A dozen butterflies had settled on her head and shoulders.

  ‘They like you, Miss Upham,’ Mantle said. He smiled. ‘Stay very still and others will come.’

  Within seconds Felicity was covered from head to foot in a fluttering coat of yellow, orange and black.

  ‘They’re very tickly.’ Her voice came from deep within a velvet cloak of wings.

  ‘The Monarch—Danaus plexippus,’ Mantle said. ‘They migrate from Canada to Mexico and back every year. Thousands of miles—it’s a remarkable journey. Each migration takes three to four generations. So the ones who return are the great-grandchildre
n of the ones who left. Yet they come back to the same trees in the same valley.’

  ‘How do they know where to go if they weren’t even alive when the migration started?’ Gerald said.

  ‘Their parents weren’t even alive, Gerald,’ Mr Mantle said. ‘It is one of nature’s great mysteries.’

  A tiny voice sounded again from inside the shaggy tower of butterfly wings. ‘These are getting kind of heavy,’ Felicity said.

  Mr Mantle laughed. ‘You are butterfly nectar, Miss Upham. Just have a little hop. They’ll take off.’

  Gerald watched in amazement as Felicity bounced up and down, and the coat of many colours lifted from her, like she was being unveiled at an art gallery. The butterflies swept away into the jungle.

  ‘Oh, Mr Mantle, that was incredible,’ Felicity said, her face beaming.

  ‘You must be a very placid person, Miss Upham,’ Mr Mantle said. ‘Like myself. The butterflies can sense that.’

  Gerald snickered. If anyone had asked him to describe Felicity, ‘placid’ would not be the first word to pop into his head.

  Mr Mantle showed them to a round table in a paved area under the jungle canopy. ‘This is the largest butterfly collection in the world,’ he said, taking a seat. A butler materialised with a tray of cold drinks.

  Brahe took a tall glass and swept its frosty exterior across his perspiring forehead. He turned to Gerald. ‘You have to understand, Gerald, that Jasper likes his science to be kept under glass. I prefer things on a grander scale.’

  ‘What type of things?’ Gerald said.

  Brahe swept his arms wide. ‘The universe,’ he declared. ‘All the secrets of the planets and the stars.’

  Mr Mantle cleared his throat. ‘Tycho fancies himself the astronomer,’ he said. ‘He keeps an observatory on an island in Sweden.’

  ‘It’s a modest affair—a few telescopes and some instruments,’ Brahe said. ‘Certainly not as grand as this place. The grandeur that interests me is all in the heavens.’

  Mantle shone with pride. ‘There are specimens here from every continent on earth, apart from Antarctica of course,’ he said. He held out a finger and an iridescent blue butterfly settled onto it. He placed it delicately onto the tip of Felicity’s nose. She let out a trill of delight.