Michael Cordy - The Source

'May I sit here?'

Ross jumped. He turned to see a priest standing in the aisle. There was something familiar about him. 'It's your chapel,' he said. 'I'm not a believer.'

The priest smiled. 'We all believe in something. Faith is what separates us from beasts.' He sat down beside him. 'And this is your chapel. It was intended for people in your predicament, Dr Kelly.'

'You know my name.'

Another smile. 'I'm a great admirer of your wife and her work, which deserves to be more widely appreciated. She deserves to be more widely appreciated.'

At that Ross remembered who he was. 'You were at the Beinecke when Lauren presented her translation of the Voynich.'

The priest held out his hand. 'Father General Leonardo Torino. Yes, I was at the Beinecke. When I learnt what had happened to your wife I had to approach you about her work.' He paused. 'May I explain? Or would you prefer me to leave you alone?'

Since Lauren's lecture, many academics, journalists and general Voynich fanatics had crawled out of the woodwork, demanding to know if she would recover, and when she expected to publish the complete translation with full supporting documentation. Some had even camped outside his house for a few days. He had changed his phone number to stop the calls, but still had to sift through a vast pile of mail each morning. Two days ago Bob Knight had demanded access to the files and notes Lauren had stored at home so that the university could validate and complete her work. Ross had refused, telling him that she, and no one else, would finish it. It angered him that people were waiting like vultures for her to die, desperate to pick over her discoveries. 'You came about the Voynich?'

'Yes.'

'What's your interest in it?'

'It's very simple. I'm the Superior General of the Society of Jesus, and Vatican records show that a priest from my order, a Jesuit, wrote the Voynich Cipher Manuscript more than four centuries ago, but we haven't yet been able to translate his text or understand his illustrations. And although the original manuscript is here at Yale, we feel possessive of it. The story may only be a simple allegory, a parable, but we regard the Voynich as a valuable document created by one of our own and we want to reclaim its meaning. When we learnt of your wife's translation I approached her and suggested we combine our records with her excellent work to complete it. She declined, said she had problems with our making conditions on what she could publish. I was disappointed but respected her wishes. I kept the offer open.' A pause. 'Then I learnt of her injury and discreetly followed her progress. When my work brought me back to America I decided to make time in my schedule to visit you. It's hard to explain, but my order feels indebted to and responsible for her. We want her to be rewarded for her service to the Church, in this world and the next. We will, of course, pray for her and ensure she takes her place in Heaven.'

The word 'ensure' annoyed Ross. 'That's kind of you – but how do you know you hold the keys to Heaven?' Something flickered in the priest's dark eyes – hurt or possibly anger – then was gone. 'No offence intended,' he added. 'It's just that I'd prefer your prayers to help Lauren in this world rather than prepare her for the next.'

'We can help her in this world. That's why I'm here. Our scholars are confident of completing the manuscript in due course, but with your wife's notes they could do it in a fraction of the time. Out of respect for her scholarship and wishes, we'd waive all conditions of publication. Naturally we'd give her full credit for the translation and compensate her financially – whether she recovers or not. The Holy Mother Church has significant resources and we'll do whatever's necessary – financial or otherwise – to help you both through this testing time.'

'You just want access to her notes?'

'Yes. Digital copies will suffice. As a matter of interest, do you know if they contain any mention of something called the "source" or its Latin equivalent, "radix"?'

He shook his head. 'I couldn't tell you. My wife kept her cards – and her notes – pretty close to her chest. Why?'

The priest made a dismissive gesture. 'It's not important. What is important is that her notes would allow us to finish translating the manuscript, and give her the recognition she deserves. I don't expect an answer now but please give it some thought.' He pulled out a card, handed it to Ross, then checked his watch. 'I have some business in New York tomorrow morning but must return to Rome in the evening. I'd be grateful if I could visit you before then to answer any questions. I want you to feel comfortable with entrusting your wife's work to us. May I call on you tomorrow afternoon? Say, about four?'

Ross nodded. 'That should be okay.' He found it reassuring that scholars who not only shared and appreciated Lauren's passion but also felt an ownership of the manuscript would complete her work. And it was important to him that she would receive full acknowledgement. He suspected that Knight would eventually claim her original files for Yale, and most of the credit for her work. Ross would talk to Zeb Quinn but he suspected she would agree to sharing the notes with Torino. If nothing else, it would keep Knight honest. He gave the priest his address.

'I'll leave you to your thoughts, Dr Kelly. Until tomorrow.'

Ross glanced at the Superior General's card. He couldn't help but be impressed that a man in his position had made time to visit him personally. Further proof that he was committed to Lauren's work. As he watched the priest leave the chapel, he noticed he had a slight limp.

The next morning Sister Chantal had done everything within her power to fulfil her duty. But now, as she was about to pass on her heavy burden, all was lost. After everything she had endured this was too much to bear.

She had told the Sacred Heart Hospital that she wanted to pray for Lauren Kelly, but when she had seen her lying prostrate on the bed, attached to wires and tubes, she wanted only to pray for herself. She walked to the bed, collapsed to her knees and wept. For the first time in her long vigil she felt true despair. But she didn't pray. Instead she focused on what to do. It couldn't end like this. There was only one way to put things right. Even as she thought it, she bowed her head in disbelief – and regret.

'If only I hadn't been so foolish,' she said bitterly, glancing at her case, then at Lauren's feeding tube. 'If only I'd saved it all.' She glanced behind her, then opened her case and searched for the leather pouch. When she saw how much remained she knew the gesture was futile. But she had to do something.

It took her six minutes. Then, as she put the empty pouch back into her case, she heard the door open. Ross still wasn't used to having the bed he had shared with Lauren to himself. Throughout their marriage he had often been away, but he could only remember a handful of nights when he had slept alone at home.

Last night he had drunk a bottle of wine and watched TV into the early hours, careful not to disturb his father who was staying in one of the guest bedrooms. Free to watch any channel he chose, he eventually fell asleep in front of one of the reality makeover shows that Lauren liked, and when he woke he had been curled up on her side of the bed. After breakfast, his father had gone to Manhattan to visit her mother, and Ross had made his daily pilgrimage to the hospital. When he'd arrived, mildly hungover, the last thing he had expected to see was a nun kneeling at his wife's bedside.

'Who are you?' he demanded. 'What are you doing here?'

When she turned he saw that she had been crying. Despite that, she possessed a serene, ageless beauty and the most amazing eyes he had ever seen – piercing sky-blue irises ringed with violet. 'I am Sister Chantal. I came to see Dr Lauren Ross.' She spoke English in the precise way that well-educated Europeans often do. 'Who are you?'