Tom Harper - The Book of Secrets

‘What we are doing, it is called PIXE technique. Particle-induced X-ray emissions.’ He exaggerated each word so slowly that with his thick accent they became almost unintelligible. ‘It has been developed in San Diego in the 1980s. What you are doing is to fire a beam of protons through the pipe – ici – into the object you analyse. In my experiments it is a page from a book. The protons, they pass through the page, they hit the atoms and they break them. This release the X-rays, who we measure with a fluoroscopy system.’

He tapped the nozzle suspended from the ceiling, then pointed to the computer. ‘It analyse the emission and tell us what is inside the page.’

‘Doesn’t that damage the book?’

‘Non. We scan only one millimetre of the page and the protons break only a few atoms. Except at the molecular level, there is no damage.’

Nick glanced at Emily. She seemed happy for him to continue with his questions. ‘And this tells you what’s in the paper?’

‘It tell us what is in the ink. Every ink have a chemical signature we identify. We analyse the early printed texts so that we see who have made them.’

Nick took a deep breath and reached into his coat. ‘So what did you find when you scanned this?’ He held up the card, keeping his eyes fixed on Vandevelde’s.

‘I work only with books. I have not analysed this card.’

But Nick had seen it on his face – recognition, and something else. Fear? ‘A woman called Gillian Lockhart brought this to you.’

‘I have never seen this Gillian Lockhart.’ He said it in the same laboured way he had explained the PIXE acronym earlier, something memorised.

‘What did you find?’

‘I have told you. I have not ever seen this before.’ Vandevelde stood. ‘I think perhaps you are not interested in my work. I am sorry, I cannot help you.’ He put his hand on the door. ‘S’il vous plaît…’

Nick and Emily stayed where they were. ‘When did Gillian come here?’

‘Never.’

‘She called you a month ago. Three weeks after that, she disappeared. ’

Vandevelde sighed. ‘I am sorry to hear this. Truly. But – I cannot help.’

‘Do you remember her calling you?’

‘What do you say is her name?’

‘Gillian Lockhart.’

Vandevelde shook his head a fraction too soon. ‘Non.’

‘We have her phone records. The conversation lasted almost fifteen minutes.’

‘Perhaps my secretary have put her on hold while she look for me. Perhaps she does not give me her name – or not her actual name. Perhaps she pretend she is interested in my work because she want something else.’

He let go the door handle and walked back to his machine. ‘You think I hide something from you? I hide nothing. I promise to you I have never seen your friend, or this card. But if you want for me to analyse it, if this makes you happy, I do it. Oui?’

He held out his hand, his head cocked to one side. Nick glanced at Emily, who nodded cautiously.

The Frenchman laid the card flat on the lectern in front of the pipe, then fussed with the nozzle until it was aligned to his satisfaction. Nick leaned in and squinted.

‘It’s pointing at nothing.’

‘We take two measurements. The ink is absorbed in the paper, yes? So first we measure the paper by itself, then with the ink. If we subtract the first measure from the second, we have left only what comes from the ink.’

He turned a handle to lock the nozzle in place, then crossed to the computer. Nick still crawled with misgivings. ‘Do we have to leave the room or anything?’

‘It is very safe. You absorb more protons standing fifteen minutes in the sun. If you do not trust me, you can be holding the card all the time I do the experiment.’

Nick took a step back. ‘I’ll watch from here.’

There was almost nothing to see. Vandevelde pressed a key on the computer; there was a rumbling sound from behind the wall, and a red light went on over the pipe. Seconds later, the light went off and the rumbling stopped. Vandevelde readjusted the nozzle so that it now pointed at a luxuriant part of a lion’s mane, where the ink was thickest. The light blinked on again, then off. A jag-toothed graph appeared on the computer screen.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It shows the different elements we can detect.’ Vandevelde traced one of the sharp peaks with his finger. ‘This line shows the sodium content. This is the copper.’

‘So… what? You can figure out what the ink was made of?’

‘Not all of it. Some elements the X-ray fluoroscopy system cannot measure. Sometimes we do not know where it has come from. For example, we find lead. Perhaps it has come from massicot, which is an agent for the drying; or it has come from a heated lead oxide for the colour; or – if it is a book – it has rubbed off from the lead alloy types. All we can say with this machine is there is lead.’

‘So what’s the point?’

‘Every ink have a signature, you understand? Every printer, he uses a different ink. We have a database.’

‘Can you check this ink?’

‘Bien sûr. I show you.’

He pressed a button on the computer. An hourglass spun lazily over the graph. A few seconds later a single line of text appeared at the bottom of the screen. Nick guessed what it meant even before Vandevelde gave his one-word summary.

‘Rien.’ He shrugged and edged away from the computer. There was a wariness in his movements, Nick thought, like a dog that has been kicked too often. He gave Nick and Emily a sad look. ‘If your friend have come here – and I promise she did not – I would tell her the same.’

Nick took the card off the lectern, wrapped it in the tissue paper and put it in his bag. He stared at Vandevelde, certain that there was more but unable to think of anything to say.

Vandevelde opened the door and gave a sad smile. ‘I hope you find your friend.’

Reluctantly, Nick stepped into the dark corridor. As Emily followed, Nick heard Vandevelde mutter something to her in French before he shut the door. They walked down the stairs in silence. Outside, the sun had set and the skateboarders had gone. The only light now came in orange pools under the street lamps. The air was bitterly cold.

‘What did he say when you were leaving?’ Nick asked.

‘He said, “Not all the marks on the card are ink.”’

Nick glanced back, wondering what it meant. But when he looked up, the room on the fourth floor was dark.

Near Strassburg, 1434

‘Be careful. If you spill even a drop we’ll burn like heretics.’

Drach speared an onion on a sharpened stick and grinned. That frightened me. He only smiled when he was serious.

Perhaps it was Drach’s promise of danger, but all my senses sang at a high pitch that day. The sweetness of coal and the surly smell of flax-seed oil; the bright August sun that made pillars of light in the smoke; the viscous bubbles swelling and popping inside the cauldron that stood between us. I could feel every drop of sweat running down my naked back.

Drach crouched with his skewered onion beside the cauldron. I pulled on a pair of leather gloves and reached for the copper hat that covered the pot. Our eyes met through the oily steam.

‘Remember. Not one drop.’

I was at one with the world. I had never been so happy.

Strange though it seems now, Drach made me respectable again. For that, I forgave him a lot of what came afterwards. St Thomas Aquinas says that all creatures are born to a destiny in the world; fulfilment comes from achieving that purpose. I had always known my purpose, but for twenty years I had blundered about it like a blind bull. With Drach, I began at last to discern my path. Opportunity brought ambition; ambition begat hope; hope began to bring me back to the life I had fled ever since my father died.