“Who knows this?”
“The free world. A Dr. Isabella Marin found the pages. She claims the language is idioglossic, more specifically, cryptophasic, twin talk. Claims she’s going on a search to find the special twins who can read the Voynich, said she made this out on page seventy-four, said it was the key. She said something about how the loose pages had to be reunited with the stolen manuscript, begged the person who stole the Voynich to bring it to her at the British Museum.”
A sharp hiss of air. “Get the pages. All of them. Now.”
“There will be no way for me to get them. They’ll be under lock and key.”
“Since you appear incapable of performing this task for me, get me every bit of information you can on this Isabella Marin. I will acquire the pages myself.”
Incapable? Roger knew he’d only sound defensive if he argued. He said, “Certainly, sir. I will have a dossier for you this evening. Now, about my fee—”
“If the free world is aware of the lost pages, Mr. Bannen, why should you be paid a fee?”
Oh no you don’t, you blighter. “Is anyone else in the free world calling you right now?”
The cold-blooded laugh made Roger’s heart stutter. “Good point. Your bank account will receive a finder’s fee tonight. Now go.”
Roger went. He felt a punch of guilt. He hoped he hadn’t signed Dr. Isabella Marin’s death warrant.
The Voynich, twin talk? Was it true?
Roman Ardelean hung up the phone and closed his eyes at the galloping of his heart.
Finally. Finally.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Quire (n): Four sheets of paper or parchment folded to form eight leaves, as in medieval manuscripts.
—Oxford Dictionary
FBI Special Agent Ben Houston listened with half an ear to the older chemist, Dr. Hoag, from Princeton, run through the various methods his team had used to date the quire. Ben was familiar with their methods, being the former head of the art crimes unit for the New York Field Office, and now the art (and other things) expert for Covert Eyes. Whereas Dr. Marin had made her dramatic announcement short and sweet, Hoag was droning on and on. Few remained to listen.
He and Melinda were sitting at the back of the room. He leaned close. “This is amazing, imagine the Voynich written in twin talk. But only certain twins, and now Dr. Marin is on the search. Gleaned from this page seventy-four? I wonder if she will find the right twins who communicate cryptophasically—is that a word?”
He was nearly bouncing with excitement.
Melinda said, “I don’t know, do you believe her?”
“Why not? I know Dr. Marin is a renowned expert, spent her career so far with the Voynich. Do you doubt her?”
Melinda was frowning. “I’m not sure. I just felt she was holding something back.”
“Well, that makes sense. Why throw all your surprises out at one time? Melinda, thank you so much for bringing me here today.” He eyed her. “Did you know I worked the case of the stolen Voynich manuscript from Yale? That I became an amateur expert on the Voynich?”
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Didn’t I tell you? As a member of Her Majesty’s Parliament, I’m required to know all specialized information about my lover.”
Her lover. Melinda’s lover. He loved the sound of that.
“I thought it was particularly good timing the announcement came while you were here in London. And yes, a little birdie whispered it in my ear. You’ll meet him later. Imagine, Ben, the lost pages from the Voynich. I wonder when they’ll go on display? If it’s true, it’s amazing.”
Ben said, “Dr. Marin believes only specific twins can read the Voynich, which means, I guess, twins in Africa do not speak the same twin talk as twins in Norway.”
Melinda took his hand. She loved to touch him. “Yes, according to Dr. Marin, only special twins. If and when she finds the special twins, she’ll inform the world.”
“Ben, if she doesn’t find answers before you leave, you can come back to London. Maybe you could even time it to a break when Parliament isn’t in session. Just think, we can share the joy of spending our days staring at a bunch of moldering old paper.”
Ben laughed, and she laughed with him. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to be here, in London, on his first real vacation in years. He still couldn’t get over this incredible woman, a member of Parliament, or MP as the locals said, who had awoken next to him this morning, seduced him again, then offered him tea, which made him shudder to remember. He looked at her mouth, the pink lipstick a bit smeared after the quick kiss he’d given her in the taxi. They were both redheads, and wasn’t that something? And she fit so nicely against him.
He said, “I suppose I know as much as the next fellow about the Voynich.”
She brought his hand to her lap. “Tell me about it. Oh yes, use little words, since it’s old art.”
He cleared his throat. “Simple words then. Short version: the book itself dates back to the early 1400s. The parchment paper is said to be indigenous to that time and is prepared in the northern European style.
“A while back some said Sir Francis Bacon wrote it, as a joke, perhaps. Then it fell into the hands of John Dee, an alchemist and adviser to Queen Elizabeth I. Dee tried to translate it, but he couldn’t, said his best guess was the manuscript was medical in nature. Which makes sense, because it’s broken into several parts: herbal, astrological, balneological, pharmacological.”
“Balneological? I thought you were using small words.”
“Of or related to bathing. There are a lot of drawings of women bathing in unidentifiable green liquids.”
A dark red eyebrow went up. “I seem to recall some green figures. Naked women bathing? Sounds more like medieval porn.”
“Could be, who’s to say? Anyway, John Dee sold it, and it became the property of Emperor Rudolf II, who also had no luck decoding it. Lots more hands got ahold of it over the years—I can’t remember all the names—but it finally ended up with the Jesuits outside Rome for a few hundred years.
“In 1912, a rare book dealer named Wilfred Voynich discovered it with the Jesuits at Frascati. He’d been a pharmacist in Russia, so he knew his chemistry and had a natural interest in alchemy. He’d traveled to Italy looking for books to stock in his store. He brought it back to London, where he was setting up shop, and eventually tried to sell it to his friend Richard Garnett, at the British Museum. Garnett declined. After Voynich died, his wife tried to sell it—no takers. They could never find a buyer, and finally, it was bequeathed to Yale in the late sixties. Once the Beinecke got their hands on it, they did the radiocarbon dating and proved it antedated Bacon by a couple of centuries, so there’s no way he wrote it. They made it a big deal and awakened worldwide interest. And even with worldwide attention, no one could translate or decode it.”
“So bottom line,” Melinda said, “this weird indecipherable collection of pages, some of them porn with naked women bathing, discovered at a Jesuit yard sale outside of Rome, is still a mystery—until today, with Dr. Marin’s announcement. So maybe she’ll find out which twins wrote it, and which twins can read it. I’m sure hoping for a cool set of twins, maybe from Siberia or deepest Africa. This is fairly exciting, Ben. I bet you’ll stay up very late tonight reading all about it. Once I go to sleep, that is.” And she gave him a sweet smile.
“I’ll try to be a gentleman. Do you know all my quirks?”