“You heard everything I said to your brother. It’s all true.”
“It is not. We both know you’re lying.” He walked to the far counter. He brought the loose pages back to her. “Tell me where you got the pages.”
She saw the pages, knew his brother had stolen them from their lead box in her bedroom. She was shaking her head.
“Tell me.” He held the pages close to her. She couldn’t bear it. The pages were singing, speaking to her, they wanted her. No, they wanted him, too—they wanted Radu. She said nothing. He said, “The pages speak to you, don’t they? And that is why you put them in the lead box. They do to me, too.”
“What do they say?”
“They tell me things. And they cry for the rest of the book. You’re not mad, Isabella. If you’re worried I’ll think you’re crazy, I know you’re not. The pages are special.”
She took a deep breath. “The pages were in my mother’s keeping. I was the strong twin, my sister the weak. Did she have the affliction? She died before it was known. But she heard the pages, too. My mother saw the pages upset me. And one day, soon after my sister died, she buried them so I wouldn’t hear them anymore.
“I found the pages after she died.”
“That is not the whole truth, Isabella.” Radu shrugged. “We can control so little in our lives, but through the Voynich we’ve gained unimaginable knowledge. It gave you power, didn’t it? Gave you precious knowledge no one else had? And in the back of your mind when you studied and deciphered, you knew you wanted greatness.”
“No, no, of course not.”
But they both knew she was lying.
The rapid PCR—polymerase chain reaction—machine testing Isabella’s DNA started to beep. Radu’s heart leaped into his throat. The printer kicked in with a mechanic whir, and a single sheet of paper slipped out.
He rushed across the room, held the scroll up to the light. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was everything they’d hoped for, for so long.
He shouted in English, “She’s a match. Iago, she’s a perfect, exact match. Get Roman in here.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The British Museum
Great Russell Street, Bloomsbury
London
The entrance of the museum reminded Mike of the Parthenon, with its huge columns presided over by a triangular frieze. The massive courtyard was full of people; tourists and students, many segregated into groups with leaders, speaking different languages—a polyglot babble of voices.
Inside the glass doors was another large courtyard with walls painted a calming shade of green, lined with marble busts of Roman leaders. She wondered if they were replicas like they’d seen in Italy, with the real pieces stashed away where thieving hands couldn’t steal them.
The interior was stunning under a clear honeycombed metal roof, the huge white cylinder in the center.
Mike saw a young woman with a blond bun and glasses approaching her, saw the woman had been crying. How much had Ian told her?
“You’re the investigator from Scotland Yard? Please come with me.”
Mike didn’t bother to correct her, or show her creds. She followed her deeper into the museum, past the gift shop, past the donation box signs Mike read as they passed—The British Museum, free to the world since 1753.
There was a private elevator behind the stairs, staff only, Mike saw. The woman pressed the elevator button.
When the elevator doors shut on only the two of them, it was suddenly eerily silent. The woman turned and said, brow arched, “You’re not Scotland Yard.”
“You’re right. Special Agent Michaela Caine, FBI.” She pulled out her credentials, flipped them open. “What gave me away?”
“The gun. Plus, none of our Scotland Yard detectives have quite your style. I like your motorcycle boots.” She put out her hand. “I’m Phyllis Powers, Dr. Wynn-Jones’s personal assistant, have been for almost ten years now. What’s happened to Isabella?”
“We’re here to find out. I see you’re upset.”
“Yes, of course I’m upset. Everyone is horrified at Gil’s murder and her kidnapping. It’s too much, simply too much, and no one knows what’s going on.”
The doors opened, and Mike followed Powers down the hallway, up the stairs, and down another, smaller corridor.
Mike smelled the familiar, comforting scent of tea, and, sure enough, inside the office, there was a pot waiting. “Persy had to jump into a meeting, but he’s given me permission to share all we have, to help in any way. Tea?”
“Yes, please.”
Phyllis poured tea into a souvenir mug from the gift shop with BRITISH MUSEUM stamped on the side and handed it over. “Sugar, milk?”
“This is fine. I’m going to get right to it. We need as much information about Isabella Marin as you can provide—what she was working on, who her friends were.”
Phyllis Powers said very simply, “Isabella is a sweetheart, exceptional, frighteningly brilliant. She’s been working here for almost a year now, and she’s been a huge asset to Persy. She also had her first presser this week, on the newly discovered Voynich pages. It is ridiculous to think someone inside the community would attack them, but she was on television and all over our media resource page. Some disturbed person must have seen her and decided—”
“Hold up, did you say the Voynich?”
“Yes, I did. Isabella is a Voynich scholar. Finding the lost pages was a huge break for her, the kind that makes careers.”
“How did she find pages of the Voynich?”
“She was in the ancient Rome archives, archiving a shipment of books. She pulled a book from the box, the quires fell out. An amazing coincidence.”
“Yes,” Mike said, thinking about Ben and Melinda, “that surely is an amazing coincidence. What book were the pages in?”
“Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. Surely you understand this is a once-in-a-lifetime discovery.”
“Would Isabella normally be cataloging books?”
“Not normally, no, but this was a priceless collection that came in from a major collector. It needed the utmost care, and she offered. Wait, are you saying you think Isabella planted the quires?”
“Yes, I am.”
Mike’s phone beeped. She glanced at the screen. A text from Gareth.
Big surprise! We have the murder on video. The crime scene crew found a small camera hidden in the kitchen. We guess Gil Brooks was taping the engagement. My tech ran it. Sending screenshot of the suspect now.
A photo scrolled in, an almost perfect profile shot of a man with sandy hair, a beard, and glasses, his black eyes dead in the pixels. Mike felt a punch to the gut looking at the vicious smile on his face. Wait, there was something about the profile that looked familiar to her.
Mike turned the phone around.
“Ms. Powers, do you know who this is?
Mike watched Phyllis pale. “No, it’s not possible. How could it be? I mean, that’s Dr. Laurence Bruce.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Mike called Gareth Scott immediately.
“The murderer’s name is Dr. Laurence Bruce. I’m putting you on speaker with Phyllis Powers, Dr. Wynn-Jones’s personal assistant. He’s Isabella’s boss. I’m hearing all this for the first time, too. Please, Phyllis. Go ahead.”
“He’s a colleague of Persy, I’m sorry, Dr. Wynn-Jones. He’s a Voynich scholar, always around when discoveries are made. He’s multipublished, well known in the field. He was one of the first calls we received on Tuesday after the announcement. He was in town, as I recall, wonderful timing for him, as he’s based in Rome. He came to see the manuscript and spoke at length with Isabella.”
Gareth said, “Please tell me you have cameras, Ms. Powers.”
“I’m sure security at the museum would be happy to help. Shall I take Agent Caine to them?”
“Yes, and thank you for being such a help. We’ll be in touch. Mike?”
Mike turned off the speakerphone and put her cell to her ear.
“Hey.”
“This is quite a break. Let’s get as much information about this man as possible and figure out where he is. If we can find that, we might have a chance to save Isabella Marin’s life.”