by Scott Hunter
“What does it say, Fish?” Potzner spaced the words with a second’s pause between each.
“Yeah. Sorry. Right.” Fish shuffled his papers. “Okay. Here we go. First line. From holy resting place to rest upon the water.”
“Go on.”
Fish turned to a colleague who whispered something in response. “Yeah. Well, we’re not too sure about this line. We think the name reference is Noah, but it may not be. Hard to say. At any rate, it refers to someone about to take an important action. But Noah, the faithful son...”
“Action? What action?”
Fish removed his glasses again and polished out an imaginary blemish. “Well, that’s the second half of the verse. The one we don’t have.” He shrugged his thin shoulders.
Potzner grunted. “Next.”
“Yeah. This is good. Very clear. Once more in the earth you will find peace.”
“If only I could,” Potzner said.
One of the technicians grinned, saw Potzner’s expression and converted the action to a cough.
“Okay,” Fish said. “Two lines to go. From whence you came.”
“And –?”
“Nope.” Fish smirked. “Between – between the rivers.”
“I wasn’t making a contribution, Fish.” Potzner fought his irritation. “Now read it all.” He sat on the edge of his desk and snapped his cigarette case open, released a new packet from its cellophane wrapper and began to transfer Marlboros from packet to case.
Fish took a deep breath. “What wouldn’t I give to see the real object this guy sketched from. I mean I really have to see the rest of the script to make sense of it all. It’s the clearest example –”
“I know. Just read it.”
“Okay. Right. Here goes:
“From holy resting place to rest upon the water –
But Noah, the faithful son –
Once more in the earth you will find peace –
From whence you came –
Between the rivers –
“There you go. That’s it.” Fish nodded conclusively. His assistants smiled and made appreciative noises.
“Anything else?” Potzner asked them. “Any shape, any word, any stroke of the pen, any other diagrams that might help?”
Fish sighed. “I’m afraid not. We don’t think anything else cross-refers to this particular diagram. The footnote doesn’t really make any sense. It’s in a modern idiom. Roughly translated it says –”
“In time you will find the whole,” Potzner said. “I know.”
Fish and his team exchanged surprised glances.
“I don’t know why I bother with you guys,” Potzner said. “It’s kids’ stuff.”
Dracup inserted his hand carefully into the open door of the grandfather clock. He felt around on either side then slid his hand further up above the door, taking care to avoid contact with the suspended lead weights and pendulum, and was rewarded with the sensation of paper brushing along his searching fingertips.
“Is there something?” Sara asked.
“Yes – I’ve just got to –” Dracup eased the paper out of its hiding place, “– be careful I don’t tear it. It’s quite brittle.”
“Been there for a while, I guess,” Farrell said, chewing thoughtfully on a stick of gum.
“Got it.” Dracup removed his hand and inspected his discovery. They all peered at the closely formed writing. “Same as the diary,” Sara murmured. “It’s him all right.”
Dracup felt a familiar weariness creep over him. “Yes, but what on earth does it mean? Come on. Downstairs.”
They assembled in the front room and Dracup placed the handwritten note on the table. He rubbed his eyes and gave a sigh of frustration. The note was brief. It said:
L'Chaim Doctor A, and dial a close shave in the nick of time
Dracup found that his mind had gone into a kind of suspended animation. Churchill’s revelation had given him a surge of adrenaline and the hope of a quick answer. But the adrenaline had quickly dispersed, leaving him flat and exhausted. His grandfather’s strange words danced before him. He looked at his watch, wondering how much progress Potzner had made. Best give the American a few more hours before phoning in – he was confident Potzner would contact him with any news. And he in turn would want an update. “I need a coffee,” Dracup told them, and went into the kitchen.
As he waited for the kettle he thought about his aunt. How much had she known about all this? Perhaps she had kept herself in deliberate ignorance. The diary had remained at McPherson & McPherson’s offices. She hadn’t discovered the message in the clock, placed there by his grandfather probably some time before his committal. It was almost as if his grandfather knew what was likely to happen and had been able – rationally able – to leave markers for whoever followed, for whoever needed to follow in his footsteps. This was not a legacy of dementia but the premeditated act of a man intent on putting some wrong to rights. There had been something wrong about the second expedition; something had been done that should not have been done. It had not been in Theodore Dracup’s power to undo his actions, but he had seen to it that there would be a way for someone in the future to do just that; someone to make amends. Someone –
Dracup ran into the lounge. “The salutation is the easy bit.”
Sara looked up and frowned. “What?”
“L'Chaim! is a Jewish exhortation to good health. It literally means ‘To life!’ or, as we would say, ‘Cheers!’ when we raise a glass.”
“Okay.” Her forehead creased again. “But Doctor A?”
“Come on – abbreviate ‘Doctor’.” Dracup’s excitement was rising. “It’s not a reference to my profession – he couldn’t have known that.”
Sara snapped her fingers. “Of course! You drink from a cup; a Dr-a-cup.” She blanched. “It’s personal... to you.”
Dracup nodded. “It seems that way. I was just thinking about Theodore. About what he did. He meant me to find this.”
“Nice going,” Farrell said. “But you ain’t home and dry yet.”
“Thanks, Farrell.” Dracup sank back into the armchair. “Do feel free to make a contribution.”
“So,” Farrell said. “You got a dial, a shave and a nick. Take each in turn.”
“Something on the clock?” Sara suggested, lips pursed in concentration. “You know – a dial. A cog or something like that.”
Dracup exhaled deeply. “Maybe. Or a phone?”
“I’d guess not,” Farrell said. “We’re talking a long time ago. Telephones wouldn’t be in common use.”
“True. And dial what? There’s no number, and even if there were it would be out of date,” Sara offered.
“How about the shave bit?” Dracup asked them. He looked at Sara expectantly – this was her forte, but her face again wore a puzzled expression. Just when he needed her intellect she was closing down on him. He bit his lip, trying to mask his frustration. They had to make some progress soon before the trail went completely cold.
“Close shave,” Farrell corrected. “Like something bad just avoided… but the last part – nick of time – maybe something really urgent…”
“Yes,” Dracup agreed. “It implies precision – the critical moment, the exact instant at which something has to take place.” Dracup pondered silently for a second or so, then, thinking aloud: “The idea being that a ‘nick’ is a narrow and precise marker, so if something is ‘in the nick’ it’s precisely where it should be.”
“Narrow and precise markers. Like the hands of a clock,” Farrell said.
Dracup snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Yes. Nick of time.” He was on his feet. “Seven past seven.” Dracup banged his forehead with his fist. “What’s wrong with me?”
Sara stood in front of him and stroked his cheek. “Simon. You’re under strain. It’s hardly surprising you’re not thinking straight.” She kissed him lightly on the lips. “That’s what I’m here for, okay?”
Dracup squeezed her hand and forced a smi
le. “Yes. Thanks. I know.”
Farrell was diplomatically looking out of the window. “You goin’ to take another look at the timepiece, or what?”
They gathered on the top landing around the clock. “Kind of appropriate, wouldn’t you say?” Farrell said, running his fingers up and down the dark mahogany.
“What’s that?”
“Your grandfather leaving his messages in a grandfather clock.”
“Very astute, Farrell,” Dracup said. “But it’s the time that’s significant. Look.” He pointed at the hands, stiffened into their positions by the passing of the years.
“That’d be seven minutes past seven by my reckoning all right,” Farrell said.
“Exactly. That’s what Churchill was telling us.”
“But how do we know the hands haven’t moved since your grandfather placed the note in the clock?” Sara asked.
Dracup thought for a moment. “We don’t. But there’s no indication that this has been working at all in recent times. The only person who would have bothered to do anything with it was my aunt – and she clearly hasn’t. Besides, apart from Churchill there’s something else that makes me pretty sure that the hands are as Theodore left them.”
Sara shook her head. “Sorry. You’ve lost me now.”
“The number seven has great significance in Jewish scripture. And as we appear to be dealing with the legacy of a man who was rescued from a flood by the God of the Jewish scriptures, the use of the number seven is curiously appropriate.”
“Sure is,” Farrell said. “In the Old Testament seven makes an appearance right away. Creation in seven days, then there’s seven days in the week. Also seven graces, seven deadly sins, seven divisions in the Lord’s Prayer and seven ages in the life of man. Among the Hebrews every seventh year was sabbatical, and seven times seven years was the jubilee. The three great Jewish feasts lasted seven days, and between the first and second were seven weeks.” Farrell paused briefly, then added, “Oh yeah, the Levitical purifications lasted seven days too.”
Sara laughed aloud. “I’ll take your word for it. Is that it?”
“Let’s see.” Farrell looked heavenwards as if for inspiration. “Ah, not quite. Naaman was commanded to dip seven times in the river Jordan to be cured of leprosy. The prophet Elijah sent his servant seven times to look out for rain. Ten times seven Israelites went to Egypt, and the exile lasted the same number of years. There were ten times seven elders. And Pharaoh in his dream saw seven years for each of his wives. My favourite story was the fall of Jericho,” Farrell smiled fondly at the recollection, “when seven priests with seven trumpets marched round Jericho once every day and then seven times on the seventh day. Then the walls came down.”
Dracup looked at Farrell and shook his head slowly. “All right, Farrell, we get the picture. But these sevens mean something a little closer to home.” As he uttered the last word, Dracup had a thought. Home. His grandfather’s home. It had been sold, but maybe... The clock would have been in situ at the old house, not his aunt’s, when Theodore had left these clues. Dial a close shave. What had been his grandfather’s address? 14 St Andrew’s Close. “I think we’re looking at something left at his old address.” Dracup felt a surge of excitement. “Sara – you found some old photos in the bureau? I need to see them.”
“They were just some old black and whites,” Sara said.
“But they were outdoor photos? Of the garden, weren’t they?”
“I think so.”
Dracup bounded down the stairs into the front room. He seized the pile of photos and papers from the open bureau. Where was the garden shot?
“Hey. Careful – I have a system going here,” Sara said, hard on Dracup’s heels.
“Don’t worry. I’m just after – ah. Here.” Dracup held up a photograph and waved it. “This is it. Take a look. What do you see?”
Farrell and Sara peered over his shoulder at the image. “Coupla people. Grass. Trees. House in the background.” Farrell clicked his tongue. “Not a lot else.”
“Come on. Look again,” Dracup said. Surely they would get it. He was right, he knew it. He had to be right.
Sara ran a hand through her hair and massaged her neck, yawning. “Simon, I can’t see anything. Explain.”
“In the middle of the garden.” He clapped a hand to his forehead.
“An ornament of some kind,” Farrell said.
“Brilliant. What sort of ornament?” Dracup was almost jigging in frustration now. Sara was usually razor sharp. Why couldn’t she see it?
“A bird table?”
“Bird table my backside. Come on. Think.”
“I give up, Simon. Tell us.” Sara flopped onto the sofa and folded her arms.
“It’s a sundial. Dial a close shave in the nick of time.”
Farrell’s expression brightened. “Good job, Mr Dracup.” The American gave the briefest of grins before a frown reappeared on his forehead. “But what the heck shaving’s got to do with it beats me.”
Sara’s mobile beeped. She reached into her handbag and fished it out.
Dracup frowned in dismay. Surely she wouldn’t take the call now? Not now they were getting close...
“Excuse me a sec.” Sara left the room.
Shaking his head in dismay, Dracup turned back to the photograph. He was within reach of something at last, something tangible. “Give me a chance, Farrell,” Dracup said. “What have we got so far? Two sevens and a sundial.”
“Yeah, seven... but seven what?” Farrell took the photo from Dracup and frowned.
Dracup clicked his fingers and paced the room. “We’ll just have to go and take a look. Of course the house is no longer in the family; we’ll have to pay a clandestine visit.” Or could they just knock on the door? Something lay hidden in the garden of Theodore’s old house. Near the sundial. Seven something from the sundial. He looked out onto the street. The rain was sheeting down; fleeting figures scurried by packaged in mackintoshes and thick scarves, their umbrellas wayward in the northeasterly blast sweeping in from the sea. Hard to think about sundials with a backdrop like this… Dracup ran his finger down the glass, traced the number seven in the condensation, and watched the water gather then ripple down the pane, distorting the outline he had made.
“Cracked it yet?” Sara came in and gave Farrell a smile that said come on smarty-pants, let’s see you get this one. Dracup knew the expression. It was when Sara had the answer and knew that no one else did.
Farrell read her meaning. “I’m working on it.”
Dracup watched Sara slide her mobile into her handbag, but there was something covert about her expression. “Who was that?” he asked her. “Problems?”
Sara’s eyes met his then lowered. “Tell you later. It’s probably nothing.”
“Sure?” Dracup sensed a change in Sara. It clearly wasn’t nothing.
“It’s fine – don’t worry.”
“I’m not, I just –”
“Occam.” Farrell said.
They both turned to the American and Sara grinned. “Ah ha. Not just a pretty face then.”
Dracup racked his brains. Occam. It rang a bell, but a very distant one.
“Occam’s razor,” Farrell said. “You never heard of that, Mr Dracup?”
Chapter 10
Ruth felt the cool grains beneath her toes and knew at last that she was home. It had been a long journey, the last leg being the most stressful as always. Ruth was nervous in the presence of outsiders, especially when the outsiders in question wore uniform and carried machine pistols. But they were meek under Kadesh’s authority, servants to do their bidding in innocence and ignorance, just as he had told her. Her heart had begun to beat faster as the jeep rolled onwards towards the beloved place, a place that had been sullied and empty for so long. But now, all was restored. She felt a profound peace, despite her misgivings about the girl and Kadesh’s motives for taking her. She wanted to see, to feel, to worship and rejoice with the others. She felt the gir
l squeeze her hand and the dark eyes looked up at her in a silent plea for reassurance.
“It’s all right, my little one. I’m here. I won’t leave you. We must hurry – I have to show you something wonderful.”
“I want my mummy,” the girl spoke for the first time since the plane had touched down. “When is she coming?”
Ahead of them in the dim glow of the tunnel Ruth could see Kadesh’s tall figure walking purposefully onwards. Ruth heard the gentle thrumming of song and knew that they were close to their destination. “Your mummy will be fine,” Ruth told her. “She’ll be pleased that I’m looking after you.”
“But she doesn’t know you,” the girl said. She stumbled and fell onto one knee. Ruth bent and helped her up.
“It’s only a graze. You’re all right.”
The girl bit her lip and began to cry. “I want to phone her. I don’t like it here.”
“Look, here’s your dolly,” Ruth said. She bent down and stroked Natasha’s cheek. “Give her a cuddle and you’ll feel better.”
The girl took the doll and held it close. They walked on, towards the light.
Ruth was sitting quietly in her chamber where she had made a bed for Natasha. The room was furnished with colourful embroideries and wall hangings, many of which dated back to when Ruth was a girl herself. “Do you like them?” she asked Natasha, who was running her hand up and down the silk curtains enclosing Ruth’s bed. “I can make some for you as well.”
“Am I staying for a long time?” Natasha asked quietly. She flicked the curtains back and forth.
“I don’t know, Natasha. It’s not my decision. Kadesh will tell you when he is ready.”
“I’m scared of him. I don’t like him.” Natasha sat on the bed, hands clasped together. “This is a funny place. Why do you live here? What were you singing about in that cave?” She toyed with her hair, looking around the chamber with curious eyes.
