He remembered the apocryphal ‘Cave of Treasures’ manuscript he had read many years ago. Me`ârath Gazzê, a Syriac manuscript dating back to 306 AD. Many scholars had rejected the manuscript as a mere collection of ‘idle stories’ and ‘vain fables’, but Sturrock had never been that convinced. As with all the apocrypha there was some truth to be found amongst the many embellishments and fanciful additions — if you were careful with your interpretation. They were not canonical texts and so were not authoritative in the way that the New or Old Testament manuscripts clearly were. Sturrock was very sure of his ground with the latter texts — and for good reason: he was in learned company. The council of Nicaea had recognized apostolic writing for what it was, and the gospels had been continually treated as such from their first appearance — in a sense the council had only confirmed what was already understood and accepted as authentic. Far from reinventing Christianity at Nicaea, the Emperor Constantine’s signature had merely rubber stamped the gospels, thus facilitating their global acceptance.
But you digress, Charles. Sturrock shook his head and allowed himself a little smile. Or do you? He poured himself a diluted refill and thought about the apocrypha. Now these writings had to be handled very differently. The centuries had produced many religious writings claiming veracity, but Sturrock understood that scholars down the ages had taken great care to expose fraudulent and misleading texts. He sipped his brandy and contemplated Me`ârath Gazzê, The Cave of Treasures. Was the author’s intention to deceive? He thought not. More likely the opposite: to highlight the wonder of it all. Sturrock grunted. He spent many solitary hours in his study and found vocalizing his conclusions helpful.
The carriage clock on the crowded mantelpiece struck ten. No matter; the night was young. Charles gazed at the ceiling and ordered his thoughts. So: a wonder book indeed, the purpose of which was to reinforce Christian doctrine and introduce detail of a secondary nature — necessarily excluded from the canonical scriptures. Nevertheless, caution was Sturrock’s watchword. As he had begun his investigation he reminded himself that much of this particular apocrypha was founded on nothing more substantial than good old-fashioned myth and legend, but he also reminded himself that remnants of truth lay scattered within if you knew where to look. Willis Rudge was the scholar in question here and Sturrock could only agree with his summary:
‘The ‘Cave of Treasures’ possesses an apocryphal character certainly, but the support which its contents give to the Christian Faith, and the light which the historical portions shed on early Christian History, entitle it to a very high position among the apocryphal Books of the Old and the New Testament.’
Sturrock typed in a new search string and waited. He read for several minutes, but hesitated before scrolling to the next paragraph. In that moment he had guessed the truth. He reached for his brandy with shaking hands. My God, Simon. My God… He took a long pull, set his glass down with trembling fingers and pasted the text into a new email message. As his conclusions tumbled onto the screen he prayed that his friend would check his email account. He reread the message and clicked on the address book icon. Disley, Donnington, Dracup. The doorbell rang.
“Just a minute.” Sturrock replaced the brandy bottle on the mantelpiece, muttering and shaking his head. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was interruptions. Some student after a stay of execution for a late assignment, probably. Why had he let the housekeeper go early? Perhaps he should have moved off campus as he had originally intended.
He unchained the bolt and swung the door open. His mouth opened in surprise. He turned and stumbled back into the hall. The computer was a long way off. He wouldn’t make it. Sturrock let out a yell as he felt hands catch at his clothing. He shrugged off his jacket and fell forward, lunging for the keyboard. Something cold entered his back, a probing metallic sharpness. And then came the pain, savage, permeating. He twisted in his agony and looked into the face of his attacker. The eyes were dark, relentless. Sturrock’s vision began to fade; an overwhelming blackness was descending. He focused on the row of control keys and stabbed a finger out, feeling for the small, concave button: F9. Send/Receive.
The first thing Moran noticed was the smell. He knew it before he stepped over the threshold. A thick, cloying scent that pervaded the entire house. He stepped gingerly into the hall, one hand on the door frame. The lock was intact — no sign of forced entry. Nice old building, good solid stone. Moran had made this his first port of call, deferring a visit to Yvonne Dracup in favour of the Professor’s oldest friend, Charles Sturrock. Eccentric, but brilliant. Internationally famous for his archaeological aptitude, but probably better known around the campus for his odd predilections. Moran smiled grimly. He had seen Sturrock on the box only a few weeks ago, some time slip series about Roman Britain.
The door to the study was slightly ajar. Moran approached and listened. All quiet. He pushed the door a fraction and the smell hit him full on. He found a handkerchief in his pocket and advanced purposefully once he saw the body. You couldn’t miss it.
Charles Sturrock lay across the desk, his throat a gaping hole through which blood still oozed thickly onto the green leatherette surface. The eyes were open, shocked. Moran winced, leaned forward and closed them. Always the worst bit, the eyes. Another wound caught his attention: a neat perforation in the corpse’s back, ringed with dried blood. A two-pronged attack, then; a knife in the back, another across the throat. Moran’s nose twitched. There was something else. Spirit. He lifted the archaeologist’s arm. Glass fragments were embedded in Sturrock’s flesh, the tumbler crushed by the weight of the corpse’s body.
The computer had been given similar attention; its guts had been ripped out. The flat screen stared blankly at him. Moran poked around in the drawers. A couple of floppies — did people still use these things? He slipped them into his jacket. All sorts of sundry items fell under his gloved fingertips. Moran ejected them without ceremony. He hated an untidy mind, brilliant or otherwise. Sheaves of papers came out and were consigned to the floor. Magazines came next. Moran picked up the first and groaned aloud. Its title was artistically shaped into the outline of a jet fighter. ‘Flying Magazine.’
He clapped a hand to his head. Moran, you’re slowing down. Using his handkerchief he picked up the phone. Two rings. Come on. They answered. “This is Moran. I need a SOCO team and a squad car pronto.” He told them the address. “And get me Sergeant Phelps.” He tapped his foot until Phelps came on. “Phelps — I want you to check all local airfields in the south east — Blackbushe, White Waltham, Old Sarum, whatever. I want to know who went where over the last few days, especially one Professor Charles Sturrock.”
Moran listened to his Sergeant’s reaction and curled his lip. “Yes, Phelps. Dracup’s friend was a blasted pilot. Yes, I did say ‘was’.”
Moran watched Forensic pick their way through the contents of Sturrock’s flat, dusting, picking, bagging. The body had been taken away and he felt the usual relief. Now it was just a crime scene, not a morgue. He went outside and found his Sergeant, a lugubrious-looking officer in his late thirties; a plodder, but more often than not that’s what you needed. Who said police work was glamorous?
Phelps strolled over. His eyebrows reminded Moran of the forward and backslash keys on a computer keyboard. It gave the man a sad, put-upon look, as if he carried the world’s weight on his thin, raincoated shoulders. “Any joy, Guv?”