Newton’s Fire

‘It’s okay,’ laughed Luke. ‘How do we get there?’

‘It’s on the Triforium level. Back below the Whispering Gallery.’

‘What do you think?’ Luke asked Rachel.

‘Let’s give it a go,’ she said.

II

And ye shall give the red heifer unto Eleazar the priest, and she shall be brought forth without the camp, and she shall be slain before his face. And Eleazar the priest shall take of her blood with his finger, and sprinkle of her blood toward the front of the tent of meeting seven times. And the heifer shall be burnt in his sight. Her skin, her flesh, her blood and her dung, shall be burnt.

Avram stripped naked to purify himself in the chamber of immersion then dried himself with towels of white linen from the table of vestments.

The Talmud says: When they are clothed in priestly garments, they are priests; but when they are not clothed in priestly garments, they are not priests.

The white garments first, the woven six-ply linen tunic and trousers. The belt next, then the turban.

When he’d first started on this quest many years before, Avram had hoped to bring about the new Temple within the confines of strict Judaic law. He and his fellows had therefore obsessed over what chemicals to use for bleaching the linen and the precise array of the twelve stones on the ephod. He’d become intoxicated with textual analysis, the sense that he was studying the mind of God.

One afternoon, at a friend’s house, they’d all got into a furious debate about the person who’d carry out the actual sacrifice. The texts seemed clear enough: it had to be a male of the priestly line, a Kohen like Avram himself. He had to be past Bar Mitzvah age, and he could never have been in contact with death. That was to say, not once in his at least thirteen years could he have trodden on an ancient grave or been inside a building in which anyone had ever died. But the modern world made such conditions impossible. The solution, therefore, had been to raise such a child outside the modern world. The discussion that afternoon had been about how. How to identify which male infants should be taken at birth from their parents; how high off the ground they’d need to build the compound in which the child would be reared to maturity; how then to get him from his compound to the place of sacrifice without contamination. The discussion had become increasingly heated. Voices had been raised, insults hurled. Avram had stopped participating after a while, had instead watched with a growing sense of the absurdity of it all — these fantasies of raised compounds and babies snatched from mothers’ breasts, and it had culminated in a moment of insight so blinding that it had been almost painful: these men were lapdogs yapping from behind a fence. Open the gate for them and they wouldn’t know what to do.

He’d left without another word and he’d never been back.

The ephod next, then the breastplate. The turban and the crown. By rights they should be doing this on the Mount of Olives, looking down on Mount Moriah and the Temple itself. But the Temple wasn’t yet there, and to look down on those Muslim obscenities was unthinkable. He went therefore to the wall covered by the great white sheet. He paused a moment, to add a little drama, then gave the rope a tug. The sheet flapped as it fell, revealing a plastered wall behind, painted into a dream landscape with bright acrylics: Mount Moriah cleansed of the Dome and the al-Aqsa mosque, the Third Temple standing gloriously in their place.

The cries from Shlomo and his men were cries of exaltation. And Avram raised his arms high and wide in triumph, for all the world Moses winning battles on the mountaintop.

THIRTY I

The Triforium had only recently been opened to the public, and it showed in the washed stonework, the waxed display cases, the fresh white gloss of the window-frames. By contrast, the library itself was deliberately gloomy thanks to the tattered drapes that had been hung over the tall windows to protect the old books from direct sunlight.

The only person inside was a man in clerical garb with ruffled grey hair and a fluffy beard who was studying tiny holes in a leather binding through a magnifying glass. They went to stand across his worktable from him. He evidently hoped that they’d leave if he ignored them long enough, but they waited him out and finally he sighed and looked up. ‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘What are those holes?’ asked Luke, in an effort to break the ice.

‘What do they look like?’

‘They look like woodworm.’

‘Well, then,’ he said.

‘In leather?’

‘The leather’s only a thin cover,’ murmured Rachel. ‘There are actually thin panels of wood beneath.’

The man smiled in surprise. ‘Very good, my dear,’ he said.

‘Maple?’ she asked.

‘Oak.’

‘How can you tell?’ asked Luke.

The man nodded at Rachel, inviting her to answer. ‘The grain imprints itself on the leather,’ she said. ‘Each wood has a different signature.’

‘I never knew that.’

‘Why would you?’

The man set down his magnifying glass, finally prepared to give them his attention. ‘What may I do for you?’

‘We’re looking for a Clarence,’ said Rachel. ‘You wouldn’t be a Clarence, by any chance?’

‘Dear me, no,’ he said. ‘I’m not a Clarence. I’m a Trevor. A Clarence is in Finland, I’m afraid. Finland or Norway. One of those places. The eagle owls are about to fledge, I’m told. But maybe I can help.’

‘We’re trying to find out about Isaac Newton’s involvement with the committee to complete St Paul’s.’

‘Oh, yes. That really is a matter for a Clarence, I’m afraid. Not at all the right area for a mere Trevor like myself.’

‘When will he be back?’

‘The week after next, I believe. Eagle owls are no respecters of schedules. They fledge whenever they damned well please. But you could always consult the records of the Wren Society if you’re in a rush. They’ll have what you need, I imagine.’

‘You don’t have a set here, by any chance?’

‘We do, we do, we most certainly do; but I’m afraid to say we’re not that kind of a library. Try the British Library or the Guildhall. They’ll let just about anyone read their books.’

Luke thanked him and made to leave, glad to get away before impatience got the better of him. But Rachel wasn’t quite done yet. She paused at the door, glanced back. ‘I don’t suppose you Trevors would know anything about a man called John Evelyn, would you?’

‘A man called John Evelyn?’ said Trevor. ‘A man called John Evelyn!’ He shook his head with great good humour, pushed himself to his feet, came round to join them. ‘I once wrote an article for the Church Times on a man called John Evelyn. On his book comparing ancient and modern styles of architecture, to be precise. At least, not Evelyn’s book so much as his translation of the essays put together by de Chambray. But you get the idea. It caused a tremendous sensation.’

‘Your article?’ asked Rachel sweetly.