A Cold Mountain

Chapter 8

by Daniel Pears, published on September 13, 2000

September 1st 2000, the early morning, Cambridge, England

The morning sky was a bright, crisp blue, and the sun poured its shorter rays down steadily. The Church of Great St Mary’s was at the north end of King’s Parade, facing the University’s Senate House and overlooking the Market Square. There is a long and distinguish tradition of preaching at Great St Mary’s. When I entered the cavernous cold of the Church, the sermon of Matins (the Morning Prayer) was about to begin. I couldn't account for my embarrassment at being there, so I decided that my embarrassment didn't exist. I honestly didn't comprehend that, had Sarah Frey been in some café, I wouldn't be at all self-conscious about meeting her. As you probably know, I don’t like Churches pretty much. They probably remind me of all the commandments that I should honour. That day, I was rather pretending to be somewhere else, as though the Church had nothing at all to do with me.

The Minister, an old but vigorous man, read with a loud voice some sentences of the Scriptures: “Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us, in sundry places, to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness; and that we should not dissemble nor cloak them before the face of Almighty God our heavenly Father; but confess them with an humble, lowly penitent, and obedient heart; to the end that we may obtain forgiveness of the same, by his infinite goodness and mercy.” The Minister paused and took a deep breath, while examining accusingly the members of the congregation. “Wherefore I pray and beseech you, as many as are here present, to accompany me with a pure heart, and humble voice, unto the throne of the heavenly grace, saying after me; Almighty and most merciful Father; We have erred, and strayed from the ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much devices and desires of our own heart. Spare thou them, O God, who confess their faults. Restore thou those who are penitent; According to thy promises declared unto mankind in Jesus our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for his sake; That we may hereafter live a godly, righteous and sober life, To the glory of the holy Name. Amen.”

The Minister and the whole congregation knelt down, praying. I turned around and walked toward St Andrew’s Chapel. It was located in the north-east corner of Great St Mary’s. Just outside the entrance to the chapel was a votive candle stand and a small icon, and a noticeboard on which one could put prayer requests. I stepped inside. On the east wall of the chapel, above head height, was a statue of the Risen Christ, and on the wall behind the altar, a crucifix. I looked down towards the deserted chairs and saw a young woman, dressed in a black anorak and blue jeans. It surprised me to discover that, even from this distance, she was pretty. Her hair was tied back. She was sitting comfortably as still as she could. She read a few verses from a bible she was holding. After several minutes, she put the book on her knees and closed her eyes. I approached her and sat just behind her. I closed my eyes as well and relaxed my body, bit by bit, letting the tension go from feet and legs, back and shoulders, arms and hands, neck, eyes and face. I breathed slowly and more deeply than usual and relaxed as I breathed out.

At the end of my time of silence, I opened my eyes and said: “There is a time for speech and a time for silence. The beginning of prayer is learning how to be still before God, how to relax, letting the tension go; content to do nothing but rest in the knowledge that you can trust Him and that He loves you.”

Her eyes still shut, Sarah said: “Then we cease to do. We simply are. Being silences and subdues doing and the temporal melts into the eternal.” She turned around and glanced at me amusingly. “I'm quite familiar with Hugh Lavery’s Reflections as well.” She was indeed lovely. “I've never seen you here before, yet you sound strangely familiar.”

-“Sarah Frey? It is, is it not?” I asked.

-“Yes.” Suddenly she was on alert.

-“You don’t know me. My name is Knight. Gabriel Knight. I'm an American writer. Your father contacted me some time ago. He wanted to meet me in Rittersberg- that’s where I live. Unfortunately, he never made it. He was murdered in Munich earlier that day.”

Sarah remained silent for a while. Then, she stood and stepped towards the candle stand and lit one of the candles. “Murdered,” she said. “That’s what they told me. Murdered. The full stop in the middle of a sentence. You can talk about it, envisage it, acknowledge it, but you Can't prepare for it. Not when neither you nor the one you love is ill or old. They must have told me what had happened several times before it sank in. I didn't want to believe it and so, at first, I couldn't bring myself to. So much fear hides beneath our everyday concerns. We bury it deep. We pretend it isn't there. And then, in a sickening instant, it surges to the surface. And consumes us. I was shocked. Of course I was. But most of all I was frightened. Of every hour and day and week and year I was going to spend without him.” She looked at me now. “But that’s where you’re mistaken, Mr. Knight. I do know you. My father told me all about you. I know he went to Germany in order to meet you. When I heard he had been murdered, I wanted to call you but simply couldn't. I suppose there are many questions you’d like to ask me, aren't they?”

-“Yes, Miss Frey.”

-“Call me Sarah.” We shook hands. “Fine, because I have some questions of my own as well. Come with me. Let’s go to the Faculty.”

We stepped out of Great St Mary’s Church and walked down King’s Parade overlooking King’s College. Sarah told me that her mother had died of cancer ten years earlier. She was buried in London, in Paddington Cemetery, near where she had been brought up. After her death, Sarah moved with her father to Cambridge. I asked if she had relatives alive, but she said there was no one to whom she was close. Some aunts and uncles, that was all- people she had not seen in years, with whom she had nothing in common. I respected her reticence and did not probe further. She told me that she was working at the department of Archaeology as Dr. Neil Brodie’s Research Assistant.

When we finally reached the main entrance of the Faculty of Archaeology and Anthropology, Sarah explained: “The department of Archaeology has a teaching staff of 13 and can offer supervision and research facilities in a wide range of archaeological topics. The Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology and the McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research are part of the Faculty.” The building spread across several acres of lawns and gardens. It was mostly made of a uniform red brick, with a few modern concrete-and-glass structures, all connected by a tangle of narrow roads lined with parking meters. An old security guard was standing by the door of the main entrance, checking people’s student cards; but at that moment a big group of students came in together and walked past the guard, some waving their cards and others forgetting, and the guard just shrugged his shoulders and went on reading his newspaper. “Good morning, Daniel,” Sarah greeted him.

-“Good morning, Miss Frey,” the security guard smiled. He had a thin face and a large nose. “What brings you here so early in the morning?”

-“My job. What else?” She laughed.

The security guard gazed at her with his clear grey eyes. “Have a nice day, Miss Frey.” He glanced at me. “You too, sir.”

We smiled at the guard as we passed him, and pushed through the door into the building. “Why do you need a security guard for?” I asked.

-“We've good some precious artefacts down in the basement.”

The lobby was busy with young men and women coming and going, books in their hands and bags slung over their shoulders.

As we crossed the lobby and climbed up a broad staircase to the first floor, I asked: “Your father was the head of the Hebrew and Aramaic Studies at Cambridge, wasn't he?”

-“Yes.”

-“What do these studies consist of anyway?”

-“As you probably know, Hebrew literature has had a life of over 3000 years from the earliest part of the Bible to the most modern newspaper or novel. The classical phase of the language is represented in the Hebrew Bible and in some slightly later literature, notably in some of the Dead Sea Scrolls. It also appears in inscriptions, of which more and more are being discovered in Israel. After Biblical Hebrew a later form of the language was spoken in Judah at the beginning of the present era, and was used by early rabbis in their voluminous writings. In the Middle Ages Hebrew continued to be used by the great Jewish commentators on the Bible, by poets and authors of many works. Throughout, it was, of course, the language of Jewish prayer and worship, in home and synagogue, and was a means of international communication between Jewish communities. Christians too studied Hebrew, especially in the Renaissance and Reformation periods and in the centuries since then.”

-“What about modern Hebrew?”

-“Well, Hebrew was reinvigorated in the nineteenth century, not just as a literary language, but as vernacular in everyday use, and it is now the language of the State of Israel where there is a vigorous and growing literature.”

-“And Aramaic?”

-“Aramaic, in both its spoken and written forms, has a similarly long history.” She smiled. “Are you sure you want to hear about it?”

-“Sure.”

-“To make it short, Aramaic became the official language of the Persian Empire in the fifth and fourth centuries BC, and was widely used in Palestine during the period of the Second Temple. In its Syriac form it produced an extensive literature of a mainly Christian complexion. There are still small communities in the Near East where modern forms of Aramaic are spoken, and Syriac remains the liturgical language of the Mar Thoma Church in India.” She pointed around her. “Cambridge has long been a centre for Hebrew and Aramaic Studies, and the Regius Professorship of Hebrew was founded by Henry VIII as early as 1540. The University Library has a large number of Hebrew and Aramaic manuscripts. The collection of some 140 000 fragments and better-preserved texts comes from about the seventh century onwards. It brings scholars from many parts of the world to work in Cambridge.” She took a deep breath. “My father was appointed head of the Hebrew and Aramaic Studies in 1996.”

At the top of the stairs was a small lobby with a Coke machine and a pay phone under an acoustic hood. We reached a small, windowless reception room. The floor was made of wood blocks. The walls were lime green. In an effort to lighten the gloom, someone had stuck up posters: a night-time view of Great St Mary’s Church, the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, the McDonald Institute. The poster which had hung on the fourth wall had been torn down, leaving pockmarks in the plaster, like bullet holes.

A middle-aged woman was sitting erect behind her desk on a hard wooden chair. She wore a brown tweed suit, sturdy brown shoes and grey woollen stockings. She was staring straight ahead. She smiled happily when she noticed us. “Good morning, Sarah.” She nodded politely at me and then glanced back at Sarah. “My deep and sincere condolences for your father’s death. How are you feeling, dear?”

-“Not that well, you can imagine, Mrs. Wordsworth.”

-“Of course, dear.” She put her hand on Sarah’s. “When I heard about your poor father, I couldn't believe my own ears. Who could have done such a dreadful thing to Dr. Frey? He was such a lovely man.”

-“The police is investigating now and we hope they’d catch the murderer soon.”

-“And this fine gentleman is…?” Mrs. Wordsworth asked, pointing to me.

-“Dr. Gabriel Knight of Yell University,” I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

-“The pleasure is all mine,” she smiled.

-“Well, Mrs. Wordsworth,” Sarah said. “we'd better be going. Have you got any messages for me?”

-“Lord Renfrew called about twenty minutes ago. He said he would try again later.”

-“Thank you, Mrs. Wordsworth.” As we passed the secretary, Sarah whispered to my ear. “I had no idea you were a doctor.”

-“I'm not.”

-“I beg your pardon?”

-“It’s a long story. Let’s just say that when other people are around you should refer to me as Dr. Knight of Yell University. That should do it.”

-“If you say so,” she seemed puzzled. “Let me show you to my father’s office.”

Dr Frey’s office consisted of a large airy room, illuminated by two broad windows. The entire office was a landfill. Clutter, debris, newspapers, bottles. The impressive wooden bookshelves was overloaded with old and recent volumes and publications. Odd scraps of paper laid like puddles on the floor. A large desk stood in the centre of the room.

Sarah took a sit behind the desk and waved at the only other chair available. It was filled with books, files and magazines. When she saw me hesitating, she said. “Push them aside and sit down, Gabriel.”

-“God, I've always thought my office was messy,” I remarked ironically when I took my seat.

-“Well, strangely enough, time and organisation meant nothing to my father.”

-“I can see that.”

She squirmed and shuffled a stack of papers on her desk. “Before my father left for Munich, he told me he had come by something big. Did he say something about it to you?”

-“He mentioned it briefly when we spoke over the phone but didn't want to tell me more about it. He said everything would be fully explained to me when me met.”

-“So both of us know nothing about it.”

-“Don’t you know what he was working on recently? You were his daughter.”

-“I'm Dr Neil Brodie’s Research Assistant, which means that I wasn't involve at all in my father’s work. He was a very secretive man. I do know that he was busy translating some ancient scrolls. We've got plenty of them down at the library.”

-“Do you know where he used to keep record of his research? Did he have a computer?”

-“He had a portable computer where he archived his finding. He took it to Munich, but the police haven’t found it yet. I suppose his murderer took it away with him. I've already checked around his office but so far haven’t been able to find any significant clue.”

-“Then we have no clue whatsoever about the true nature of his recent research,” I said feebly.

-“Perhaps we do have something that might be of some importance, Gabriel.” She slowly rose to her feet and stepped towards the bookshelves. She removed one of the books and flipped some pages, smiling wickedly. “Here it is!” She finally exclaimed and retrieved an envelope that had been slid into the book. She put the book back and tossed the envelope onto the desk. “Just before he left for Munich, my father gave me this envelope. He told me to hide it and to give it to you if something wrong would happen to him.”

-“You knew I would come then?”

-“I hoped you would.” She pointed to me. “And here you are.”

I picked up the envelope and examined it carefully. It was square. No writing on it. Scuffed at the corners, it had attracted some dust as it was slid into the book. It looked perfectly ordinary. Sarah handed me a sharp lancet and, with a surgical exactness I pierced the envelope and opened it. A single sheet of paper slipped smoothly into my hand. No mark or monogram adorned it. Folded once, a clean crease, I opened it and read: “DPNCJMF HIJKLMNO & BTU.” I paused and glanced at Sarah. “What the hell does it mean?”

-“The writing is a puzzle. I believe it conceals a set of instructions.”

-“Do you know how to solve it?”

-“Let me see it, please.” I handed her the paper. She examined for a while and then glanced at me. “The first line appears to be a simple substitution cipher. When I was a little girl my father and I used to play a game of exchanging secret notes. Since we did not wish anyone else to understand their contents, we used a very simply code.” She pointed to the first line. “My father used exactly the same code in this case. You see, each letter stands for the letter that precedes it in the alphabet. So D stands for C, P for O, etc.”

-“Which gives us…?”

-“The word ‘COMBINE’”.

-“Does the code decipher the rest of the note as well?”

She glanced at the other two lines. “Let me see, G stands for H, H for I, I for J… No, it makes no sense at all. I believe my father did not want to use the same code over and over again.”

-“What can be the meaning of the two other lines then?” I asked.

-“I don’t know. It has to be some kind of play on words.”

-“May I see it again?” I grabbed the note and focused on the two lines. “The second line regroups a consecutive series of letters: HIJKLMNO.”

-“In other words, a series of letters from H to O,” Sarah added.

We both remained silent for several minutes, lost in thought. Suddenly my eyes wide opened. Could it be that easy? “I think I have it,” I said.

-“Well…?” She looked at me expectantly.

-“As you said before, the second line is a play on words. The letters H to O refers to H20, the symbol of water.”

-“That’s it!” Sarah exclaimed. “And surely BTU, or British thermal units, is shorthand for heat.”

-“Your father’s message is therefore: COMBINE WATER & HEAT.” I looked around. “I suppose water and heat could both be found in this office.”

Sarah nodded approvingly. She grabbed a bottle of mineral water and poured some in an empty glass. Then, she took the paper and dunked it in the water. “We should fetch some heat.”

-“I think I might know how.” I retrieved a box of matches from my pocket and lit a match. I took the wet note and approached it to the flame. “Your father probably used a sympathetic ink of cobalt and sulphur. Water sets up a chemical reaction and heat causes the writing to reappear.”

-“How do you know all that?”

-“I used to read many mystery novels when I was young.” I winked at her. “I think that Agatha Christie wrote about this chemical reaction in one of her books.”

-“What does the writing say?” Sarah asked, pointing to the note.

-“It says: ‘ARCH G4268 1343’. Do you know what it means?”

-“I believe I do. ARCH stands for Archaeology, G4268 for an item’s identification code and 1373 for the Museum Accession Number or the password if you’d prefer.”

-“I don’t understand.”

-“Well, the collections of the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology consist of approximately 750 000 objects of outstanding research and historical value: the photographic and manuscript archives hold valuable historical material with over 70 000 field photographs and negatives. Archaeology holds material from many classic sites, for example Olduvai, Le Moustier, Jericho, Masada, Haua Fteah, Kechipauan, Nea Nikomedeia and from groups or sites in classic regions, including the Palaeolithic and the Dordogne. Anthropology has large and unparalleled Pacific collections including 18th century material from Cook’s first and third voyages.” She took a deep breath. “Therefore I believe my father wanted us to have a look on item G4268 that is archived in the collections of the museum in the Archaeology section, and whose Accession Number is 1373.”

-“So what are we waiting for,” I exclaimed. “Let’s go to the Museum.”

Shortly afterwards we left the building of the Faculty and ran across the gardens. Several minutes later we found ourselves at the entrance of the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. Sarah waved her card at the security guard and we entered a large room filled with various artefacts. Many people were walking around from one item to another, whispering and chatting.

-“This way, please!” Sarah grabbed my arm.

We ran along a corridor that ended with an elevator. Sarah inserted her identification card into a narrow slot. Soon the door opened and we walked into the elevator where there was just enough room for two passengers. Sarah and I stood awkwardly pressed together. We arrived into a white-tiled corridor which stressed ahead of us for thirty metres, with bars on each side.

-“It looks like a prison,” I remarked.

-“That’s because there are some pretty valuable items down here.”

At the far end, a young man sat behind a bullet-proof glass. When we approached him, he pressed a button and his voice was heard through an intercom. “What can I do for you?”

-“My name is Sarah Frey. Assistant Research at the Faculty of Archaeology and Anthropology. I’d like to have item G4268.”

-“Could I see some identification, please?” The man asked Sarah while pressing another button. An electric tray pulled out. Sarah placed her card on it and the man pressed his button again. He examined her ID carefully. Finally he put it on the tray, pressed the button and Sarah grabbed it. “Accession Number, please?” The man glanced at her expectantly.

-“1373.”

-“Just a moment, please.” A few minutes later the man reappeared, holding a metallic box. “Here you are.” Once again he pressed a button. A small window vibrated slightly and the man handed us the box. “Sign here, please, and then you may keep the box,” the man said.

Sarah followed his instructions. We thanked him and walked back towards the elevator. Once inside Sarah said: “Let’s go to my office this time, and examine the contents of the box.”

Eventually we found ourselves back in the Faculty of Archaeology and Anthropology. We climbed up the stairs to the second floor and started to unlock the door to Sarah’s office. Only there was no point in doing that at all. We stood in the doorway, frozen. The door was already open. The door frame had been splintered by a pry bar, the lock shattered. I shoved the door and charged into the room. Sarah’s office was in ruins. Her books. The contents of her desk drawers. All of it was slashed and torn and heaped on the floor. It looked as though a hurricane had struck in the middle of an earthquake. Surprisingly enough her computer stood on her desk. It was the only thing in the whole place that was intact. Slowly, numbly, we made our way through the devastation that had been Sarah’s office. She reached her desk. She had to know. Her notepads were gone. Her floppy disks were gone. We stood there, unable to move, staring at the desk.

Sarah dialled the police. The desk sergeant was very patient and professional. “How may I help you?”

-“I'm not sure exactly,” Sarah said slowly. “Something very weird is going on.”

-“May I have your name, please?”

-“Sarah Frey,” she said, and as she began to speak, the words came out faster and faster. “I'm a Research Assistant at the Faculty of Archaeology and Anthropology. My office has been broken into and ransacked. All my disks are gone.”

-“Slow down, ma’am,” the sergeant said soothingly. “I want you to wait in your office and we’ll be there in ten minutes, okay?”

-“Fine. Thank you.”

-“No problem. Just wait right there.”

Last update: October 24, 2007

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A Cold Mountain

Chapter 8