Chapter 1
Elysia Martin looked down at her functional work shoes. She longed for the luxury that would soon be available to her. Manolo Blahnik, Christian Lacroix, Philipp Plein, the shoe world that would soon be hers. She smiled. It was a costume. No more, no less. It had taken years to create her persona. An instantly forgettable character who would soon be gone as if she had never existed.
She stood in the doorway and closed her eyes. Locating the corners of the industrial unit, she imagined a similar space half a millennium earlier. Fires, chimneys, athanors, and glass. Lots of glass. Glassblowing was a burgeoning enterprise. She smiled again. The Vauxhall Glassworks would have been just a mile or so away. Industries taken for granted now were developing at a rapid rate, and the cleverest men in history were leading the way. It was a golden age of innovation. Lives were improved daily by the latest invention or development, and yet so many of these wise men spent a seemingly excessive amount of time in pursuit of the solution to nature’s greatest mystery. Some believed they had achieved the impossible. Maybe they had. It was of no interest. Her concern was locating the fruits of their labour.
“I have a delivery.”
Lost in thought, Martin was startled by the noise. A delivery man wearing a brown shirt and shorts stood at her shoulder.
She signed for twelve boxes marked ‘fragile’. The delivery man helpfully made four pallet-trolley trips, wheeling the boxes inside the space and placing them against a wall.
The shrink-wrapped packages included metal, plastic, and glass cylinders, bottles, tubes, and various other scientific components for which she did not know of or care for their purpose. It was not her task to put it together — the adept would do that. She checked her watch. He was scheduled to arrive in two hours.
She opened each box to check the stock against the manifest. She was pleased there were no breakages. Everything was there except one item. Her attention switched to the one item. She could have made alternative arrangements for the equipment delivery, but she wanted to be here for the desk. She had to be here for the desk. Too many people had entrusted her with bidding for it at auction to be absent for its arrival.
Martin waited outside the unit and stared at the gravel as she paced. It turned into a blur as she scraped her foot through the dust. After an interminable age, the rumble of a van’s engine broke her mind drift. She looked up. At last. She waved her hand to declare her presence and waited for the driver to see her in his wing mirror. The van backed in front of the unit, beeping as it slowed to a stop. She watched as the tailgate lowered. The driver opened his cab door and walked around to the back.
“Unit twenty-five?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
He pushed the roller door upwards, revealing the space within. There was a single item inside. He climbed aboard the tailgate, pressed a red button on the side of the van, and raised the tailgate again. A colleague jumped from the passenger side and joined him inside the back without acknowledgement.
Bouncing on the spot, she peered into the space. “Careful with that. It cost a lot of money.”
“Don’t worry, love. We do this for a living.”
“Yes, but not with nearly two-million dollars-worth of desk.”
The two men walked to the edge of the van and looked down at Elysia Martin. She nodded slowly. They carried the desk onto the tailgate as if made of precious metal, rather than poorly carved, discoloured oak, with dents, scratches, and damage all over.
Martin thought the colour had drained from their faces when the driver handed over a clipboard for a signature. She handed the younger man a fifty-pound-note tip and thanked them without averting her gaze from the desk.
Once they had driven off, she walked back into the unit, closed the door, and locked it from the inside. She tentatively walked to the desk and dragged a hand across the surface, bumping fingers through the scrapes and blemishes, all the time considering the legendary work that had taken place upon its aged wood. She stepped around all sides before reaching for her backpack. She removed a long ruler and a black marker pen and headed back to the desk.
It took around forty minutes to draw the five-centimetre squares across the surface. She did not count. It did not matter. As long as the people in unit twenty-one were able to cut to her guidelines precisely. They had laughed at the strange request and asked for two hundred pounds. She handed them a thousand pounds in cash and told them she would give them a further thousand pounds if they returned the desk worktop’s neatly cut squares, shrink-wrapped individually, and placed into packaging boxes. Only then would they be sent to the craftsman.
Three sharp taps and three more, with a short time space between, on the steel door, broke the silence.
Jason Price was not the healthiest looking character, nor was he the smartest-dressed, but he was fully appraised of his task and more equipped to follow the ancient instructions detailed by the greatest minds of the seventeenth century than anyone she had met.
Martin said, “I have taken delivery of the equipment you requested, and I have marked the desk where I would like it sawn, both on the surface and around the sides for thickness.”
Price said, “I wonder what Sir Isaac would say if he saw you had drawn little squares all over his desk.”
She did not respond to the comment but continued, “I would appreciate it if you could arrange for the people at unit twenty-one to collect the desk. They have been paid. What else? Yes, the steel work surfaces you have requested will be delivered this afternoon, which will give you a chance to start unpacking and setting up.”
“What about incidentals?”
Martin walked to her backpack once again and withdrew her purse. She handed over a credit card. “This card does not have a limit, but please don’t go booking a holiday to Brazil just yet. I will be fully aware of each transaction.”
“I wouldn’t—”
Without expression, Martin said, “No, I know you wouldn’t, Mr Price.”
She placed the ruler and pen back into her backpack and pulled out a small, padded envelope. She handed the package to Price and said, “One final thing, and again, I expect this does not need saying, but please guard this with your life,” she leaned forward, and whispered, “It is, as you know, more valuable than your life,” and then stepped back. “Once you have set everything up, I will return to check on your progress, and I will have at least one more for you.”
Price took the padded envelope and carefully placed it in his jacket pocket. He was profoundly aware of its value to the project.
Elysia Martin looked down at her functional work shoes. She longed for the luxury that would soon be available to her. Manolo Blahnik, Christian Lacroix, Philipp Plein, the shoe world that would soon be hers. She smiled. It was a costume. No more, no less. It had taken years to create her persona. An instantly forgettable character who would soon be gone as if she had never existed.
She stood in the doorway and closed her eyes. Locating the corners of the industrial unit, she imagined a similar space half a millennium earlier. Fires, chimneys, athanors, and glass. Lots of glass. Glassblowing was a burgeoning enterprise. She smiled again. The Vauxhall Glassworks would have been just a mile or so away. Industries taken for granted now were developing at a rapid rate, and the cleverest men in history were leading the way. It was a golden age of innovation. Lives were improved daily by the latest invention or development, and yet so many of these wise men spent a seemingly excessive amount of time in pursuit of the solution to nature’s greatest mystery. Some believed they had achieved the impossible. Maybe they had. It was of no interest. Her concern was locating the fruits of their labour.
“I have a delivery.”
Lost in thought, Martin was startled by the noise. A delivery man wearing a brown shirt and shorts stood at her shoulder.
She signed for twelve boxes marked ‘fragile’. The delivery man helpfully made four pallet-trolley trips, wheeling the boxes inside the space and placing them against a wall.
The shrink-wrapped packages included metal, plastic, and glass cylinders, bottles, tubes, and various other scientific components for which she did not know of or care for their purpose. It was not her task to put it together — the adept would do that. She checked her watch. He was scheduled to arrive in two hours.
She opened each box to check the stock against the manifest. She was pleased there were no breakages. Everything was there except one item. Her attention switched to the one item. She could have made alternative arrangements for the equipment delivery, but she wanted to be here for the desk. She had to be here for the desk. Too many people had entrusted her with bidding for it at auction to be absent for its arrival.
Martin waited outside the unit and stared at the gravel as she paced. It turned into a blur as she scraped her foot through the dust. After an interminable age, the rumble of a van’s engine broke her mind drift. She looked up. At last. She waved her hand to declare her presence and waited for the driver to see her in his wing mirror. The van backed in front of the unit, beeping as it slowed to a stop. She watched as the tailgate lowered. The driver opened his cab door and walked around to the back.
“Unit twenty-five?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
He pushed the roller door upwards, revealing the space within. There was a single item inside. He climbed aboard the tailgate, pressed a red button on the side of the van, and raised the tailgate again. A colleague jumped from the passenger side and joined him inside the back without acknowledgement.
Bouncing on the spot, she peered into the space. “Careful with that. It cost a lot of money.”
“Don’t worry, love. We do this for a living.”
“Yes, but not with nearly two-million dollars-worth of desk.”
The two men walked to the edge of the van and looked down at Elysia Martin. She nodded slowly. They carried the desk onto the tailgate as if made of precious metal, rather than poorly carved, discoloured oak, with dents, scratches, and damage all over.
Martin thought the colour had drained from their faces when the driver handed over a clipboard for a signature. She handed the younger man a fifty-pound-note tip and thanked them without averting her gaze from the desk.
Once they had driven off, she walked back into the unit, closed the door, and locked it from the inside. She tentatively walked to the desk and dragged a hand across the surface, bumping fingers through the scrapes and blemishes, all the time considering the legendary work that had taken place upon its aged wood. She stepped around all sides before reaching for her backpack. She removed a long ruler and a black marker pen and headed back to the desk.
It took around forty minutes to draw the five-centimetre squares across the surface. She did not count. It did not matter. As long as the people in unit twenty-one were able to cut to her guidelines precisely. They had laughed at the strange request and asked for two hundred pounds. She handed them a thousand pounds in cash and told them she would give them a further thousand pounds if they returned the desk worktop’s neatly cut squares, shrink-wrapped individually, and placed into packaging boxes. Only then would they be sent to the craftsman.
Three sharp taps and three more, with a short time space between, on the steel door, broke the silence.
Jason Price was not the healthiest looking character, nor was he the smartest-dressed, but he was fully appraised of his task and more equipped to follow the ancient instructions detailed by the greatest minds of the seventeenth century than anyone she had met.
Martin said, “I have taken delivery of the equipment you requested, and I have marked the desk where I would like it sawn, both on the surface and around the sides for thickness.”
Price said, “I wonder what Sir Isaac would say if he saw you had drawn little squares all over his desk.”
She did not respond to the comment but continued, “I would appreciate it if you could arrange for the people at unit twenty-one to collect the desk. They have been paid. What else? Yes, the steel work surfaces you have requested will be delivered this afternoon, which will give you a chance to start unpacking and setting up.”
“What about incidentals?”
Martin walked to her backpack once again and withdrew her purse. She handed over a credit card. “This card does not have a limit, but please don’t go booking a holiday to Brazil just yet. I will be fully aware of each transaction.”
“I wouldn’t—”
Without expression, Martin said, “No, I know you wouldn’t, Mr Price.”
She placed the ruler and pen back into her backpack and pulled out a small, padded envelope. She handed the package to Price and said, “One final thing, and again, I expect this does not need saying, but please guard this with your life,” she leaned forward, and whispered, “It is, as you know, more valuable than your life,” and then stepped back. “Once you have set everything up, I will return to check on your progress, and I will have at least one more for you.”
Price took the padded envelope and carefully placed it in his jacket pocket. He was profoundly aware of its value to the project.
An Eddie Hill Adventure
The Doctrine Discovery
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