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  'It's Jo,' Philip said, his face looking pale and drained in the light from the hall. 'She's been in a car accident. She's at the John Radcliffe.'

  Chapter 5

  Cambridge: February 1689.

  The previous night, Isaac Newton had been too tired even to unpack. His servant Elias Perrywinkle had dragged the heavy trunk filled with new purchases across the quad and up the winding stone stairs of Trinity College to the rooms that Newton shared with his oldest associate, John Wickins.

  Dismissing the servant with a farthing and a mumbled word of thanks, Newton had barely found the energy to stow the unopened trunk in the laboratory adjoining his private chamber, remove his boots and throw his mud-splattered cloak over a chair, before he fell onto the mattress and slid immediately into a deep sleep.

  He had awakened just before the seventh hour as the first rays of the weak winter sun spilled through the east-facing windows of his rooms. Perrywinkle was there a few minutes later with a pewter bowl of hot water and a fresh linen cloth. The water felt good.

  Newton could feel it sink into his dry skin. Catching his reflection in the small mirror he had propped up on the windowsill he thought that he looked a sorry sight: a man to whom a healthy, dreamless sleep was a half-forgotten acquaintance.

  Alone, after the greyed water had been removed, Newton changed his shirt, pulled on his boots and fished from his pocket the key to his laboratory. On his way he picked up a silver-plated dish and cup left by his servant. Upon the plate was an apple and a chunk of bread; in the cup, fresh, tepid water.

  The laboratory was not a particularly large room: even though Newton had been the Lucasian Professor at Cambridge University for twenty years, the college authorities had not been over-generous with him. But it was enough. He lit a torch at either side of the door, creating dull puddles of light in the windowless room, and locked the door behind him. Wickins he knew was visiting his family in Manchester, but he could not risk any intrusion or suffer any prying into this his private domain. Pacing over to the fireplace, he stacked some wood, and using one of the flaming torches he soon had a good fire going which dispelled the shadows and allowed him to see through the heavy chemical haze that pervaded the room at all times.

  The room was lined with shelves. Newton's library had grown to some three hundred volumes dealing almost exclusively with every aspect of alchemy and the Hermetic tradition. He had used the money earned annually from the family estate at Woolsthorpe in Lincolnshire as well as a good portion of his professor's income to acquire the collection; it was perhaps the finest in all Christendom. Here could be found Giordano Bruno's Ash Wednesday Supper , translations of Galileo's heretical works banned by the Vatican, transcriptions from The Emerald Tablet, the Rosicrucian Manifestos, Michael Maier's Septimana Philosophica and works by Ramon Lull, Robert Fludd and Jakob Bohme.

  Not all the shelves were taken up with Newton's books. Some housed piles of papers, his notes and accounts of experiments; they spilled over onto a table placed to one side of the room. Taking up about a third of the shelf space were bottles and glass vessels. Some of the bottles contained coloured liquids and each container was corked and labelled. In one corner of the room stood an elaborate glass construction, a distillation apparatus, and in another was a telescope on a stand. Inside the large stone fireplace a metal cauldron was suspended on brackets driven into the sides.

  To a stranger entering this room, the circus of smells would have been quite overpowering (even for those with the olfactory sensibilities of the seventeenth century). But to Newton the odours had become almost subliminal, and if a particular conglomeration of effluvia broke through the barrier of familiarity, he simply viewed them as somehow homely.

  It was freezing cold, but the fire would soon turn the room into a veritable sauna. Years earlier, Newton had paid a pair of workmen to knock special ventilation holes in the outer wall of the laboratory, and this simple adaptation had probably saved him from asphyxiation on more than one occasion. Striding to the table, he cleared a space and deposited the plate and cup there before turning and crouching down beside the trunk that he had placed in the middle of the laboratory floor the previous night.

  As he fumbled with the lock he began to think about his latest trip to London in pursuit of the missing clue that he was sure was there. For almost a quarter of a century now he had been searching, searching for the core secret of all existence, the prisca sapentia . Science had been his first mistress and he had bled her dry. His Principia Mathematica had been published two years earlier, making him a star in the academic world; but he had known all along that there was more to the universe than the nuts and bolts, the mechanical edifice he had observed and described in his acclaimed work.

  Almost from the moment he had arrived here at Cambridge University in 1661, he had been drawn into the world of alchemy and the occult. His old mentor and predecessor in the Lucasian Chair, Isaac Barrow, had struck the first spark, and it had been kindled into a raging fire by the writings of the great adepts of the past, men like Cornelius Agrippa and Elias Ashmole, John Dee and Giordano Bruno. Their search had been called the Great Work or Magnum Opus , and for long years these geniuses of occultism had conducted elaborate alchemical experiments in smoky laboratories. They had given their lives to the quest for the Philosopher's Stone, the legendary substance that would allow the alchemist to transmute any base metal into gold, the magical interface between the physical and the metaphysical that could also allow the adept to produce the elixir vitae and to find eternal youth.

  Like every alchemist before him, Newton had based his ideas on that bible of the Hermetic experimenter, the doctrine of The Emerald Tablet . In his youth, Barrow had enlightened him about the existence of this wondrous text and had explained how it was the guide for all alchemists. It had been created in the time of the Ancients, Barrow had explained, a time when men knew far more about the workings of the universe than did all the intellectuals and philosophers of his own day. These Ancients had distilled their knowledge into the inscriptions to be found in The Emerald Tablet . No one knew where the original tablet now lay. It had vanished from the eyes of mortal men, but translations of the inscriptions had been handed down through the generations of alchemists, and each had followed what they believed to be the absolute truth as described by the Ancients. The tablet described for them the route to the Philosopher's Stone, how they must prepare both their own souls and the lumpen physical matter with which they worked. Newton believed that the reason why no alchemist had so far succeeded in producing the object of their dreams was no fault of the Ancients. Nor, of course, was it a failing of Nature; it was simply that no philosopher or alchemist had purified his soul sufficiently well, and no seeker of the Truth had committed himself to the task with sufficient vigour and single-mindedness.

  Unlike almost every other alchemist from Hermes Trismegistus himself to his own inner circle, Newton had no desire to make gold simply for its own sake. He saw little value in unimaginable wealth. For him, the gold at the end of the rainbow was pure knowledge, the knowledge possessed by the gods, and he knew that he would do anything to find it. It was his reason for being. Over the many years he had stood at the furnace studying the microcosm, and relating it to the macrocosm seen through the lenses of his telescope, he had teased out connections and taken the notion of holism to new heights of reasoning. In that time he had grown to believe that he was himself semi-divine, that he had been placed here on Earth for one purpose — to find the Philosopher's Stone and to elucidate the Truth. God, he believed, had chosen him, marked him out as unique and empowered him with the greatest intellect of his generation, so that he, Isaac Newton, Lucasian Professor at Cambridge University, could do his Father's bidding and unravel for the rest of humankind the true meaning of existence, the innermost workings of Nature, the mechanism of the universe.

  The hinges of the trunk creaked as Newton lifted the lid. Inside were carefully packed glass vessels swathed in wool to protect them o
n the potholed road from London. There were jars of chemicals. One contained sticks of grey-coated metal cylinders immersed in a yellowish oil. Beside this was a tube of powder, black as soot, and next to that another filled with a crimson talc. Placed on its side and nestled in a thick woollen wrap lay a large hourglass.

  One third of the trunk was packed with neatly stacked leather-bound books. Newton lifted the top one and surveyed the spine. 'The Fame and Confessions of the Fraternity of the Rosicrucians by Thomas Vaughan,' he read aloud before placing it carefully on the floor beside the trunk. The book beneath it had its title embossed in gold on the cover: The Sceptical Chemyst . The name of the author, Robert Boyle, was written in large letters under the title. Newton leafed through the pages for a few moments and then placed it on top of the Vaughan.

  He then lifted the remaining volumes from tjie trunk and took them to a table backed against the wall to the right of the fireplace, where he began to arrange them in piles before transferring them to the shelves above. As he lifted a particularly handsome tome, bound in green hide and carrying the title The Compound of Alchymy: The Twelve Gates Leading to the Discovery of the Philosopher's Stone and its author's name, George Ripley, a small piece of parchment slipped out from under the back cover.- It dropped to the floor at Newton's feet.

  He picked it up and unfolded it carefully. The parchment was dry and yellowed, but he could see writing in faded brown ink covering the surface. Pacing over to the fireplace, Newton held the parchment close to his face so that he could make out the tiny handwriting. It was written in Aramaic, an ancient Semitic language with which he was familiar. Translating it in his head, Newton whispered the words to himself:

  Oh ye seeker, ye truth seeker, lose not heart. For, whilst falling to our knees before the tablet of green, there lies another and even deeper Truth. My friends, I have seen it only as if in a dream, but the gods proclaim it real. As the fields are green, the blood of the Lord is red, red as the ruby. And, as the tablet is of its given shape, so the ruby is a sphere; for indeed, I have seen it as if in a dream. And if the power of the tablet is one, that of the ruby sphere is a million-fold more. The glorious tablet leads the way, the sphere opens the doors to the world. If your soul be pure, seek the sphere and with it ye shall possess the glory of the Ancients. Seek the sphere under the earth, 'tis cocooned in stone, great learning above and earth below.

  GR.

  Beneath this was a picture of a sphere with a line of minuscule writing following a close-packed spiral from pole to pole. And at the foot of the page Newton saw a single line of letters, numbers and alchemical symbols that he knew to be a set of encrypted occult instructions. Finally, in the lower right-hand corner, there was a tiny illustration, an elaborate pattern of criss-crossing lines like a tiny maze.

  He could hardly believe what he had read. If this was truly by Ripley (and he had seen the man's handwriting before and it matched) then this was a find of incomparable value. For him, as for all alchemists, The Emerald Tablet was the most important guide on the journey to the Philosopher's Stone. But according to Ripley, there was something more: this ruby sphere was immensely more significant. Perhaps, Newton concluded as he returned to the table under the bookshelves, this offered a hint about why the ultimate secrets had eluded him for so long. If that was so, then it had been God's will that he should have picked up this particular volume at the bookshop of William Copper in Little Britain, close to St Paul's where he had spent most of his afternoon the day before he set out for Cambridge. And, if it was God's will, he could not fail. The Lord, he knew, would guide him along this new stage on the journey. He would be led inexorably to the Truth.

  Chapter 6

  Later, Philip would say that he could remember almost nothing of the journey to the hospital that took them through the near-silent night. But his mind was racing, pumped-up with anxiety and spliced through with bad memories.

  It had been over twenty years ago that his father Maurice had died in a car crash, and that had been the most profound, life-changing event of Philip's life, an event that had altered radically the direction in which he was heading. He was twenty-two and had learned two weeks earlier that he had won a First. On the day of the graduation ceremony he was having breakfast with his housemates in their ramshackle house off Cowley Road when the phone rang. It was his Uncle Greg, his father's brother. His father's car had collided with a truck that had jumped across the central reservation. It had hit Maurice head-on, killing him instantly.

  Philip had believed that he did not really love his father, that he would not miss him whenever the time came for him to die. He had too many sour memories of the man. He couldn't forget his father's bullying ways, the fact that he had made his mother's life a misery and then turned in upon himself, pulling down a veil of silence the moment she walked out on him.

  Philip had done everything he could to please his father. Before going to university he had been a keen photographer and had won awards for his work — he had even started to sell a few pictures. But it was an aspect of his life that his father had constantly belittled, telling him that he could never make a fortune from photography. So Philip had put away his cameras and gone up to Oxford to study PPE, suppressing his own hopes and ambitions to follow a path that his father had laid out before him.

  And as Philip had stood over his father's open coffin in the funeral home on the day of the burial, all he could think about was the irony of it all. All his life he had sought this man's approval; then, on the day of Philip's greatest triumph, the bastard went and got himself killed. It was almost, he thought in his most irrational moment, as though his father had done it deliberately to spite him.

  But later, when he could think straight, Philip began to understand that there was more to it than this simple emotional judgement. The man had been a bully but he had also been an obsessive with an exaggerated need for privacy. He had harboured a paranoid belief that the world was prying into his life. As Philip had stared down at the husk of a human being, he couldn't shake the thought that here lay the man who had trusted no one, who had shredded his correspondence before putting it in the trash, the man who had triple-bolted his house each night. Yet now here he lay, on show, all dignity stripped away.

  It was this more than anything that had convinced Philip to begin afresh. All his life he had been in thrall to his father, but deep beneath the surface he knew that in character he was far closer to his mother, Joan. Joan Bainbridge had once been Joan Ghanmora, one of the most successful artists to come out of the Caribbean. Her black father had disappeared when she was young and she had been raised by her Scottish mother, Elizabeth, and encouraged from the age of six to be a painter. She had met Philip's father when he had been invited by his boss to Joan's first exhibition in New York in 1957. Philip never understood what his mother had seen in Maurice. He had been a businessman with no real understanding of art — or of anything cultural, come to that. His entire life had been dedicated to numbers on a ledger sheet, whereas Joan was the very opposite, a free spirit who had no interest in money, or even in fame.

  Philip had kept in touch with his mother and visited her occasionally in Venice where she had lived for twenty-five years with her second husband, an opera singer. But he had refused to be drawn into Joan's world even though he found it immensely seductive. With Maurice's death a series of doors in Philip's mind had suddenly become unlocked. Within a few months of gaining his First in PPE he had discarded all the plans his father had set in train for him. Eschewing the City and a promised six-figure salary, he picked up his camera again and vowed to make photography his life.

  But the changes went deeper still. Philip had never shown the slightest interest in anything to do with the paranormal, but by the end of the year he had became fascinated with the concept of the aura and Kirlian photography. He read every book on the subject that he could find and attended workshops and courses. But then, after two years of submersing himself in this world, he stopped abruptly. He had never c
onsciously thought about why he had left this all behind to concentrate on photographing crime scenes and corpses. To Philip it was merely a way to pay the bills while he continued with his creative work, exhibited and dreamed of international recognition. For many years those close to him had understood his motives, but they had chosen to keep their theories to themselves. By photographing corpses, they realised, Philip was somehow trying to find something he had been unable to see in the body of his dead father. Some semblance of a soul.

  It began to rain again as they neared the hospital and this snapped Philip out of his reverie, bringing into focus the cold moment. They pulled into the hospital grounds and after parking in the first available space they ran to the brightly lit reception area, neither of them noticing the gorgeous red splash of the sunrise ahead of them.

  The call had come from one of Jo's friends, Samantha, who had been in the car with Jo and Jo's boyfriend Tom. Samantha had only received cuts and bruises herself but had no idea what condition the couple were in. They met her at reception; she was talking to a young doctor who led them along a corridor to a small room containing four beds. Jo was in the end one, curtained off from the rest.

  Laura and Philip were relieved to see her sitting up. She had a nasty cut above her right eye and her arm, lying over the top sheet, was bandaged to the elbow.

  ‘She's suffered concussion,' the doctor said, looking at Jo's chart. 'But a CT scan was clear. She needed a few stitches, but I think she'll live.'

  Laura hugged her daughter gently and Jo smiled up at Philip who was standing beside the bed.

  'My God, Jo,' Laura said. 'I thought. .'

  'No, mom, I'm still here,' Jo whispered and touched Laura's cheek.

  'Is your friend Tom OK?' Philip asked and turned to the doctor.