“Not bad,” one of the men said.
“Not bad at all. And in addition, you take a percentage of everything that’s sold in the market.”
“Really? What percentage?”
“It depended on the place, and the particular merchandise. In general, one to five percent. So the market is really the reason for the town. You can see it clearly, in the way the town is laid out. Look at the church over there,” she said, pointing off to the side. “In earlier centuries, the church was the center of the town. People went to Mass at least once a day. All life revolved around the church. But here in Domme, the church is off to one side. The market is now the center of town.”
“So all the money comes from the market?”
“Not entirely, because the fortified town offers protection for the area, which means farmers will clear the nearby land and start new farms. So you increase your farming rents, as well. All in all, a new town was a reliable investment. Which is why so many of these towns were built.”
“Is that the only reason the towns were built?”
“No, many were built for military considerations as—”
Marek’s radio crackled. It was Elsie again. “André?”
“Yes,” Marek said.
“You better get over here right away. Because I don’t know how to handle this.”
“Why? What is it?”
“Just come. Now.”
The generator chugged loudly, and the farmhouse seemed brilliantly lit in the dark field, under a sky of stars.
They all crowded into the farmhouse. Elsie was sitting at her desk in the center, staring at them. Her eyes seemed distant.
“Elsie?”
“It’s impossible,” she said.
“What’s impossible? What happened here?”
Marek looked over at David Stern, but he was still working at some analysis in the corner of the room.
Elsie sighed. “I don’t know, I don’t know. . ..”
“Well,” Marek said, “start at the beginning.”
“Okay,” she said. “The beginning.” She stood up and crossed the room, where she pointed to a stack of parchments resting on a piece of plastic tarp on the floor. “This is the beginning. The document bundle I designated M-031, dug up from the monastery earlier today. David asked me to do it as soon as possible.”
Nobody said anything. They just watched her.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ve been going through the bundle. This is how I do it. I take about ten parchments at a time and bring them over here to my desk.” She brought ten over. “Now, I sit down at the desk, and I go through them, one by one. Then, after I’ve summarized the contents of one sheet, and entered the summary into the computer, I take the sheet to be photographed, over here.” She went to the next table, slipped a parchment under the camera.
Marek said, “We’re familiar with—”
“No, you’re not,” she said sharply. “You’re not familiar at all.” Elsie went back to her table, took the next parchment off the stack. “Okay. So I go through them one by one. This particular stack consists of all kinds of documents: bills, copies of letters, replies to orders from the bishop, records of crop yields, lists of monastery assets. All dating from about the year 1357.”
She took the parchments from the stack, one after the other.
“And then”—she removed the last one—”I see this.”
They stared.
Nobody said anything.
The parchment was identical in size to the others in the stack, but instead of dense writing in Latin or Old French, this one had only two words, scrawled in plain English:
HELP ME
4/7/1357
“In case you’re wondering,” she said, “that’s the Professor’s handwriting.”
The room was silent. No one moved or shifted. They all just stared in complete silence.
Marek was thinking very fast, running through the possibilities. Because of his detailed, encyclopedic knowledge of the medieval period, for many years he had served as an outside consultant on medieval artifacts to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. As a result, Marek had considerable experience with fakes of all kinds. It was true that he was rarely shown faked documents from the medieval period—the fakes were usually precious stones set in a bracelet that was ten years old, or a suit of armor that turned out to have been made in Brooklyn—but his experience had given him a clear way to think it through.
Marek said, “Okay. Begin at the beginning. Are you sure that’s his handwriting?”
“Yes,” Elsie said. “Without question.”
“How do you know?”
She sniffed. “I’m a graphologist, André. But here. See for yourself.”
She brought out a note that Johnston had scrawled a few days earlier, a note written in block letters, attached to a bill: “PLS CHK THIS CHARGE.” She set it beside the parchment signature. “Block letters are actually easier to analyze. His H, for example, has a faint diagonal beneath. He draws one vertical line, lifts his pen, draws the second vertical, then drags his pen back to draw the crossbar, making the diagonal below. Or look at the P. He makes a downward stroke, then goes up and back to position to make the semicircle. Or the E, which he draws as an L and then zigzags back up to make the two added lines. There’s no question. It’s his handwriting.”
“Someone couldn’t have forged it?”
“No. Forgery, you have pen lifts and other signs. This writing is his.”
Kate said, “Would he play a joke on us?”
“If he did, it isn’t funny.”
“What about this parchment it’s written on?” Marek said. “Is it as old as the other sheets in the stack?”
“Yes,” David Stern said, coming over. “Short of carbon dating, I’d say yes—it’s the same age as the others.”
Marek thought: How can that be? He said, “Are you sure? This parchment looks different. The surface looks rougher to me.”
“It is rougher,” Stern said. “Because it’s been poorly scraped. Parchment was valuable material in medieval times. Generally it was used, scraped clean, and then used again. But if we look at this parchment under ultraviolet. . .. Would somebody get the lights?” Kate turned them off, and in the darkness Stern swung a purple lamp over the table.
Marek immediately saw more writing, faint but clearly there on the parchment.
“This was originally a bill for lodging,” Elsie said. “It’s been scraped clean, quickly and crudely, as if somebody was in a hurry.”
Chris said, “Are you saying the Professor scraped it?”
“I have no idea who scraped it. But it’s not expertly done.”
“All right,” Marek said. “There’s one definitive way to decide this, once and for all.” He turned to Stern. “What about the ink, David? Is it genuine?”
Stern hesitated. “I’m not sure.”
“Not sure? Why not?”
:
“Chemically speaking,” Stern said, “it’s exactly what you’d expect: iron in the form of ferrous oxide, mixed with gall as an organic binder. Some added carbon for blackness, and five percent sucrose. In those days, they used sugar to give the inks a shiny surface. So it’s ordinary iron-gall ink, correct for the period. But that in itself doesn’t mean much.”
“Right.” Stern was saying it could be faked.
“So I ran gall and iron titers,” Stern said, “which I usually do in questionable cases. They tell us the exact amounts present in the ink. The titers indicate that this particular ink is similar but not identical to the ink on the other documents.”
“Similar but not identical,” Marek said. “How similar?”
“As you know, medieval inks were mixed by hand before use, because they didn’t keep. Gall is organic—it’s the ground-up nuts of an oak tree—which means the inks would eventually go bad. Sometimes they added wine to the ink as a preservative. Anyway, there’s usually a fairly large variation in gall and iron content from one document to another. You find as much
as twenty or thirty percent difference between documents. It’s reliable enough that we can use these percentages to tell if two documents were written on the same day, from the same ink supply. This particular ink is about twenty-nine percent different from the documents on either side of it.”
“Meaningless,” Marek said. “Those numbers don’t confirm either authenticity or forgery. Did you do a spectrographic analysis?”
“Yes. Just finished it. Here’s the spectra for three documents, with the Professor’s in the middle.” Three lines, a series of spikes and dips. “Again, similar but not identical.”
“Not that similar,” Marek said, looking at the pattern of spikes. “Because along with the percentage difference in iron content, you’ve got lots of trace elements in the Professor’s ink, including—what’s this spike, for instance?”
“Chromium.”
Marek sighed. “Which means it’s modern.”
“Not necessarily, no.”
“There’s no chromium in the inks before and after.”
“That’s true. But chromium is found in manuscript inks. Fairly commonly.”
“Is there chromium in this valley?”
“No,” Stern said, “but chromium was imported all over Europe, because it was used for fabric dyes as well as inks.”
“But what about all these other contaminants?” Marek said, pointing to the other spikes. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m just not buying this.”
Stern said, “I agree. This has to be a joke.”
“But we’re not going to know for sure without a carbon date,” Marek said. Carbon-14 would enable them to date both ink and parchment within about fifty years. That would be good enough to settle the question of forgery.
“I’d also like to do thermoluminescence, and maybe a laser activation while we’re at it,” Stern said.
“You can’t do that here.”
“No, I’ll take it over to Les Eyzies.” Les Eyzies, the town in the next valley that was the center of prehistoric studies in southern France, had a well-equipped lab that did carbon-14 and potassium-argon dating, as well as neutron activation and other difficult tests. The field results weren’t as accurate as the labs in Paris or Toulouse, but scientists could get an answer in a few hours.
“Any chance you can run it tonight?” Marek said.
“I’ll try.”
Chris came back to join the group; he had been telephoning the Professor on a cell phone. “Nothing,” he said. “I just got his voicemail.”
“All right,” Marek said. “There’s nothing more we can do right now. I assume this message is a bizarre joke. I can’t imagine who played it on us—but somebody did. Tomorrow we’ll run carbon and date the message. I have no doubt it will prove to be recent. And with all due respect to Elsie, it’s probably a forgery.”
Elsie started to sputter.
“But in any case,” Marek continued, “the Professor is due to call in tomorrow, and we’ll ask him. In the meantime, I suggest we all go to bed and get a good night’s rest.”
In the farmhouse, Marek closed the door softly behind him before turning on the lights. Then he looked around.
The room was immaculate, as he would have expected. It had the tidiness of a monk’s cell. Beside the bed stood five or six research papers, neatly stacked. On a desk to the right, more research papers sat beside a closed laptop computer. The desk had a drawer, which he opened and rummaged through quickly.
But he didn’t find what he was looking for.
He went next to the armoire. The Professor’s clothes were neatly arranged inside, with space between each hanging garment. Marek went from one to the next, patting the pockets, but he still did not find it. Perhaps it wasn’t here, he thought. Perhaps he had taken it with him to New Mexico.
There was a bureau opposite the door. He opened the top drawer: coins in a small shallow dish, American dollar bills wrapped in a rubber band, and a few personal objects, including a knife, a pen and a spare watch—nothing out of the ordinary.
Then he saw a plastic case, tucked over to one side.
He brought the case out, opened it up. The case contained eyeglasses. He set the glasses out on the counter.
The lenses were bifocals, oval in shape.
He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a plastic bag. He heard a creak behind him, and turned to see Kate Erickson coming in through the door.
“Going through his underwear?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “I saw the light under the door. So I had a look.”
“Without knocking?” Marek said.
“What are you doing in here?” she said. Then she saw the plastic. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yes.”
Marek took the single bifocal lens out of the plastic bag, holding it with a pair of tweezers, and placed it on top of the bureau, beside the Professor’s eyeglasses.
“Not identical,” she said. “But I’d say the lens is his.”
“So would I.”
“But isn’t that what you always thought? I mean, he’s the only one on the site who wears bifocals. The contamination has to be from his eyeglasses.”
“But there isn’t any contamination,” Marek said. “This lens is old.”
“What?”
“David says that white edge is bacterial growth. This lens is not modern, Kate. It’s old.”
She looked closely. “It can’t be,” she said. “Look at the way the lenses are cut. It’s the same in the Professor’s glasses and this lens. It must be modern.”
“I know, but David insists it’s old.”
“How old?”
“He can’t tell.”
“He can’t date it?”
Marek shook his head. “Not enough organic material.”
“So in that case,” she said, “you came to his room because . . .” She paused, staring at the eyeglasses, then at him. She frowned. “I thought you said that signature was a forgery, André.”
“I did, yes.”
“But you also asked if David could do the carbon test tonight, didn’t you.”
“Yes. . ..”
“And then you came here, with the glass, because you’re worried. . ..” She shook her head as if to clear it. “About what? What do you think is going on?”
Marek looked at her. “I have absolutely no idea. Nothing makes sense.”
“But you’re worried.”
“Yes,” Marek said. “I’m worried.”
The following day dawned bright and hot, a glaring sun beneath a cloudless sky. The Professor didn’t call in the morning. Marek called him twice, but always got his voicemail: “Leave me a message, and I’ll call you back.”
Nor was there any word from Stern. When they called the lab at Les Eyzies they were told he was busy. A frustrated technician said, “He is repeating the tests again! Three times now!”
Why? Marek wondered. He considered going over to Les Eyzies to see for himself—it was just a short drive—but decided to stay at the storehouse in case the Professor called.
He never called.
In the middle of the morning, Elsie said, “Huh.”
“What?”
She was looking at another piece of parchment. “This was the document on the stack right before the Professor’s,” she said.
Marek came over. “What about it?”
“It looks like there are ink spots from the Professor’s pen. See, here, and here?”
Marek shrugged. “He was probably looking at this right before he wrote his note.”
“But they’re in the margin,” she said, “almost like a notation.”
“Notation to what?” he said. “What’s the document about?”
“It’s a piece of natural history,” she said. “A description of an underground river by one of the monks. Says you have to be cautious at various points, marked off in paces, so on and so forth.”
“An underground river. . ..” Marek wasn’t interested. The monks were the scholars of the r
egion, and they often wrote little essays on local geography, or carpentry, the proper time to prune orchard trees, how best to store grain in winter, and so on. They were curiosities, and often wrong.
“‘Marcellus has the key,’” she said, reading the text. “Wonder what that means. It’s right where the Professor put his marks. Then . . . something about . . . giant feet . . . no . . . the giant’s feet? . . . The feet of the giant? . . . And it says vivix, which is Latin for . . . let me see. . .. That’s a new one. . ..”
She consulted a dictionary.
Restless, Marek went outside and paced up and down. He was edgy, nervous.
“That’s odd,” she said, “there is no word vivix. At least not in this dictionary.” She made a note, in her methodical way.
Marek sighed.
The hours crawled by.
The Professor never called.
Finally it was three o’clock; the students were wandering up to the big tent for their afternoon break. Marek stood in the door and watched them. They seemed carefree, laughing, punching each other, making jokes.
The phone rang. He immediately turned back. Elsie picked it up. He heard her say, “Yes, he’s here with me right now. . ..”
He hurried into her room. “The Professor?”
She was shaking her head. “No. It’s someone from ITC.” And she handed him the phone.
“This is André Marek speaking,” he said.
“Oh yes. Please hold, Mr. Marek. I know Mr. Doniger is eager to speak to you.”
“He is?”
“Yes. We’ve been trying to reach you for several hours. Please hold while I find him for you.”
A long pause. Some classical music played. Marek put his hand over the phone and said to Elsie, “It’s Doniger.”
“Hey,” she said. “You must rate. The big cheese himself.”
“Why is Doniger calling me?”
Five minutes later, he was still waiting on hold, when Stern walked into the room, shaking his head. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“Yes? What?” Marek said, holding the phone.
Stern just handed him a sheet of paper. It said:
638 ± 47 BP