in a way that did minimal damage to the journal. The responsible party had valued what he was removing and what he was removing it from. That realization brought him back to Matthew. But why? If he had wanted Jamie to have the book why not give it to him in its entirety?
As he weighed the open journal in his hands he felt a prickle of anticipation as he realized something that had originally eluded him. The book balanced almost perfectly between his palms, but it shouldn’t. The missing pages should make it slightly lighter at the back than the front: only a little, but enough to be noticeable. Now he closed it and looked at it side-on. The missing pages weren’t the only difference between the front and the back, the endpiece was imperceptibly thicker than the frontispiece. Was that usual in a book? He couldn’t be sure. He chose a title at random from the shelf nearest to him, wondering at the coincidence that placed a leather-bound copy of Pope-Hennessy’s
Raphael
in his hand. He studied it from the same angle he’d looked at the journal. No, the front and back covers were identical in thickness. He stood up and walked to the window. This was when he needed to be at his calmest, but the adrenalin rushing through him made the whole room spin. He took a deep breath and returned to the journal. He prodded the blue leather of the back cover. Almost undetectable, but it was definitely more cushioned than the front. But when he looked at the interior board under the magnifying glass he could see no evidence that it had been tampered with.
He took the book back through to the front room with its packed bookshelves and little-known, haphazardly hung works of art, placed it on the coffee table beside the window and poured the large glass of Macallan he’d promised himself earlier. Sitting back, he studied the journal from a distance for a long time, sipping the mellow malt whisky and feeling the burn rise to wrap itself around his heart. When he made his decision it was surprisingly easy. He hunted through the nearby drawer for the scalpel he knew was there somewhere, and worked the blade carefully around the half inch of stretched leather that overlapped the heavy card on the inside of the back cover. He found himself sweating. One part of him worried he was committing sacrilege, but another insisted he had his grandfather’s permission, his encouragement even. When he’d peeled back the torn leather, he very gently worked the point of the knife beneath the card so he could prise it clear.
Jamie hardly dared breathe as he levered back the covering. His first reaction was disappointment. Not the missing pages. Of course, they would never have fitted into the space he had uncovered. Then came dry-mouthed anticipation. Whatever this was, it was important to Matthew Sinclair.
It
was a neatly folded piece of what appeared to be fine cloth. Carefully, he drew it clear and unfolded it on the coffee table.
A perfect square of silk tinted in dull shades of green and brown. At first it meant nothing. A cheap scarf or a watchmaker’s cloth? After a moment of careful concentration he found himself staring at a faded map of Germany’s land mass. Bending low he searched it for any markings or symbols. It couldn’t be that simple – X only marked the spot in pirate fiction – and it wasn’t. Apart from a few tiny broken stitches the silk was unblemished. So what was its purpose? Very slowly suspicion became certainty. It was an escape map. He’d seen enough war films to know that every airman who risked being shot down over Occupied Europe had been issued with one like this, along with a compass and enough local currency to give him a chance of reaching the nearest safe haven. It was only natural that the Jedburgh teams, parachuted into the very heart of enemy territory, should be similarly equipped. He ran his hand over the silk. This had been Matthew’s. He might even have worn it around his neck. It made him feel closer to
As he weighed the open journal in his hands he felt a prickle of anticipation as he realized something that had originally eluded him. The book balanced almost perfectly between his palms, but it shouldn’t. The missing pages should make it slightly lighter at the back than the front: only a little, but enough to be noticeable. Now he closed it and looked at it side-on. The missing pages weren’t the only difference between the front and the back, the endpiece was imperceptibly thicker than the frontispiece. Was that usual in a book? He couldn’t be sure. He chose a title at random from the shelf nearest to him, wondering at the coincidence that placed a leather-bound copy of Pope-Hennessy’s
Raphael
in his hand. He studied it from the same angle he’d looked at the journal. No, the front and back covers were identical in thickness. He stood up and walked to the window. This was when he needed to be at his calmest, but the adrenalin rushing through him made the whole room spin. He took a deep breath and returned to the journal. He prodded the blue leather of the back cover. Almost undetectable, but it was definitely more cushioned than the front. But when he looked at the interior board under the magnifying glass he could see no evidence that it had been tampered with.
He took the book back through to the front room with its packed bookshelves and little-known, haphazardly hung works of art, placed it on the coffee table beside the window and poured the large glass of Macallan he’d promised himself earlier. Sitting back, he studied the journal from a distance for a long time, sipping the mellow malt whisky and feeling the burn rise to wrap itself around his heart. When he made his decision it was surprisingly easy. He hunted through the nearby drawer for the scalpel he knew was there somewhere, and worked the blade carefully around the half inch of stretched leather that overlapped the heavy card on the inside of the back cover. He found himself sweating. One part of him worried he was committing sacrilege, but another insisted he had his grandfather’s permission, his encouragement even. When he’d peeled back the torn leather, he very gently worked the point of the knife beneath the card so he could prise it clear.
Jamie hardly dared breathe as he levered back the covering. His first reaction was disappointment. Not the missing pages. Of course, they would never have fitted into the space he had uncovered. Then came dry-mouthed anticipation. Whatever this was, it was important to Matthew Sinclair.
It
was a neatly folded piece of what appeared to be fine cloth. Carefully, he drew it clear and unfolded it on the coffee table.
A perfect square of silk tinted in dull shades of green and brown. At first it meant nothing. A cheap scarf or a watchmaker’s cloth? After a moment of careful concentration he found himself staring at a faded map of Germany’s land mass. Bending low he searched it for any markings or symbols. It couldn’t be that simple – X only marked the spot in pirate fiction – and it wasn’t. Apart from a few tiny broken stitches the silk was unblemished. So what was its purpose? Very slowly suspicion became certainty. It was an escape map. He’d seen enough war films to know that every airman who risked being shot down over Occupied Europe had been issued with one like this, along with a compass and enough local currency to give him a chance of reaching the nearest safe haven. It was only natural that the Jedburgh teams, parachuted into the very heart of enemy territory, should be similarly equipped. He ran his hand over the silk. This had been Matthew’s. He might even have worn it around his neck. It made him feel closer to
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