The Stolen Da Vinci Manuscripts by Joshua Elliot James Page A

somebody found? The search engine
is not co-operative on finding ‘missing’ parameters, so I lean back
in my chair, close my eyes and allow my imagination to run free.
I’m in Italy, there’s the Tower of Pisa – doesn’t seem to be
leaning to me at the moment… paintings I’ve only dreamed of seeing
are there before my eyes, the canals of Venice – I’m in a gondola
heading to the Sistine Chapel, I look up and see the yet unfinished
work of da Vinci – I sit bolt upright, but don’t open my eyes. Wild
tales told by my parents flit through my mind – da Vinci…
something’s ringing a bell…
    Back to the search engine; I type in da
Vinci… blah, blah – all the stuff I remember from studies at
Harvard, but wait… what’s this? There’s a link to a different site.
I open it and it leads me to the ‘ten top mysteries of all time’.
There, staring me in the face at ‘number ten’ is a report of the
disappearance of 85% of da Vinci’s books containing ideas for
inventions, with sketches. On his death these books were bequeathed
to his friend and pupil, the painter Francesco Melzi, but they were
stolen on his death in 1570 when his possessions were ransacked and
many of them stolen. As a painter, Melzi worked so closely with and
for Leonardo that some works which were originally attributed to
Leonardo are today ascribed to Melzi
    When things seem too good to believe, they
usually are and there was one time when I thought the same of the
‘Rosetta Stone’ – but I digress. Back to the present; obviously I
have to pursue this, so I’ll get Professor Hannibal to sub for me
at Harvard and take a leave of absence from the museum for two
weeks – that will give time to see my parents in London. If anybody
can shed light on this, it will be them – after all they taught
‘Indiana Jones’ all he knows.

Chapter 2: Visit To London
     
     
    I so miss the speed of the retired
turbojet-powered supersonic passenger airliner Concorde, when
traveling to London on one took no longer than a regular flight to
Florida it seemed, but we eventually touch down at Heathrow and I
whisk through ‘customs’ with all the special benefits of a ‘first
class’ passenger.
    A forty minute cab ride and I’m hugging my
parents in their luxury ‘flat’ - as they call an apartment in jolly
old Britain, on the banks of the Thames. I can see HMS Belfast, now
a permanently moored tourist attraction near the London Bridge,
from their panoramic window.
    “So bring us up to date with this mystery
letter.” My father urges.
    I show it to him and he produces an ever
ready magnifying glass from his waistcoat pocket. After several
minutes of study he hands it to my mother without a word. She
scrutinizes back and front, but pays particular attention to the
torn edge before returning it with a nod.
    “Vellum undoubtedly, probably from around
1500.” He announces with authority.
    “Stored particularly well.” My mother adds.
“If not, this sample would be brittle or mold stained; just the
right amount of humidity.”
    “Why not parchment?” I ask.
    My father hands the glass to me. “See the
faint hair mark? This is most likely the back of the sheet.
Parchment had a different process which typically removed hairs –
this is from calf skin – not lamb.”
    “What about the envelope?”
    “It’s just an envelope – nothing special,
although the address is intriguing.”
    “Why?”
    “Rome. Home of a subversive art movement
founded by a former pupil of da Vinci – Bartolomeo Suardi, if I
recall correctly.
    “You guys are amazing.” I compliment.
    “Guys? What happened to your vocabulary,
Arcadia? My mother complains.
    “America.”
    “When are you leaving for Rome?” Father
asks.
    “Day after tomorrow.”
    “Good – let’s invite Gavin Galbraith for
dinner tomorrow then.”
    “Gavin – he’s in town?”
    “Yes, he called last night.”
    “That would be nice.”
    Gavin was the hottest man I ever knew and