It was strange and eerily unnatural—a plumber living on an unassuming suburban street who suddenly began speaking Latin and producing illuminated medieval manuscripts in the style of Albertus Magnus.
Bishop Weirton wasn’t surprised.
“I knew there was something peculiar here—more than met the eye—but unfortunately, I know little of Albertus Magnus and his Grimoire Noir. I know this much—it’s a very rare book and there are no published copies.”
I was expecting the scholarly bishop to provide some insight and couldn’t hide my disappointment.
“Great—that’s not much help.”
“Not to worry, Martin,” the bishop smiled, “I have a colleague who works in the Vatican archives and he can get us some information about the book. I’ll email him tonight.”
I went home and spent the night relaxing by the fire—a glass of wine in one hand and my laptop open to every article I could find on Albertus Magnus.
The following morning, Bernadette Malone phoned and said her husband had spent a restless night.
He was becoming increasingly agitated and had not gone out that morning to tend his grape vines—instead, he spent the morning writing feverishly in the study.
I decided to go out and pay the Malone’s a visit, but first, I stopped by the chancellery office to touch base with Bishop Weirton.
“I learned quite a bit from Monsignor Lawlor in Rome,” he smiled.
“It seems that Albertus Magnus was quite the theologian and scientist. He actually made automata—mechanical men, who could move and talk.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
He chuckled. “Legend has it, Thomas Aquinas was so disturbed by the robots, he wielded a stick, yelling, Salve, Salve, and smashed one to smithereens.”
“Do you think Albertus Magnus was an alchemist in search of the Philosopher’s Stone—the Elixir of Life?”
The bishop paused and reflected. “He could have been—he was certainly fascinated with the possibility of creating mechanical life.”
“Did he write the Grimoire Noir?”
“Somebody wrote it,” The bishop smiled wryly. “The authorship is extant, but it’s attributed to Albertus Magnus—and it’s certainly a book he was capable of writing.”
“What can you tell me of the original text?” I asked.
“Not much. The tome we possess is not an original autograph and passages are missing—some are undecipherable. I know it’s written in Latin and consists of three parts.”
A thought hit me. “That might explain Frank’s restlessness. The journal I saw was near the end of part two. He must be eager to get to the third part and finish the work.”
“Sounds plausible,” the bishop agreed.
“Then, I’d best get over there and check in on Frank and Bernadette—it sounds like things are building to a crisis.”
It seemed I was something of a minor prophet. The moment I walked in the door, I marvelled at the changed atmosphere in the house.