Open secret

The student in the gardens of St George's Church ranted at his companion.

"Nobody believes," the student wailed. "Oh, everyone in the department says, I mean, they all claim to know about old Hawksmoor and-" in a sarcastically elevated pitch "-those terribly eccentric assimilations of Egyptian and Phoenician superstitions into his architectural oeuvre, rendering the sublime both bizarre and baroque—bloody Dr Price's words, incidentally—but nobody really realises what he discovered."

The other just nodded, sympathetically.

"I mean, take the geometry of the steeple. It follows the principles of a hermeneutic that he learnt from the writings of Mausolus. It glows with ancient power. Anyone can see that from miles away. But do people care? No!" He almost spat. "People are amazed if they can sharpen a razorblade in a paper pyramid, but they don't think, they don't think about the possibilities on the grand scale of a visionary like Hawksmoor."

The researcher flailed his arms like a drowning man. He had taken to spending his lunchtimes in the gardens. It was close enough to his supervisor's and his own offices, and familiar to him through his hours of research; he invariably met one friend or other there: someone to talk to, or more often at.

Still quiet, his companion offered a sympathetic half-smile. This was all the encouragement the student required.

"Look at it," he said, waving up at the church buildings and beginning to stride. "The ideas! The symbology! Hawksmoor knew, you know. Glorious! Theosophical! Perfect!" He gazed in awe at the building, while his companion shifted round to appraise it. "Hawksmoor-" (he wagged his finger) "-learned how to stop the ravages of time. He could resurrect the dead and wind up history like a spring. He pulled the past to his present and his present to the future!" The researcher was shouting now. "His life was eternal: his, and all those lives that he gifted with his secret knowledge! But nobody believes!"

Spent, he hung his head onto his chest, and all the life seemed to leak out of him. His companion shifted, and spoke.

"I believe," he affirmed. His accent couldn't be placed: it was old and musty like damp, hidebound books.

The student lifted his head at this and nodded amiably in response. He looked on as his friend slowly disappeared, leaving only the gravestone he had been leaning on.