Selected Detective
INTERVIEW OF PROFESSOR TOPING I

It was five o'clock when Layla finally arrived in Cambridge, a warm and foggy afternoon with high, bright skies and a puff of cherry blossoms and weeds in the air. He arrived from London by train, and in other conditions he might walk a mile and a half from the station to the city center which has been done for years since the last time he was in this part of the world and would be nice if he could enjoy the old scenery again, from the days he lived with his grandparents here, after he and his mother left Palestine. And as it is, time is so pressing and he is so anxious to meet the elusive Professor Topping.

Out of the station building, he called a taxi and ten minutes later he walked through the gate of St. John. A porter told him that Professor Topping's room was in aisle 1 of Field Two. Then, after thanking her, Layla walked through the campus, towards the first large and silent square of the well-preserved grass field, the red-walled Tudor building, the chapel had full arched windows and walked into the second square.

The hallway I is in the left corner, with a “There/Exit” board attached to the wall inside its entrance that contains all of its names and spaces respectively above. On the small window next to Professor Topping's name written the sign “Kear”, and caused him to panic a little “Kristus”, he thought, did I come all the way and get nothing? before a large, well-built student in a red-and-white rugby shirt came down the stairs and, in response to Layla's grumbling about where the professor was, convince Layla that the professor must be in her room.

“I heard him shout,” he explained. “Don't mind any announcement on that board. I stayed under him for two years and he never once gave a sign ‘Ada’ next to his name.” Relieved, though not too sure the Professor does not at all look like the kind of person who would welcome an unexpected caller. Layla began to climb the stairs, the wooden planks creaking under her feet, continuing to the top of the building when she found the door with the words Professor M. The toppings are inscribed on the wall next to it. He hesitated, imagining, as he had done in the previous afternoon, an unfriendly old academic with semi-circular glasses, wearing a jacket with a sideburn growing from his ear, then stepping and knocking on the door.

There's no answer. He knocked again.

“Not now!”

“Professor Topping?”

“Not now!” His tone sounded a bit angry, trifling. He considered whether he should just go, enjoy a cup of coffee, and come back later about the Professor was in a better condition. But he didn't come all the way just for a walk. So, gritting his teeth, he raised his hand and knocked on the door for the third time, his knuckle knocking on the wooden door continuously.

“I'll appreciate the little time you've given me, Professor Topping,” Layla said. Silence that gripped for a moment of calm before lightning struck then heard footsteps approaching quickly. The inner door opened, then the outer door he had knocked on.

“Don't you understand English? I said not now! What's wrong with you?” For a moment Layla spoke up, because instead of the old scholar smelling like she had imagined before, she was faced with a tall, handsome, black-haired man, around the early to mid-forties, in Bermuda trousers and denim shirts, a pinch of black chest hair was puffed up from the exposed neck of his shirt.

His shock lasted only a moment, then, with a huff, he also snarled.

“Damn you. You haughty! I came all the way from Jerusalem because you never want to pick up the phone like any other normal human being, so please show a little respect.” He fully predicted that the door would be slammed in front of his face. It turned out that the Professor was just staring at him, with a look of impress in his eyes, then, with a curve on his eyebrows, he turned around and stepped into his room. Layla remained silent on the spot, not knowing for sure what she was going to do.

“Yahh, come,” he invites. “I may indeed be haughty, but at least I know when to step back gracefully. And close that door. Both of them. I don't want this to set a precedent.” Too surprised to argue over the situation, Layla does as she says. He pulled the outside door and then closed the inner door, and followed it towards his study.

The place was a mess, in every inch of available floor area, shelves on top of furnaces, windows edges, tables included under piles of papers and books, as if the room had just been hit by a tornado. Like chaos, just before Layla realized that the two seat-shaped mounds by the window were in fact a pair of armchairs covered in a pile of discarded clothes and the heavy Cambridge Meieval History. Topping chose a path for them and began cleaning up the place for Layla to sit down.

“I don't think I remember your name.”

“Layla,” said. “Layla Al - madani.”

“And you're a..?”

“Journalist.”

“It doesn't occur to you an academic,” he said, as he retreated backwards and pointed at the chair, now shifting books and dirty clothes. “Much too pretty.” His tone was so bluntly what he was trying to bring without sounding like a bad conversation path. Layla approached and sat down while she continued to clear the space for her in the other chair.

“Coffee?” she asked, nodding to the door in the corner of the room, a crowded kitchen area Layla had seen. He refused his offer.

“Drink?”

“Still too early for me.”

“And you actually came all the way from Jerusalem?” he asks. “Or, are you trying to make me feel bad?” Layla assures him that she is telling the truth.

“I guess I should be flattered,” she said, coming back and sitting in front of Layla. “A half of my students from other parts of this campus can't even come here.” He drank a beer and stretched his legs, staring at Layla.

“So?” Their eyes were fixed for a moment he was really handsome then Layla slightly bowed and started reaching into his bag.

“I want to ask you about the speech you gave a few weeks ago,” he said. ”’Small William and Secrets Castelombres’.” He straightened his body, clutching his notebook, pen and prints he had made on St.'s web page. The John’s College History Society.

“I have tried to research all things related to Castelombre, this is for the article I'm working on, but it looks like I haven't been able to get. I'm trying to take some information from the internet, but well, from the description of your speech it sounds you might be able to give me something more detail.” He raised his eyebrows, surprised. “And you came all the way just for that?”

“Yahh, actually it will obviously be easier if you are willing to be called or contacted via e-mail...” He smiled a little, confessed the truth, and sipped his beer again.

“Should I say directly that the speech was more the conclusion of a light release than serious academic material,” he said. “Cultural identity in the middle Languedoc, that's the area I live in, with specificity in the thirteenth-century Inquisition register, he said, likewise with all the things about secrets and hidden treasures and anything mysterious related to Nazi Archaeology I accept it by not fully believing.” He looked at the bottle. “Although it is really interesting. Very enticing. Important too, maybe.”

Then they shut up for a moment. The professor seemed immersed in his own thoughts. Then, with a head bobble, he stuck out his hand.

“What have you got so far?” He pulled out the note he had made the previous day and gave it to him. His eyes quickly read the information.

“Honestly, I'm not sure if there's anything I can add here. As I have said, this is not an area of my specificity.

And if he has...” he shrugs his shoulders, giving the page back to Layla. He certainly caught the disappointment in Layla's face, as he immediately added, “I still dare to say that I can complete a bit of her background. At least that's what I can do because you've come all the way here. Whether this is useful or not yahh, you just judge it.” He got up and went to his desk where he began to search the piles of papers.

“Have you been there?” he asked as he sorted through the paper. “Ke Castelombres?” Layla has never confessed.

“Place worth visiting. There's not much to see actually. Stone windows, some wall ruins. Everything's really messy. But the atmospheric.had a melancholic feeling of curiosity towards him. Shadow Castle. That's what that name means. Suit. Aha!” He took some paper out of the pile.

“Note for my speech,” he explained.

He saw one by one the pages, leaning against the end of the table, a movement that caused the pile of paper behind him, which was already not in a stable state, to fall to the floor. Ignored him.

“Alright,” he continued, “Let's start from the beginning. As far as we can tell from contemporary sources, and which do not exist only a few incomplete genealogies, some existing land treaties, legacies, of that kind at least until the eleventh century, he said, there is nothing far beyond the usual about Castelombres. It is only a relatively small Languedoc land. His master owned land and property, interbred with the local population, made legation to the religious institution, loyalty to the Nobles of Foix. Just normal. Then, around the year 1100, things suddenly changed. Pretty dramatic.”

Layla advanced forward all the way to the edge of her chair, her spirit swish felt on her back. If his research is correct, and he has no reason to think that it is not true, around 1100 would have been the time when William De Relincourt discovered the mysterious treasure beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and sent it to his sister in Castelombres.

“Again, the source is very little,” continued Topping. “Only a few traveling artist poems, some references in contemporary chronicles, and, most importantly, two pieces of letters written by contemporary Jewish scholar Rashi. they all seem to agree that from the twentieth century onwards Castelombres began to attract attention. And the reason for this is rumors that are starting to circulate that he is a repository of incredible treasures of power and unparalleled beauty.” Another more powerful demon ran through Layla's body.

“Power and beauty,” is the word De Relincourt used in his letter.

“Do we know what it really is?” Layla asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Topping shook his head. “Do not know. Even the source is not entirely visible for sure. Some refer to it as ‘Lo Tresor’ Treasure, others simply call it a secret or a mystery, implying a kind of allegorical or symbolic meaning. Does not add to clear.”