Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

Thomas hesitated. ‘Erasmus Pole was an able man. Has the king not enjoyed such an advantage since the war began?’

Rush stopped and looked hard at Thomas. ‘We were never sure about Pole. There were incidents. His loyalty to the king was beginning to be questioned. The affair at Alton was an odd thing — most suspicious. No sooner had we received word that Lord Digby was planning to attack the town than the enemy reinforced its defences. Most suspicious. And the judgement of an elderly man who walked down that foul lane at night must also be questioned.’

‘Do you think he was killed there?’

‘That’s where he was found.’ Rush’s eyes narrowed. ‘Or do you suggest that he was murdered elsewhere and his body taken there?’

‘No, sir, I know only that I have walked down that lane in daylight and shall not do so again, never mind at night.’

‘Very wise of you. It’s a noisome place.’

‘Noisome and evil.’

‘Indeed. Master Hill, if I may proffer some advice, take great care to whom you speak in Oxford. The town is full of men who are not what they seem.’

‘Abraham Fletcher said much the same thing.’

‘I daresay he did. And, Master Hill, you will report anything at all suspicious to me, won’t you?’

‘I shall.’ Approaching Queen Street, Thomas changed the subject. ‘Master Rush, you kindly asked if there is anything you can do for me. I do have one favour to ask.’

‘Of course. What is the favour?’

‘I should like to let my sister know that I have arrived in Oxford safely, and am quite well. Would you be able to have a letter delivered for me?’

‘That will present no difficulty. Messengers are in and out of the town every day. I will find one heading for Winchester or Salisbury and have him deliver the letter. Romsey, is it not?’

‘It is. My thanks, Master Rush. I am in your debt.’

‘Say no more about it. Let me have the letter, and I shall deal with the matter at once. Now, allow me to propose a happy diversion from your labours. The queen is presenting a masque in honour of the king on Wednesday next. She is fond of masques. Her court, and much of the king’s, will be there. You are invited to attend.’

Thomas hesitated. A masque was not his idea of a happy diversion. It would be formal, lavish and extravagant. He had no suitable clothes, and little to say to members of either court. He tried to think of an excuse. Then he remembered the lovely Jane Romilly, lady-in-waiting to the queen. An acquaintance he would much like to renew. ‘Thank you, Master Rush. I should be delighted.’

‘Excellent. Two o’clock in the afternoon on Wednesday, at Merton. The masque will be followed by a reception. I will arrange for a suit of clothes to be sent round to you. Their majesties are most particular as to dress. I shall look forward to seeing you there. Now I shall leave you and return to Christ Church. Good day, Master Hill.’

‘Good day, Master Rush.’ Alone, Thomas turned into Broad Street, intending to follow Catte Street to the High Street, and thence to St Aldate’s and Pembroke. It did not take him long to change his mind. Broad Street was more Bedlam than street. Realizing that he would have to run a gauntlet of beggars, whores and pickpockets, he turned back towards Cornmarket. He was not quite quick enough. He smelt the woman before he saw her. Out of a dark doorway she came, another stinking, poxed, toothless crone, this one with a humped back. She grabbed his shirt, and pressed herself against him. ‘Good evening, sir. You’re a fine gentleman and no mistake. For a sovereign, I’ll make you a happy one.’ Bile rising in his throat, Thomas wrenched his shirt free and ran. He kept running almost as far as Pembroke. Outside the gates, he stopped, took deep breaths until he was calm, and walked slowly into the college.

‘Good evening, sir. You look a trifle flushed. Are you well?’ Silas, keeping watch from his room, had seen him come in. Silas missed nothing. Thomas’s face was red and his shirt askew.

‘Quite well, thank you, Silas. I should be grateful for a bottle of hock and some dinner. Would you have them sent over?’

Silas looked him up and down. ‘As you wish, sir. Nothing the matter, I hope.’

‘Nothing, Silas, thank you. The evening is warm. Walking too fast, I daresay.’

Silas looked doubtful. ‘Indeed, sir. I’ll have the bottle and a plate sent over directly.’

In his room, Thomas took off his shirt and breeches and lay on his bed. They would have to be washed. Waiting for his dinner, he wondered what he had agreed to. Queen Henrietta Maria was known to be fond of masques, and even sometimes appeared in them herself. It was said that in London the most extravagant of her entertainments had cost over twenty thousand guineas. Twenty thousand guineas. Enough to build two hundred cottages or a hundred schools, feed an entire town for a year, provide for every beggar and orphan …

Before he could add to the list, his dinner arrived, brought by one of Silas’s boys. Intending to give the boy a few pence, Thomas reached for his purse on the table. Then he remembered that it was in his pocket. He picked up the discarded breeches and felt for the purse. The pockets were empty. He looked around the room in case he had been mistaken. No purse. Then he realized. The hump-backed hag must have picked his pocket. Silas’s boy was not going to get a whole sovereign from the bag hidden under the bed, so he would have to go unrewarded. ‘Thank you, young fellow,’ said Thomas graciously, ‘you shall have a shilling next time.’ Unsure whether to be pleased or not, the boy departed.

Thomas’s last waking thought that evening was whether there was anyone in Oxford who was what he seemed. Abraham, of course, and Silas. But what about Simon? What about Rush? What about Fayne? He acted like an arrogant oaf, but could he be a traitor? Or even a mild-mannered scholar in disguise?

For two more days, Thomas saw little of the sun. He was determined to decrypt every one of the documents perfectly. When working, he found that he could blot out the clash and clamour outside. Only when he left his room for trips to the privy, to fetch water from the well or to find food did he have to face the awful squalor and destruction that had been brought on his old college.

As he always had, Thomas found himself giving each encoder a personality. He could look at a sheet of paper covered in random letters, numbers and symbols, and, after identifying just a few letters, could often divine its soul. And, even before starting the decrypting process, he sometimes recognized the hand of the sender. By visualizing the man — fat, thin, tall, short — and his traits — tidy, careless, quick, slow — he could anticipate the methods he was likely to use. It was a marriage of science and art that Abraham used to call Hill’s magic.

He expected to find the remaining documents encrypted much as those he had already decrypted, but it did not take him long to discover that Abraham was up to his tricks. The old fox had mixed up the documents to conceal their context and chronology. The tenth document surprised him with an unusually high proportion of the letters A and I, until he realized that it had been written in Latin. In the other documents, there were deliberate misspellings, and some parts of the texts — the most difficult to decrypt — were nomenclators — combinations of letters, symbols and numbers. The symbols and numbers were either homophonic substitutions for single words or meaningless nulls, sometimes both in the same message. Much like the cipher Phelippes had decrypted, although simpler. Thomas started with the assumption that the most common letter combinations, such as THE, AND and TION, would appear most often, and proceeded from there. The approach was laborious but effective.