Andrew Swanston - The King's Spy

‘It is possible. Who else has a reason? His nose must still be out of joint at being turfed out of the room. A man like him would take offence easily and harbour grudges. He seems to have time on his hands.’

‘That he does. I couldn’t rightly say how he spends his days other than entertaining women in his room. Common whores, all of them. I haven’t seen him doing any soldiering.’

‘No ladies, Silas? Decent ladies, I mean.’

‘Not that I’ve seen.’

‘Do you know anything else about him, Silas?’

‘Only that he comes from a wealthy and respected family.’

‘So he told me.’

‘You don’t think this has anything to do with your work, sir? Not that I know what that is, of course,’ Silas added hurriedly.

‘Possibly, although, as far as I can tell, nothing has been taken. It looks more like an act of malicious spite to me.’

Silas finished the lock and handed Thomas a key. ‘There, sir, good as new. I’ll keep both spares.’

‘Thank you, Silas, I’m obliged.’

‘You will take care, Master Hill, won’t you?’ said Silas before he left. ‘Oxford is not the place it was when you were a scholar.’

‘You’re the fifth person to tell me to take care, Silas. Anyone would think I’m a child.’

‘My apologies, sir.’

‘No apologies necessary, Silas. Thank you for your concern and be sure that I shall take care, just as everyone wishes me to.’

Thomas sat at his table and gazed once more at the pile of recovered papers. A pity Fayne did not take them away, he thought. Then he wouldn’t have to read the wretched things. He was sure it was Fayne. He certainly hoped so. If not, it was serious. Someone knew who he was and what he did. Someone distinctly unfriendly.

Another day of drudgery, then another, and Thomas was beginning to wonder if he might be on his way to the House of Bedlam. Pages and pages of badly encrypted reports from under-occupied military commanders, the occasional equally tedious despatch found on an enemy messenger, and orders from the king, largely consisting of demands for absolute loyalty and stead fastness at a time of grave danger to the country. The madhouse looked a more likely destination than a bookshop in Romsey.

He had just about banished Jane from his mind when she arrived. She carried a small parcel and had a livid bruise on her cheek. ‘Good morning, Thomas,’ she said cheerily. ‘I trust that I find you well. May I come in?’

Thomas did not reply, but stepped aside to allow her into the room. She looked about.

‘Not large but almost dry, and adequate to your needs, I hope.’ Still Thomas said nothing. ‘Thomas, what on earth is the matter? Have you lost your tongue?’

‘I had not expected to see you.’

‘And I had not expected you to be struck dumb. I have come to borrow Montaigne’s Essais , as you suggested I should, and in return I have brought you this.’ She handed him the parcel. ‘Are you not going to see what it is?’ Thomas unwrapped it. It was a slim volume entitled The Sonnets of William Shakespeare . On the title page, Jane had written To Thomas from his friend Jane, with affection. He should have been pleased. He put it down on the table.

‘Thank you. Here are the Essais .’

She took them and looked at him quizzically.

‘Thomas, you are out of sorts. Please tell me what is troubling you.’ Without invitation, she sat on the edge of the bed and waited for a reply. It came eventually.

‘My apologies, madam. I have had much work to do.’

‘Is that all? I sense there is more.’

‘I would not wish to come between you and another man.’

‘What other man, Thomas? What are you talking about?’

‘I daresay I misunderstood. I thought you told me that you and Captain Fayne were merely acquaintances.’

Jane’s hand went to the bruise on her cheek. ‘Captain Fayne. So that’s it. And what exactly has discomfited you, if I may ask?’ Her voice was suddenly sharp.

‘It is not my affair.’

‘Indeed it is not. For your information, however, I have known Captain Fayne since we were children. Our families were neighbours.’

‘You were more than neighbourly when I saw you together in the town.’

Jane jumped off the bed and looked furious. ‘Have you been spying on me? How dare you!’

‘Certainly not. I happened to see you in High Street.’

‘Did you now? Well, you won’t be seeing me again.’ She threw the Essais on to the bed and stormed out.

Thomas stood and stared at the door. You handled that well, Thomas, he thought. You clod. Although I’d wager it was Fayne who gave her that bruise.

Not many minutes later, there was another knock on the door. Not daring to hope that she had returned, Thomas opened it. She had not returned. Captain Fayne had, and he was smirking.

‘I saw your visitor leaving, Hill. Seemed upset. Take the advice of a man who knows, and take her for a run while you may.’

‘Go away, Fayne. You are offensive.’ He made to close the door, but Fayne held it open.

‘Why don’t you go and sleep in the stable, Hill? The mare might join you there. She enjoys a morning gallop. Then I can have my room back.’

With a shove, Thomas closed the door and locked it. God in his heaven, what next?

What next came as a surprise: Silas’s boy with an urgent message from Abraham. Thomas was to come at once.

In his rooms, Abraham was waiting impatiently. When Thomas knocked, he was summoned brusquely in. ‘Thomas? You’ve work to do.’

‘Good day, Abraham. Why so urgent?’

‘This is why,’ said the old man, holding up a rolled document. ‘It arrived this morning from London. It was found on a man known to be one of Pym’s most trusted messengers, leaving the city at night on the Cambridge road. Quite by chance, the man was apprehended by a troop of our dragoons, and thoroughly searched. They found this hidden inside the lining of his hat.’

‘What is it?’ asked Thomas.

‘That is what I want you to find out. It’s quite long, and it was hidden. A double precaution. A very fortunate interception, which might be important. Hidden messages often are, more so the longer ones. The messenger was no help. They got nothing out of him before he died. Here it is.’ Abraham handed Thomas the roll. ‘Can you start at once?’

‘I can. I’ll give you the plain text as soon as I can.’

‘Good. I have another young man who can do all the routine work. I want you to concentrate solely on this. And, Thomas, be particularly careful. Say nothing to anyone but me. And do not make any copies. We don’t want this falling into the wrong hands. I sense that it is valuable.’

Thank God for the dragoons who found this. Something promising at last. Thomas laid the document on his table, smoothed it out and studied it. Good rag paper, an unremarkable hand.

URF UBD HE XQB TF KGA OEMD RRFUO TLC WMG LRB WHT R XHGORKZ IO KPW769WA MQFV BVMF HPL ZFTD RVV57 4SEWMFREJ VGL SVKMGE 852 GTSC WZTD QETIJG IVL GJT RA KDOE IK EOJAAQLV GGJR MQU IOIGSI GRQF HBFZG JGY ALG EE OLWEEA GJR YIFS1 82AEL2 64SGE SC AAD ZVY JP KP WXR JB JTN XBZ775XNW WJBS LA LWAK371 EAIH TPA AD RVV BAP TWPVV AGDN WWJ URR VUTIW EW HTI QCT WY QDT37 1IE852 769UMHT RKC CONT WSGV WMG IEN DJEE KWIHV ZW PNU EAIH371 ZV GJR YIFSS NQ DA BV NGGCVL LD SVMC IRLKW DN KMJ BS WINDU IITAE KW42177 5OX LCIVK IJM LXMV IFS PCI UT FFZ SEPI MZTNJQGCOW3 71E ZDWZTD QE SZGJ GYB LD 574SKIFS RVIV N GFL OX LC QFV WV AZPLCJJX NX IF TNU BG IHZA OP RJWGC

He started counting. On a single sheet there were twelve lines of text, made up of four hundred and fifty-six letters, forty-five numbers and one hundred and thirty-eight spaces. This intercepted message was not just longer than any other he had seen: the combinations of letters, spaces and numbers had a different feel to them. Ignoring all spaces, which would almost certainly have been inserted at random, the numbers appeared in sequences of three or six. That suggested that they were probably codewords, perhaps for names. If so, the text was a nomenclator — a mix of code and cipher — which would make it more difficult to break than a plain cipher, but still breakable. There would be clues somewhere.