Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

Just like Oxford eighteen years ago, he thought, as he made his way towards the new park. Stuck in a room with a wicked cipher, no food, no drink, sore eyes and an aching head. Not to mention Williamson’s displeasure and Morland’s delight if I fail. Why didn’t I hold my tongue and let the wretch try himself? He’d have done no better, the odious toad. Because , whispered Montaigne in his ear, the man who seeks to establish his argument by noise and command shows that his reason is weak. You know Morland’s reason is weak and I expect you to prove it . And you are not alone, replied Thomas silently.

At that time of day the park was busy. Elegant couples in silks and satins strolled beside the canal, noisy children ran about on the grass or played games among the trees, and the king’s gardeners, armed with an array of spades and rakes and hoes, tended His Majesty’s plants. The last time he had been here was with Madeleine and on the very day she had spurned him. The witch. He really had dared to hope that his feelings were shared and that she would be receptive to his advance. Well, at least not as cold as a hoar frost in February, especially after her initial show of warmth. But she’d been playing a game and he’d fallen for it. How else to explain the smile, her arm through his, the compliments, followed only by cruel rejection?

On the west side of the park with the sun behind him, Thomas found a quiet spot under an old oak. His back against its trunk, he sat down and closed his eyes. Oxford, Barbados, back to his quiet life in Romsey, and now where was he? In London, that’s where, up to his neck again in murder and intrigue, desperate to go home, but trapped by his own vanity into attempting to decrypt yet another disobliging encryption. And rejected by the impossible Madeleine Stewart. What might he look forward to next?

‘Enough of this, Thomas,’ he heard Abraham Fletcher say quietly. ‘Get some food inside you and you’ll feel better. Empty your mind and think clearly, just as I taught you, and as you yourself have taught others. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and take some of your own advice. And don’t delay. Morland is counting the hours.’ Thinking that very few teachers have the power to go on teaching long after they are dead, Thomas got to his feet and walked briskly back to Chancery Lane.

Once Williamson’s cook had provided him with an excellent mutton stew, bread and cheese and a bowl of fruit, doubtless brought for her cousin by Miss Stewart, Thomas lay down on the floor and stared at the ceiling. It was an old trick of his – a way of clearing the mind of all unwanted thoughts.

He concentrated on the letter. He still thought Morland was wrong about coded words and syllables, so twenty-six possible letters were represented by ninety-one numbers, with a very even distribution which disguised their normal frequencies. He did not believe that this encrypter had allocated numbers randomly, but systematically, in a way which disguised the letters with particular effect. If Thomas could divine that way he would have taken the first step towards decryption. He went back to the letter and asked himself what he would have done in the encrypter’s place.

Before he could come up with an answer, however, he heard a key turn in the door and in swept Williamson. ‘Good evening, Thomas. What progress have you to report?’

Thomas rose slowly and chose his words with care. ‘I am still sure that Sir Samuel is wrong in believing that it is words and syllables which are represented by the numbers. All my instincts tell me otherwise. But I am not yet in a position to prove it.’

Joseph frowned. ‘Yet? Does that mean progress or no progress?’

‘I have made progress by eliminating a number of possibilities. I know certain things that this cipher is not. I do not yet know what it is.’

‘So should I take your repeated use of the word “yet” as encouraging or not?’

This was becoming uncomfortable. Thomas did not want to lie, but nor did he want to sound less than confident. ‘This cipher can be broken and I will break it. Our enemy is time.’

‘A time, as I recall, Thomas, set by yourself.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And one to which Henry Bishop and I expect you to keep. Neither of us likes Morland but, more importantly, we have the safety of England at stake. Am I clear?’

‘Quite clear, Joseph.’

Williamson’s tone softened, as if he had just remembered that Thomas was fifteen years his senior and was not one of his employees. ‘In that case, is there anything you need?’

‘I shall continue working through the night. If your cook could provide something to sustain me until the morning, I should be grateful.’

‘I will arrange it. Let us hope that the morning will bring better news.’

‘I am confident that it will.’

Once a plate of food and a jug of wine had arrived, Thomas took up a quill and started again. Strangely, it came to him almost at once. This precise, orderly encrypter had allocated numbers according to the frequency with which each letter typically appears, using each allocated number in turn, which would level the distribution. If E were represented by twelve numbers, for example, and appeared thirty-six times in the text, each of its allocated numbers would appear three times. And if D had been allocated four numbers and appeared twelve times, each of its numbers would also appear three times. That was why there were so many repeated numbers and why he had known instinctively that Morland was wrong.

On a new sheet of paper he wrote out the alphabet with the typical weighting for each letter below it. In a standard English text each letter might be expected to appear approximately that number of times relative to all other letters. Twice as many As as Ds, for example. In each row he hoped to be able to compile a list of the numbers the encrypter had allocated to it.

From the hundreds of texts he and Abraham Fletcher had studied thirty years earlier he knew that these frequencies were about right, but only about right. Of course, any single text might throw up anomalies and the rarer letters such as X, Q and Z might not appear at all. He was still working more on instinct than logic, and a liberal dose of Hill’s magic would be needed.

By dawn he had filled dozens of sheets with rows of numbers, his head was protesting and his eyes were closing of their own accord. He had made no more progress and, without rest, he was not going to. He lay down on the floor intending to rest his eyes briefly. Four hours later, however, he was woken by voices outside the door of his room. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he pulled himself painfully up on to one elbow and listened.

He recognized her voice at once. ‘Good morning, Joseph. I’ve brought oranges and cherries. They’re delicious. Do try one.’

‘Thank you, my dear.’ Thomas could see in his mind’s eye Williamson reaching out and taking a cherry from her. He struggled to his feet and stretched his back.

‘Is Thomas working here today?’

‘He is, but I’d rather you didn’t disturb him. He’s engaged on a most urgent task.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

Williamson laughed. ‘You know very well I can’t tell you, Madeleine, and I wouldn’t if I could.’

‘My goodness. It must be very important. Never mind. I only wanted to wish him good day.’

Wish me good day? After showing me the door at her house? What does the witch think I am? Some sort of servant? His hand was on the key and he was on the point of opening the door and confronting her when Abraham spoke again. ‘Leave her, Thomas. Emotion is your enemy. You have work to do.’ To hell with her. He went back to his work table, where there were a few drops of wine left in the jug and a crust of bread on the plate. He swallowed them and took up a quill.