Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

‘I will fetch my notes. If it is the same cipher, it won’t take a minute.’ Thomas ran up to his bedroom, retrieved the paper on which he had recorded the numerical substitutions for each letter and returned to the sitting room.

‘You read them out, Joseph, and I will write them down. Ignore spaces. It’s just the numbers and stops we want.’

Holding the glass with both hands to keep it steady, Joseph read out the numbers.

‘That is all, Thomas. I do not think I have missed any.’

Thomas laid the paper on which he had written the numbers on the table beside his decryption note and started converting the numbers into letters.

In less than a minute, he said, ‘The letters in the first line are NFLAMELRMOUFFPA.’ And after another minute, ‘The second line is JGLAUBERKALVERAM.’ He handed the paper to Joseph, who sat studying the letters.

Joseph shrugged. ‘I can see nothing here, although there must be something. What would Squire have kept an encrypted note of?’

‘A contact name? An address? But why write them down at all? There are only two lines.’

‘Names and addresses change. He might have had previous names recorded elsewhere. Or there might be dozens of them.’

Thomas returned to the letters and tried setting out the first line with different spaces.

It leapt at him. Nicolas Flamel was a celebrated French alchemist of the fourteenth century. ‘The Alchemist, Joseph. Nicolas Flamel was an alchemist.’

‘I have heard of him. What about RMOUFFPA?’

‘Could PA be Paris?’

‘Indeed it is. Rue Mouffetard is in the oldest part of Paris.’ It was almost a shout.

That made the second line easy. Johann Glauber was also an alchemist, a Dutch one, and Kalverstraat was a street in Amsterdam. There had once been a cattle market there.

These addresses were where Squire sent his letters. N. FLAMEL, RUE MOUFFETARD, PARIS and J. GLAUBER, KALVERSTRAAT, AMSTERDAM. He would have slipped his letters into the Dover mail and they would have been collected from a local sorting office by an agent of the Alchemist. Or Alchemists. Two addresses in two countries suggested two alchemists working together. Two men, one code name. Thomas did not remember having come across this before, but it was possible. Indeed, it implied a very close connection between the two of them.

Now Thomas knew why he had instinctively taken the seal from Squire’s house. ‘This might give us a way of luring the Alchemist to London. And unless you intend to despatch assassins to Amsterdam and Paris, that is the only way you are going to eliminate him.’

Joseph looked doubtful. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘That we compose a letter, ostensibly from Squire and encrypted with the numerical cipher, which gives him an irresistible reason to come here. I can copy Squire’s hand and I have his seal. And now we have an address.’

Joseph did not ask how Thomas came to have the seal. ‘Two addresses. But what if Squire or Stoner had already alerted the man to our having broken the cipher?’

‘I doubt either of them had the time or the means – remember Squire’s unfinished letter – but if they did, we shall lose nothing.’

For a long time Joseph sat and pondered. Thomas could almost see the arguments for and against battling it out in his head. At last he said, ‘Very well, we will do as you suggest. But Charles and Mary will have to stay on the ship in Southampton while the plan is carried out and Morland must stay in the Tower. I do not want unwelcome distractions.’

Thomas was on his feet. ‘I will fetch what we need.’

To have a chance of luring the Alchemist into a trap, the bait would have to be uncommonly juicy. The fox would not leave the safety of his den without the promise of a feast.

Eventually they agreed to send only one letter – to Amsterdam – on the grounds that if there were a second man in Paris, he would be alerted by his counterpart. They also agreed that the message should be brief, saying no more than was necessary. The trap itself would be set if and when they received a reply.

After numerous false starts, they settled on:

Senior govt officer approached. Wishes to help. Your presence here essential. Aurum

The message contained neither Q nor Z, for which Thomas did not have a number. He fetched Squire’s seal and his invitation to the Post Office from which to copy his hand, and encrypted the letter as:

With Joseph’s help he checked his work and sealed the letter securely. They decided to write the sender’s name above the seal, as most correspondents did, to reassure the Alchemist that a reply via the Post Office would be secure and to give him a return address. In Squire’s hand, Thomas wrote A. Knight, Golden Lane, London , which had the look of a name and address Squire might have used. It would go by special messenger to Dover, where Joseph’s man would ensure it was delivered to the Amsterdam sorting office for collection on behalf of the addressee, J. Glauber.

‘I will have a Bishop Mark stamped on it and send it on its way today,’ said Joseph. ‘Then we can only wait and pray.’

They had agreed that if there was to be a reply it would probably arrive within ten days. That was quite enough time for the letter to reach Amsterdam and for the reply to reach London, and if the plan worked the Alchemist would not delay.

At first the thrill of anticipation made the waiting bearable. The Alchemist would fall into their trap, the king would be delighted and Thomas would carry Madeleine off to Romsey to spend the rest of their lives together.

As the days passed, however, anticipation gave way to melancholy. What exactly was he waiting for? The Alchemist would have been alerted to the deaths of Stoner and Squire and would know at once that the letter was a trap. He would laugh at such a feeble attempt to deceive him. Or the Amsterdam address was the wrong one and the letter would never reach him. Or the names on the snuff box were nothing to do with the Alchemist.

Then he caught himself. Don’t give up, Thomas, of course the names were the Alchemist. Nicolas Flamel and Johann Glauber were celebrated alchemists. Be patient. The plan might yet work. There was no point in sitting alone in the house in Piccadilly wondering and worrying. He must go out and exercise the mind and body on something else.

Something else or someone else? Should he call again on Madeleine and risk another rebuff? Or should he be distant and aloof, forcing the lady to come to him? Not enough experience, Thomas, he told himself. Most men of forty-seven would know what to do, but here you are behaving like a love-struck youth. Take a hold on yourself and stop being dreary. You have much to be thankful for – two nieces whom you love dearly, a fine house, friends and more money than you will ever need.

But not Madeleine Stewart.

On the ninth day, Thomas set off on a morning walk. From Piccadilly he made his way northwards to Holborn, then down Shoe Lane and up Ludgate to St Paul’s. Although he avoided Old Bailey, a light breeze that day blew the stench from Newgate towards him. He held his handkerchief to his nose and thought of the wretches locked up inside its walls, most with nothing to look forward to but death from gaol fever or at the end of a rope. Thieves, murderers, dissenters, republicans, men, women, children – Newgate made room for all. And its malignancy spread. In the alleys and lanes nearby, whores, pickpockets and beggars plied their trade. It was as if they had gravitated there to await their turn to go inside.