Philip Kerr - Dark Matter

We were two or three hours on the road to London when Newton put aside the book for a moment and remarked most casually that it was now plain to him how Mister St. Leger Scroope had proved himself to be a liar.

“Do you mean the gentleman that presented your school with those very fine silver cups?” I enquired.

“I never liked the man,” admitted Newton. “I trust him not. He is like a dog without a tail. Most unpredictable.”

“But why do you say that he is a liar?”

“Sometimes,” sighed Newton, “you are a most obstinately obtuse fellow. Do you not remember how he told us that Macey brought him a letter written in French, for translation? Why, it’s as plain as the nose on your face that the letter must have been a cipher, just like the one he showed Doctor Wallis. Perhaps it was even the same letter. There never was any letter in French.”

“But why should Scroope lie about such a thing?”

“Why indeed, Mister Ellis? That is what we shall find out.”

“But how?”

Newton pondered the matter for a moment.

“I have an idea how we might do it,” he said at last. “Macey had no Latin. And yet by the account of Mister Lowndes, the bookseller, he bought a Latin book about secret writing that was a gift for someone. It cannot have been Doctor Wallis, who already possessed two such books. And Mister Lowndes’s shop is but a short distance from the premises of Mister Scroope. Therefore I think that we shall visit Scroope again. And while I hold him in conversation, you shall find occasion to slip away and examine his bookcase.”

“In search of the book by Trithemius?”

“Exactly so.”

“An old book,” I said. “It’s not much evidence of a crime.”

“No,” agreed Newton. “That will come later. First we must prove things to our own satisfaction.”

When the coach reached London, before night, we climbed down and found ourselves lousy, which only irritated my master a little, for he was in a mighty good humour at the prospect of solving the cipher. And straightaway he accompanied me to the Tower so that he might collect all his coded material and begin work all the sooner. Finding all well at the Tower and in the Mint, we went to the office, which had been newly painted and the windows cleaned in our absence, which helped to explain how it was that Mister Defoe had facilitated his entry and that we discovered him with the guilt of his intrusion still upon him.

“Why, Mister Defoe,” said Newton. “Do you attend us?”

Mister Defoe laid down some Mint papers he had been examining and, stepping side to side like a dancing master, stuttered and stammered his crippled explanation. “Yes,” he said, blushing like a virgin. “I only thought to await your return. To bring you information.”

“Information? About what, pray?” Newton collected the papers Mister Defoe had been reading and perused their contents while our interloper tried to untie his tongue.

“About certain coiners,” declared Mister Defoe. “I know not their names, but they operate out of a tavern in Fleet Street.”

“Do you refer to The Goat?”

“Yes, The Goat,” replied Mister Defoe.

Newton winced, as if he felt the pain of Mister Defoe’s words. “Oh, you disappoint me. The Goat is in Charing Cross, between the Chequer Inn at the southwest corner of St. Martin’s Lane, and the Royal Mews, farther west. Now if you had said The George—”

“I did mean The George.”

“You would also be mistaken, for The George is in Holborn, north of Snow Hill. What bad luck for you. There are so many taverns in Fleet Street you might have chosen to mention: The Globe, Hercules’ Pillars, The Horn, The Mitre, and Penell’s. We know them all, don’t we, Mister Ellis?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Perhaps you meant The Greyhound? On the south side, close to Salisbury Court? Now that’s a tavern that was always said to be full of coiners.”

“It must have been that one.”

“Until it burned down during the Great Fire. You did say you had some information for us?”

“I may have made a mistake,” said Mister Defoe.

“You most certainly have,” said Newton. “Mister Defoe, I seize you as my prisoner. Mister Ellis? Draw your sword and command this rogue’s obedience while I fetch a sentinel.”

I drew my sword as Newton had ordered, and extended the point toward Mister Defoe.

“Upon what charge do you detain me?”

“Spying,” said Newton.

“Nonsense.”

Newton brandished the papers Defoe had been reading.

“These are confidential documents in this office relating to the security of the coin of this realm. I cannot think what else I might call it, sir.”

“Is he serious?” asked Defoe when Newton had gone out of the office.

“He is so seldom anything else that I wonder if he knows one simple joke,” said I. “But you will find out if this is raillery or not, soon enough, I’ll warrant.”

As good as his word, Newton returned in the company of two sentries and quickly wrote out a warrant in his capacity as a Justice.

“Mister Neale will not tolerate this,” said Mister Defoe. “He’ll have me out of here in no time.”

Newton handed one of the sentries the warrant and commanded him to take the prisoner not to the Tower prison, as all of us had expected, but to Newgate.

“Newgate?” exclaimed Mister Defoe upon learning his fate.

“I believe you know it well enough,” said Newton. “We will see what your friends can do for you when you are in there.” And with that, poor Daniel Defoe was led out of the office, still protesting loudly.

“And now,” said Newton, when we were alone again. “Let’s have a fire and some supper.”

After supper Newton commanded me to go to bed, which I was glad to do, although I felt a little guilty leaving him at work; and so the next morning I rose early to do some paperwork of my own and found that he had not been home at all, and him being most sullen, it was evident how he had not yet made the progress he had earlier anticipated. His mood was not improved by the arrival in the office of milord Lucas, who loudly complained about my own conduct toward the late Major Mornay, and who proceeded to describe what had passed between us in a way that was quite contrary to the facts, so that I believed he had some ill will to me, or at least an opinion that I was guilty of provoking the Major to kill himself. But I cared not a turd — the more so when Newton defended me and took all the blame upon himself and said that Mornay had been murdered.

“Murdered?” Lord Lucas, who sat most stiffly as if he feared to ruffle his cravat or incommode his wig, and turned one way in his chair and then the other as if he did not believe what he had heard. “Did you say murdered, sir?”

“I did, milord.”

“What nonsense, Doctor. The fellow hanged himself.”

“No, milord, he was murdered,” repeated my master.

“What, sir, do you contradict me?”

“It was made to look as though he had hanged himself, by them as I hope soon to arrest.”

“I know your game, sir,” sneered Lord Lucas. “It’s your conceit to make men believe the very opposite of what their eyes and ears tell them to be true. Like your damned theory of gravity. I can’t see that either, sir. And I tell you plain, I don’t believe in it, sir.”

“I wonder, then, that you do not fly off this earth, and into the heavens,” observed Newton. “For I cannot think what else might detain you here, milord.”

“I have not the time nor the patience for your blasted Royal Society sophistry.”

“That much is obvious, in any case.”

“Well, you may think what you like, Newton. If he’s buried in this Tower — and it seems he will have to be, for his family don’t want the disgrace — it’ll be face down, north to south.” Lord Lucas opened his snuff-box and smeared his lofty nose with a generous pinch which did nothing to lessen his obvious distaste for our company.