by T E Kinsey
‘Right you are, then,’ she said. ‘A nice cup of tea always helps. There i’n’t no one as could start a war over a nice cup of tea.’
‘I dare say you’re right, Edna. Thank you.’
Back in the drawing room, they were still discussing Miss Caudle’s journey.
‘. . . and I said, “Well, Michael, dear, since you’re going to Cardiff on the train, you’ll have no need for your motor car. Can I borrow it?” He’s too polite to say no, even though he hates the idea of me driving his precious machine. I shall really have to see if I can tap Papa for a few guineas to buy me one of my own.’
‘Edna will bring a fresh pot through in just a moment,’ I said as I put the cup and saucer on the table beside Miss Caudle’s chair.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now that you’re here, we can get on. You’ll forgive my getting straight to business, but I’ve some rather exciting news.’ She reached into her satchel and pulled out Brookfield’s notebook. ‘I know who the cuckoo in the WSPU’s nest is.’
Lady Hardcastle gave a rueful smile. ‘Ah,’ she said.
‘You already know, don’t you?’ said Miss Caudle. ‘I should have guessed.’
Lady Hardcastle gestured to the crime board, where Beattie Challenger now had pride of place in the centre.
‘How did you find out?’ asked Miss Caudle. ‘When?’
‘I went to the Court Sampson yesterday evening with Inspector Sunderland to meet one of his informants. Weasel – the informant’s name is Weasel – was in the pub on the night of the fire but scarpered when he realized the police would be called. He saw a woman with a big bag. He didn’t see her face, but he did see her boots. They were Beattie Challenger’s boots.’
‘I tried to tell you first thing this morning,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Hence the telephone call to the newspaper.’
‘Ah, well,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Can’t be helped. But I do know a little something that this Weasel character didn’t know. Brookfield did walk out with Beattie Challenger as a way of trying to find out what she was up to. He confirmed that she was a fully paid-up member of the Women’s National Anti-Suffrage League and that she had been co-opted by the Men’s League to wheedle her way into the WSPU and keep an eye on things. She got rather attached to him, it seems, but he threw her over almost as soon as he met Lizzie Worrel. According to his notes, Challenger was furious with the pair of them.’
‘More than enough motive to kill him and frame her,’ I said, ‘even without the bonus of disgracing the WSPU.’
‘Quite,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Tapscott is going to have to work overtime to retreat the News from its position of condemning the suffragettes for breaking their truce. He does like to stir things up, no matter what he might say. But he also values the truth above everything.’
‘With another hung parliament, I’m not sure people are taking much notice of what the suffragettes are up to at the moment,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘All the talk is of whether Asquith will get his budget past the Lords this time.’
‘Nevertheless, he’ll want to set the record straight.’
‘But not yet,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘We’ve yet to come up with any hard evidence and I think it’s still important that we don’t show our hand until we do. I don’t want her to scarper before we can get her arrested and tried.’
‘I might be able to help you there,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘Or, looking at it another way, I might need you to help me.’ She flipped open the notebook to a page near the back. ‘The rest of the book is written in the style you helped to fathom out when I first showed the book to you. It’s devilishly frustrating at times – his wordplay can be tortuous – but it’s quite straightforward once you get the hang of it. But this . . .’ She turned the book to face us. Unlike the rest of the notebook, which was written in shorthand, this was a block of seemingly random ordinary letters. ‘I tried your trick of shifting the letters. Nothing. So I shifted them again. And again. I went all the way through all the possible . . . What did you call them? “Caesar ciphers”? Nothing. I’m completely stumped. But I thought a woman who even knew the term “Caesar cipher” might know where to go next.’
Lady Hardcastle took the notebook and stared at it for a moment.
‘You might think you’ve wasted your time,’ she said, ‘but you’ve done good work. If you’ve eliminated all the simple shift ciphers, it might be another simple substitution cipher – I can check that with a frequency analysis.’
Miss Caudle looked at her blankly.
‘Sorry, dear,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘It’s not terribly interesting – I’m just thinking out loud. If that doesn’t work, then the next step would be to wonder if it’s a “Vigenère cipher”.’
‘And what’s that?’ asked Miss Caudle.
‘Made famous by a French chap called . . .’
‘Vigenère?’ I suggested.
‘Well, yes, but I was trying to remember the rest of the blessed chap’s name. Sixteenth-century fellow. Anyway, he perfected a cipher that was so cunning it was known as le chiffre indéchiffrable – the indecipherable cipher.’
‘And how does that help us?’ asked Miss Caudle. ‘If it’s indecipherable, how do we . . . you know . . . decipher it?’
‘It was only called le chiffre indéchiffrable, it wasn’t actually indéchiffrable.’
‘You know how to déchiffre it?’
‘It’s long-winded and tedious,’ said Lady Hardcastle, ‘but, yes, I know a way.’
Edna arrived at this moment with the fresh tea and a plate of scones.
‘I thought you might need some sustenance,’ she said as she poured a cup of tea for Miss Caudle. ‘My Dan always says a fella can’t think on an empty stomach. Mind you, he says he can’t do nothin’ on an empty stomach. Actually, now I comes to say it out loud, he never has an empty stomach. Always eatin’, that man.’ She offered round the plate of scones. ‘Will there be anythin’ else, m’lady?’
‘No, thank you, Edna. You’ve done us proud as always.’
‘It was Miss Jones as made the scones, mind,’ said Edna. ‘I can’t take credit for that.’
‘Then take her our grateful thanks,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
Edna left, closing the door behind her.
‘I don’t suppose you—’ began Lady Hardcastle.
‘Painstakingly copied out the letters and checked them three times to ensure I hadn’t made a mistake? Of course. Here you are.’
She handed over a foolscap sheet where the letters had been arranged in a grid just as in the original but much neater.
‘You have a lovely hand,’ said Lady Hardcastle absently as she took the paper.
‘I can’t claim all the credit,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘It’s largely down to Miss Wyatt, the unfortunate woman who served as my governess.’
‘Were you not a good pupil?’
‘I was beastly. But somehow I managed to learn a few things, one of which was penmanship.’
‘I shall have to study this,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Of course. It will take time?’
‘A few hours, at least. It’s all rather unglamorous, I’m afraid. If I pull it off, you’ll be amazed at my skills – you might even think me possessed of arcane powers. But mostly it’s just counting.’
‘Then count away,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘I shall leave you to your endeavours. Although if I might impose on your hospitality for long enough to finish this delicious scone, that would be grand. But then I must away – I wasn’t fibbing to the office when I said I was working on a story.’
‘Anything fun?’
‘Fun? No, not really. But it’s a step or two away from society gossip, so it’s definitely more satisfying.’
‘Will you telephone this evening?’ asked Lady Hardcastle. ‘Just in case I’ve made any progress.’
‘Of course. Around seven?’
‘Splendid. I’ll try to have something useful by then. But in the meantime, would you like a little jam on that?’
While they fussed about with their scones, I took the foolscap sheet and looked carefully at the blocks of letters:
xgcdi vpask qdkqd hnczc zqmvp ichvk ephrq xxcrs jimmb zcwpq
lhvkl wknzm ymwht itlnm batag swlld dswxs qmjif zcshb ffbhl
icpdd mjiom zcqqr tzcgs fnntv hephr vsema nwolv cspee gntcr
omqrb szllx tedbm nbiew xnccz czqmx smjdg mvvdv gsflf dbmei
rxwys iudip cmzcg wpmme zsxbg dzidb neblt amnbi mwnjt edbxd
ivtjd firhw qjqrr wmzax zzxzj sfbsg mgzzq txxtw mhvsf zbhbc
ttdzz rplne irtvr hlmzc rvmfz naqqf pzxat enslz qplvc ggtzk
qhacl unmox smfqm eeimc blpon nlmwm zqvio wezbx puosa fjzhb
peylo neicn tkuiy bnrcf gmqsb lpkzt aitvv gqgsg ntiro vnvqw
zxzra mzvzs mpjjd kqigm hecpw ghmbi yldcb spfon aieph rovfj
axksc ztobm zvhmu cymvr xeamq bwpfu mqmgp vskgx swtfp mdbtl
jpplt owrlk qhumy ikots ebgda igmmz tqpvz qmtwi mmqrr bnrbi
ltzrp maudm bsqkg htilv fntht vsdvh plzrx ejudm bjzzl hvmyo
dpcma udmbz tbzkb sepzs ksfvs qgwaz nrxic qsxqh zvsgi zpbgd
nywtr swvjg dsiro qedmp xgshu itaqt vrtvf rpscb rnqql gmnbj
tvcnc xpddq gxsqm fjiqw qdqxd bnnte emokm edmlx lecth moasi
sddic pzrpe axdmm hewld qfpox ncxzj qhvke pdlbs ucrsq gpbzj
mxsqr hvjzz lzbmz vsnbl pxnkq gpbgq wyrps ztotv fswht afqcr
etdcm qatnx midim ccrom qkqrr azmlf janlm enbrn ntpbs xjyco
kzzcq wqvpm nphli cjmsg izpbn eigpb gdksy adpci ykdrq llddk
mecvd cuynp numve pdoiw eedds wmcss piqqm dliei hkall dddty
omclm xsmrd ivpkz tbmzc rlmrm csvpe eqcns rzehr blta: mzbll
vhdtq zzdeq iwlhr qrnpz qoilv chagz vsqwp wqmfb lpxkn bsdez
klgci mdiro zdcdi caghv owmxz ziazn uqhtv fspix wmdgr pmcdl
xzntm lxsms gmjer zlmwd bzmaf cqcfm mdbzj qrrkz qmsqb zbbmn
azmla ttkrc tatxd fxcil dvedv ddlio gntzt ltadi xeqdb pewtd
moicq rhvzz tudlw zudgw atbgh vodpd vqpwk ztaid wldas cbnel
mdbqz kxtwm spirw kcalt xldvx lzqhd idisz dsyun tblow bjasy
bgdte dbczg sqnda zylzx heedv dumvl jkdbs paszj ptagd fenbk
xpshb gdgtw immmh ewrsm ewbgd tszba tbmvm osksx qmfig cwrrb
lpenq lwhqs bpmww udgsf ehspe wtsgi xtilz vhhqk kzixi hmiph
ixrgs fzbgz mdbhz vxxxx
Lady Hardcastle might know the trick of it, but for now I was as stumped as Miss Caudle.
Dinah Caudle wafted out with the same nonchalance as she had wafted in. Lady Hardcastle retired to her study, only communicating briefly at one o’clock to request sandwiches, and at four to ask for tea and cake. I dealt with both requests myself and she was distracted. Polite and friendly, to be sure, but her mind was most definitely elsewhere. As was mine. There seemed to be a lot riding on this encrypted note. For all we knew, it might have been nothing more significant than Brookfield’s shopping list, but neither of us thought so. He had taken so much trouble to conceal its contents with a special cipher that it must be extremely important.
By six o’clock, Edna and Miss Jones had gone home. They left me with only last-minute things to do to prepare the evening meal, which I’d planned for eight, to allow plenty of time for Miss Caudle’s call at seven. There was no one to talk to now.
The clock ticked. I tried to settle in the sitting room to read a book. I read the same paragraph five times and didn’t understand a word. I stood. I went through to the drawing room to examine the crime board. I sat at the piano and picked out a tune, wishing I’d been more diligent with my practice. I wondered where my banjo was. Perhaps if I . . .
The telephone rang.
‘Hello? Chipping Bevington two-three,’ I said.
‘Miss Armstrong? It’s Dinah Caudle. Is there news from the team’s resident clever clogs?’
‘I was hoping it might be you,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why but I’ve been on tenterhooks all day while she’s been working on that code and I was looking forward to having someone to talk to about it.’
‘So, no, then.’
‘Not yet, sorry.’
‘No, please don’t apologize. To tell the truth I’ve been as anxious as you. I can’t help feeling that there’s something exciting in that coded note.’
‘Is there anything more after that?’ I asked.
‘No, that’s where it ends. I’ve been wondering if whatever’s in that last note is what got him killed. Unless it’s his shopping list.’
‘I was worried it might be that, too.’
She laughed. ‘I’m not certain it’s worth going to that much effort to conceal one’s fondness for tinned sardines,’ she said.
‘I don’t know. People can be very judgemental over tinned sardines.’
Lady Hardcastle emerged from the study, looking a little the worse for wear but grinning broadly. ‘Is that Dinah Caudle?’ she mouthed.
I nodded, and then said into the telephone, ‘She’s just come out of her study. She seems pleased with herself.’
‘Put her on, would you?’ said Miss Caudle. ‘I’m dying to hear this.’
I offered Lady Hardcastle the earpiece. She took it in one hand while holding a sheaf of papers in the other.
‘Hello, Miss Caudle,’ she said. ‘How are you, dear? . . . How’s your new story coming along? . . . Yes, Flo always says that . . . Not in those exact words, no. She says I’m “Absolutely infuriating” . . . Well, quite . . . Yes, of course, hold on.’ Still grinning, she offered me the earpiece. ‘She wants another quick word with you, dear.’
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Slap her in the face for me, would you?’ said Miss Caudle.
‘You’re playing right into her hands,’ I said. ‘She does this all the time, and the more frustrated you get with her, the more she grins and drags it out. She’s bursting to tell us what she’s discovered, but we just have to let her have her bit of fun first.’
Miss Caudle let out a load grunt of frustration and then said, ‘All right, then, put her back on.’
‘She asked me to slap you in the face, my lady,’ I said as I handed the telephone earpiece back to her. ‘You need to stop teasing her or I might accede to her request.’
‘Spoilsports,’ said Lady Hardcastle, the grin still very much plastered across her face. ‘Very well. I made the right guess – it is a Vigenère cipher and I have deciphered it. It took me a while to work out the key – I used Babbage’s method, of course. Or is it that German chap? Anyway, I worked it out the hard way, but any of us could have guessed the key. He probably chose it especially so that we could. It was LIZZIE. His true love’s name. Isn’t that sweet? I was kicking myself by the time I worked it out the long way. I should have just—’
My threatening glare cut her short.
‘Ah, yes,’ she said. ‘The note. One moment. Hold this, dear.’ She gave me the papers and flipped open the lorgnette that she wore round her neck. She held the reading glasses up to her eyes and said, ‘Keep it steady, I can’t quite . . . Ah, there we are. I had to spend quite a while fathoming out the punctuation, but I think I have it. It says, “My dearest Lizzie. If you are reading this, it must be because I’m in gaol or in exile. I don’t wish to have to think about it, but I may even be dead. I’m glad you found this notebook and that you understood my last note to you. ‘You are the key.’ I knew you’d get it. As you have already seen from the rest of this notebook, last year I began working on a story about the corruption in our city. I learned of an insidious web of bribery, blackmail, and hypocrisy among the great and the good. I learned of attempts by rich and powerful men to subvert the cause in which you – and now I – so passionately believe. I fully intended to expose this grubby corruption in my newspaper column. Recently, though, I stumbled upon a criminal plot. These venal men are planning to steal a shipment of Chilean gold intended as payment for mining equipment vital to that country’s prosperity. I don’t have the full story yet and I feel my time is running short so I may not find out everything before it’s too la
te. Please, my darling, whatever has happened to me, I beg you to bring them to justice. Take this information to the police. Through talking to disgruntled employees and underlings, and by some acts of petty burglary for which I may yet have to face the consequences, I have learned much over the past weeks, but the fine details have eluded me. These are cautious men. But what I do know is this: Nathaniel Morefield is in charge and is controlling the plot. Oswald Crane and Redvers Hinkley are providing the money needed to fund the theft. James Stansbridge is taking care of tactics and will supply extra men as needed. Your pal Beattie Challenger is involved, somehow. I think she will cause some sort of distraction. The gold shipment arrives at Avonmouth docks on the last day of February. I was never able to establish exactly how they planned to steal the loot but I kept coming across the word ‘switch’. I love you with all that I am, and will remain always, your Christian.” It must have taken him an absolute age to encrypt it, but it was obviously very important to him to write to his sweetheart one last time.’ She held the telephone earpiece so that we could both hear.
‘That’s oddly touching,’ said Miss Caudle. ‘And at the same time oddly disappointing. He knew so much, but without those final details it’s really of very little use. What on earth are we going to do with all that?’
‘We’re going to take up where he left off and find out exactly what’s going on, that’s what we’re going to do,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’ll call Georgie Bickle to arrange things, but unless you hear differently, we’ll meet at her house tomorrow morning at nine to plan our next steps.’
We said our goodbyes and hung up.
‘We need to call the inspector, as well,’ she said. ‘He’s already looking into rumours about the possibility of a gold robbery, so he needs to be with us tomorrow morning, objections from his superiors or not. Oh!’
‘Oh?’
‘He suspected this all along. Do you remember? At the coffee shop. He nearly spilled his coffee when he put it all together, but he was afraid to say anything in case we thought him stupid. I shall be able to tell him he was right all along. I think I’ll call him first.’