H and X therefore stood for e and a, but which one for which one? Did H = a and X = e, or vice versa?
He looked back through the text again.
Only two English words consisted of a single letter: a and I.
There were four single-letter words in the text, all of them a simple H.
Whereas texts without the first person singular were common, those without the indefinite article were rather rare.
So Herbert surmised that H stood for a, and therefore X for e.
Since the word MGX appeared seventeen times, and Herbert knew the identity of the first and third letters, he figured that this combination must stand for the word “the,” which therefore meant that he could swap an h for the G.
With these four in mind, he amended the text to reflect what he knew.
He placed in lower case the four letters he had already deciphered, while the ones he had yet to work out remained in capitals; for obviously, though he knew that X, M, and H stood for e, t, and a, he did not yet know what E, T, and A stood for.
The text now read:
the Q-KhaDel DatteJZ TK ITAAJaLtTBZaWWR LhaJaLteJTKtTL BA a heWTLaW KtJNLtNJe. the ITaYBZI KtJNLtNJe KeJOeK tPB ANZLtTBZK. ATJKt, Tt TZITLateK that the DatteJZ JeDeatK aEBOe aZI EeWBP the LeZtJaW Q-KhaDe, KTCZaWTZC the LBZtTZNatTBZ BA the heWTQ. KeLBZI, Tt aJTKeK AJBY a JeCNWaJ KeJTeK, aWBZC the YBWeLNWaJ aQTK, BA the KNCaJ DhBKDhate CJBNDK that ABJY the YBWeLNWe’K EaLVEBZe. the KRYYetJTLaW DatteJZK BA the hBJTSBZtaW KYeaJK BZ the aJYK aZIWeCK BA the “Q” IeYBZKtJate that the heWTQ YaVeK a tPTKt at JeCNWaJ TZteJOaWK. the ABNJth WaReJ-WTZe BZ eaLh WTYE TK YTKKTZC; thTK YaR hTZt at a IBNEWe heWTQ, PTth the YTKKTZCWaReJ-WTZe JeDJeKeZtTZC the DBTZt at PhTLh the tPB KtJaZIK LJBKK eaLh BtheJ.
Herbert looked through the text again, and his eye fell on the word YBWeLNWe’K.
An apostrophe tended to precede only two letters—t, as in “wouldn’t,” and s, as in “someone’s.”
But he already had t accounted for. He knew, too, that s appeared at the end of many words, mainly third person verbs and plural nouns.
When he searched the text for the letter K, he found it on the end of nineteen words, which was proof enough for him.
This in turn gave him several instances of the words Tt and Ts, which would be either “it” and “is” or “at” and “as;” but he already had his a, so T became i.
By now he had a word aJises, so J became r—there was no other alternative. This in turn left him with a Bther, and B became o.
He remembered something from the cryptographic exercises Five had set them; that there came a time when deductive progress stopped being linear and began to become exponential, a point where the decipherer felt solid ground beneath his feet, as it were, when one clue led so rapidly to another and another and another that they appeared faster than they could be followed up.
It was like the initiation of a chain reaction in atomic physics; once the critical threshold was passed, the reaction propagated itself.
Herbert had been at it for more than two hours now, and by rights he should have been exhausted, for, without human or mechanical assistance, it was a mentally wearing process; but the sight of the finish line infused him with a zeal that felt for a moment superhuman.
He knew already that he wanted to be worthy of Hannah. In a strange way, he realized, he wanted to be worthy of Stensness, too.
He looked again at the paper.
the Q-shaDel DatterZ is IiAAraLtioZaWWR LharaLteristiL oA a heWiLaW strNLtNre. the IiaYoZI strNLtNre serOes tPo ANZLtioZs. Airst, it IZIiLates that the DatterZ reDeats aEoOe aZI EeWoP the LeZtraW Q-shaDe, siCZaWIZC the LoZtiZNatioZ oA the heWiQ. SeLoZI, it arises AroY a reCNWar series, aWoZC the YoWeLNWar aQis, oA the sNCar DhosDhate CroNDs that AorY the YoWeLNWe’s EaLVEoZe. the sRYYetriLaW DatterZs oA the horiSoZtaW sYears oZ the arYs aZIWeCs oA the “Q” IeYoZstrate that the heWiQ YaVes a tPist at reCNWar iZterOaWs. the AoNrth WaRer-WiZe oZ eaLh WiYE is YissiZC; this YaR hiZt at a IoNEWe heWiQ, Pith the YissiZCWaRer-WiZe reDreseZtiZC the DoiZt at PhiLh the tPo straZIs Lross eaLh other.
Pieces were coming thick and fast now, clambering on top of one another in their haste to be discovered, and Herbert no longer cared about progressing in the most efficient way, for there were so many paths he could take.
Lross gave him his c. SecoZI and aZI coughed up n and d. From centraW came l; diaYond was clear even to a moron, as were, in rapid succession, Dattern, strNctNre, siCnallinC, douEle, interOals, aQis, Aourth, sRmmetrical, Phich, bacVbone, and finally, joyfully, horiSontal.
He wrote the whole text out again, with capitals in the right places, and sighed in a mixture of satisfaction, amusement and resignation; because, though it plainly made sense, it would be meaningful only to someone far more scientifically versed than Herbert was.
The X-shaped pattern is diffractionally characteristic of a helical structure. The diamond structure serves two functions. First, it indicates that the pattern repeats above and below the central X-shape, signaling the continuation of the helix. Second, it arises from a regular series, along the molecular axis, of the sugar phosphate groups that form the molecule’s backbone. The symmetrical patterns of the horizontal smears on the arms and legs of the “X” demonstrate that the helix makes a twist at regular intervals. The fourth layer-line on each limb is missing; this may hint at a double helix, with the missing layer-line representing the point at which the two strands cross each other.
He went through it several times, unable to shake the sensation that, the more he read it, the less he understood.
Then he took the viewer and looked at the first microdot again.
It was clear that the text referred to the image. Stensness had mentioned an X-shaped pattern, a diamond structure and horizontal smears, all of which were visible even to a duffer layman like Herbert.
He looked at his two sets of alphabets; the cipher one in order from A to Z, and their clear text counterparts, necessarily jumbled.
He took a new piece of paper and reversed the process, writing the original alphabet out in order, and then matching it to its cipher. This way, he could see the code Stensness had used.
It came out like this:
So H E L I X A C G T was the key.
H E L I X was “helix,” the proposed structure of whatever the X-shaped object represented, that was obvious enough.
As for A C G T, Herbert thought, with some aptness, that he hadn’t the foggiest.
He had been so engrossed in the decryption that he had been oblivious to everything else, even Hannah’s presence.
He looked over at her with a quick flush of anxiety, wondering if she would think him impossibly rude.
He need not have worried. She was asleep on the sofa, the Braille book lolling open on her lap.
Slumber had made her serene, softening the spiky edges of her feral energy. He could have watched her like that for hours, but when she woke up Herbert knew she would have been angry that he had not immediately shared his discovery with her.
So he nudged her shoulder, stroked her hair with trembling hands while she slowly kicked her way up from under the surface of sleep, and told her what he had found.
He described the image to her, read her the text, pointed out where one fit the other, and explained the key Stensness had used.
She had no better ideas than he did, which made him feel that perhaps he was not being that stupid after all.
“Your cane,” Herbert said to Hannah. “Is it solid?”
“No. Is hollow.”
“And is there a top to it, or something?”
“Yes. The end come off.”
He took the Coronation article, rolled it tight, took Hannah’s cane, unscrewed the top, wedged the article inside the tube, replaced the top, and returned the cane to Hannah. It was a token gesture, no more, but he felt safer that way. If this thing was sufficiently valuable for men to have killed each other, then it was sufficiently valuable to merit a hiding place, no matter how inadequate.
It could be argued, of course, tha
t he was putting Hannah in potential danger, but Herbert knew her well enough by now to know that she would never have entertained such a notion.
And nor did she; she simply nodded and said, “Good thinking.”
The tube again, where there would usually have been a smattering of people in their Sunday best, on their way to or from church, but the fog was clearly keeping almost everyone at home.
One couple who had braved the conditions were in the same carriage as Herbert and Hannah, and the woman of the pair was not impressed.
“Did you count how many people there were there today, Jerry?” she said. “I’ll tell you. Twenty-six. Twenty-six! They usually get a thousand, you know. It’ll have played havoc with the collection, that’s for sure.”
Herbert had rung Tyce before leaving Hannah’s flat, to let him know where he was going. There was still no word about de Vere Green.
Hannah and Herbert disembarked at Gloucester Road, where Sherlock Holmes had once wandered the tracks in search of the Bruce-Partington plans, and found their way slowly and cautiously to Drayton Gardens; more specifically, to Donovan Court, where Rosalind Franklin lived.
She had given Herbert her address on the Friday morning, several lifetimes before, when he had first told her about Stensness. If he needed more information, she had said, all he had to do was ask.
He needed more information now, that was for sure.
Drayton Gardens was a not unpleasant tree-lined street, and Donovan Court was a not unpleasant thirties block on the east side. Not that Herbert could see much of either, of course. He rang the bell to number 22.
It would be just his luck if Franklin was not in, he thought.
Yes, there were others who could explain what all the palaver with helices and diamond structures was about, but something atavistic in Herbert had warmed to the outsider in Rosalind, and it was her with whom he wanted to speak.
Minutes passed. The fog eased tendrils of clammy cold around them.
Herbert stamped his feet and muttered billowing plumes of nonsense, before stabbing at the bell again in irritated, disbelieving desperation; and suddenly the block’s main door opened, and there she was.
“Inspector Smith,” she said. “Have you found the killer?”
“Yes. I mean, I think so.”
Hannah raised a sardonic eyebrow, and Herbert remembered; actually, he hadn’t.
He had found various layers of truth about de Vere Green, and Papworth, and Kazantsev, but he had yet to prove conclusively which one had killed Stensness.
“Excellent. Come in, come in. You must be freezing.”
Rosalind ushered them through the door, appraised Hannah quickly up and down, and introduced herself to her. Rosalind did not offer Hannah any more help than that, Herbert noticed—indeed, she had not batted an eyelid at anything to do with Hannah’s blindness—and he thought with quick unease of his own gaucheness when he had first met Hannah, and the ways in which he had attempted to aid her progress.
Rosalind Franklin clearly understood an awful lot about pride, Herbert thought.
Rosalind led them up the stairs; she did not seem the kind of person to have taken a lift, whether there was one available or not.
Herbert wondered briefly who this reminded him of, and realized that it was Hannah herself.
Number 22 was a four-room flat, and it was clear that Rosalind lived alone. The décor and possessions were too consistent in theme and appearance to have belonged to more than one person, though the effect did not feel contrived. The flat, while neat, was not obsessively so.
Rosalind went into the kitchen and came back with tea for three; a peculiarly British reaction, Herbert thought. There were few ills in the British world that could not at least be alleviated by a good old cuppa.
“Well,” Rosalind said, when she had poured, “what can I do for you?”
Herbert told her briefly of what he had found at her laboratory earlier.
Then he took Hannah’s cane, unscrewed the top, tipped the contents into his hand, and laid them out on the table in front of Rosalind, explaining what was what, where the microdots were, how she could see them, and what he had deciphered.
He had thought that Rosalind would start with the decipher, but she went instead for the microdot viewer, and he saw the scientist’s logic: begin at the beginning.
It took her a moment to get comfortable with the viewer and find the right place on the map. She homed in on the first dot and looked at it for no more than half a second before speaking.
“Goodness me,” she said. “That’s DNA.”
“What’s DNA?” Herbert asked.
Rosalind lowered the viewer, looked squarely at Herbert, and allowed herself a single moment of melodrama.
“DNA, Mr. Smith, is the meaning of life.”
* * *
Rosalind explained, in concise but comprehensive terms.
The quest for the structure of DNA—deoxyribonucleic acid—was the Holy Grail of genetics, and therefore of all contemporary science. Whereas lightning, plague, famine, or even the atomic bomb affected some people some of the time, heredity was something that affected all people all of the time.
It was mankind’s destiny; intimate, inborn, inescapable, but thus far inexplicable.
DNA held the very key to the nature of living things. There were ten trillion cells in the human body, and DNA was in the nucleus of every single one.
It orchestrated the incredibly complex world of the cell, and stored hereditary information which was passed from one generation to the next.
DNA distinguished man from all other species on the planet; it was what made man the creative, conscious, dominant, and destructive creature that he was.
In short, DNA was the human instruction book, previously known only to God himself. It was the Rosetta stone of life.
The problem, however, was this.
Even though the molecule had been discovered two-thirds of the way through the last century, when it had been isolated from pus in the bandages of wounded soldiers, still no one knew for sure what its structure was.
And without the structure, everything else was irrelevant, for the structure held within itself the methods of reproduction and organization.
It would be like trying to drive from London to Edinburgh without the slightest idea of which direction one should be heading in, let alone anything as precise as a map; no guide whatsoever beyond the knowledge that there was a place called Edinburgh.
DNA was the secret of life, four billion years old and being unpicked every day.
It was already known that the DNA molecule consisted of multiple copies of a single basic unit, the nucleotide, which came in four forms: adenine, guanine, cytosine, and thymine.
Adenine and guanine were purines, bicyclic compounds.
Cytosine and thymine were pyrimidines, hetero-cyclic compounds.
Adenine and thymine were found in identical quantities within DNA, as were guanine and cytosine.
That was, in essence, all that was beyond doubt.
The rest was guesswork, and there was a lot of that around, because of all the people trying to find the structure.
Pauling was the most famous of them, and the topic was to have formed his keynote speech at the conference, before he had been taken ill and forced to cancel.
“A Proposed Structure for the Nucleic Acids,” it had been titled, and would have been Pauling’s public shot at immortality, the greatest chemist in the world taking on the most golden of all molecules.
Pauling and his colleagues at Caltech aside, the hunt was centered around two other institutions: Rosalind’s own King’s College, and Cambridge University.
Herbert saw the pattern at once.
King’s was a notorious communist hotspot, even more so than Cambridge, where de Vere Green went on a regular basis, and which had supplied the bulk of Britain’s spies for a generation.
A neater correlation of institution and intelligence service—the MGB at King’s,
Five at Cambridge, and the CIA at Caltech—would have been hard to imagine.
De Vere Green, Kazantsev, and Papworth; they must all have known exactly what Stensness had been offering. Perhaps Stensness’ boast of something that would change the world had been a sort of password as well as a promise.
But by God, he had been right. This thing would change the world, in every way and forever.
“Is it a race?” Herbert asked.
“It’s valuable,” Rosalind replied. “But racing’s vulgar.”
“Only if you lose,” Hannah said.
Rosalind smiled to concede the point. “Most scientists spend their careers contributing to the long, slow accumulation of dates and ideas,” she said. “To be involved in a dramatic victory is a rare privilege.”
But it was a race; Herbert could see that full well. The structure of DNA remained unknown, Everest was yet to be climbed, the four-minute mile was yet to be run, the moon was yet to be walked on. History would remember only those who were first. Scientists who had theories named after them—Darwin, Newton, Einstein—were not just geniuses; they were pioneers.
If Beethoven had not written his Ninth Symphony, no one else would have done so. But if Pauling did not discover the structure of DNA, then someone else would, and sooner rather than later.
Herbert remembered the Einstein quote above Rosalind’s desk, and thought that she had no idea of the magnitude of what she was working on—politically, that was, not scientifically. No matter her brilliance as a scientist, it simply would not have occurred to her that governments would kill for the secret.
For Rosalind and her ilk, knowledge was key, its application to be aimed at the greater good, irrespective of nation or creed. Science was science, they believed; it was no one’s property.
The world would be a better place with more Rosalind Franklins, Herbert thought.
He handed Rosalind his transcription of the deciphered code, and she read it with annoyance. “Unsound … premature … conjecture … wrong,” she said, half to herself, and then looked up. “This is what Max was killed for?” she said.
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