by David Taylor
“‘Shake-scene’ typified the cut-throat nature of the theatre. This is the first time anyone mentions William Shakespeare and it’s to name and shame him as a plagiarist and an uncaring usurer with his ‘tigers-heart wrapped in a player’s hide’ – a parody of a famous line from Henry VI, Part 3.”
“But how reliable is Greene. You said it yourself; he’s an academic snob who couldn’t stand the idea that a country boy was a better writer than him.”
“I’ve changed my mind. Dying men don’t lie. Imagine Greene, listening to the blood whispering in his veins, tasting its inky blackness and smelling the sweat on his decaying body. The pox is God’s vengeance on him for his debauchery and in Groats-worth he attempts to set the record straight.”
The pamphlet was a best-seller and obviously scandalised the literary world for, three months later, its publisher Henry Chettle felt obliged to issue the most grovelling of apologies. ‘Diverse of worship’ had left him in no doubt that Greene’s criticisms of ‘Shake-scene’ were without foundation. He was neither a plagiarist nor a money-lending miser but a fine upstanding man. Yet if that was true, why had Chettle published the allegations in the first place? More to the point, in an age of rigid class distinctions, why should gentlemen of quality twist the arm of an obscure printer on behalf of an actor-playwright who was only at the beginning of his career?
“So what have we got here?” Sam asked rhetorically. “In 1592, with only the three parts of Henry VI written and performed, William Shakespeare is already a figure of envy on the stage and a usurer to boot. When Greene attacks him in what turns out to be a remarkably well-read pamphlet, powerful gentlemen spring to his defence and force his hapless publisher to disassociate himself from Greene’s comments, which seems to suggest that Shakespeare was a kept man. Come on Sherlock! What does your scientific imagination tell you?”
“Elementary my dear Dilworth,” he replied, plucking a handful of grass out of the lawn and scattering it on her skirt. “First of all, I see Bacon signing up Shakespeare to write political histories for the Essex camp. Then Greene launches his intemperate attack on Shakespeare and Chettle has to apologise for it. Next, Shakespeare dedicates his narrative poems Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece to Essex’s sidekick, the Earl of Southampton, and Hall and Marston stage a satire war in which they ‘out’ Bacon as Shakespeare’s hidden co-writer, only for their works to be burned on the instructions of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Fast forward to 1601 and Shakespeare’s Richard II is played at the Globe shortly before the unsuccessful Essex Rebellion. The judicial inquiry into the players’ guilt does not even call on the actor-author to testify. By then, Francis Bacon has changed sides and is advising the Queen. Although there is no record of the two men even meeting, Bacon always seems to be there when Shakespeare’s reputation needs protecting. He’s the goose that is laying the golden egg.”
She picked the grass off her skirt with great care. “You may be right about that but we can’t be sure, can we? There’s no proof any of these things are connected.”
“Now you are being academic and boring. It goes back to what I said in my TLS review. Our leading scholars refuse to join up the dots because they point to a different Shakespeare to the one they’ve long written about.”
There was a cold breeze and Sam wriggled on the turf. “How are we going to test your theory?” she wanted to know.
“Let’s get back to basics. The Shakespeare mystery exists because there is not a shred of solid evidence connecting the man with his works during his lifetime. We said as much when we first met in Verona. Then Strachan sent me an email in which he claimed that a letter written by an Elizabethan spy contained a key that would unlock the truth. Anthony Standen’s report revealed two different kinds of cipher, a number substitution alphabet and a Hebrew system that gave letters a numerical value. In working for Essex, Standen came under the influence of the Bacon brothers. They had to be aware of his secret codes. That being so, it would seem logical to look for gematria or a number alphabet in Francis Bacon’s published works.”
He pulled a cell phone out of his jacket pocket, unlocked its screen and selected keyboard.
“How about this?” he said moments later, trying to check the tremor in his voice as he handed her his mobile.
The search engine had located an article about a posthumous collection of Bacon’s writings called Baconiana that included a fragmentary Alphabet of Nature which had a numerical four-fold structure.
“Wow!” she said excitedly. “You’ve found it straight away.”
A croquet ball whizzed through the air narrowly missing her head. A grinning undergraduate followed the missile into the bushes, giving her the eye as he did so.
Freddie pretended not to notice. “We’re off,” he said, helping her to her feet. “What we’re looking for will be in the Fowler Collection.”
Oxford’s Philosophy Library was housed in the Radcliffe Humanities building on Woodstock Road and here they were asked to share a reading room table with four earnest bespectacled researchers. A library assistant arrived carrying a small calfskin volume.
Baconiana positively crackled with age as Sam turned its thin, yellowing sheets until, on page 77, she encountered Lord Bacon’s Physiological Remains, a fragment of his Abecedarium Naturae, written in Latin and Greek, starting with the Sixty Seventh Inquisition and ending with the Seventy Eighth.
Inquisitio sexagesima septima. Triplex Tau, sive de Terra.
Inquisitio sexagesima octavo. Triplex Upsilon, sive de Aqua.
Inquisitio sexagesima nona. Triplex Psy, sive de Aere.
Inquisitio septuagesima. Triplex Chy, sive de Igne.
Inquisitio septuagesima prima. Triplex Psi, sive de Coelestibus.
Inquisitio septuagesima secunda. Triplex Omega, sive de Meteoricis.
“It’s four-fold alright,” she whispered in Freddie’s ear, “and the fragment begins with one of Bacon’s special numbers, 67 or ‘Francis.’ Tau is the nineteenth letter in the twenty-four letter Greek alphabet. Therefore, in the alphabet’s third repetition it has a value of 24+24+19 or 67. On top of which, in Masonic symbolism, the Triple Tau stands for Solomon’s temple. It’s the key to knowledge. The most venerated of all secret signs. Of course, I shouldn’t really mention this. I was told in confidence by a high placed Mason who worships in Washington’s House of the Temple where adepts wear emblematic rings that feature either the Triple Tau or the number 33 set in a triangle.”
Freddie couldn’t believe it. Whether by accident or design, the number counts of Bacon’s names had been incorporated into American High Masonry. Was this an indication of some kind of wider conspiracy, one spanning four hundred years and two continents. His hands felt clammy and his heart began to pound. Sam had stopped talking and was studying the remaining inquisitions.
“Holy Moses!” she said under her breath, “These inquisitions stand for Earth, Air, Fire and Water and there’s gematria in every one of them! Each inquisition contains a word with the same number count as a Bacon signature and a couple of these are only achieved by misprinting Greek letters. It’s ‘Phi’ not ‘Psy’ and ‘Chi’ not ‘Chy.’”
He pursed his lips. “Printing wasn’t an exact art in those days. Mistakes were made.”
“Of course they were but ‘Psy’ isn’t remotely like ‘Phi’, is it.”
She opened a pocket notebook and began to turn letters into numbers. “Look at the Sixth-Eighth Inquisition,” she murmured. “‘Upsilon’ has a word score of 100, like Francis Bacon. Check it out.”
U(20)+P(15)+S(18)+I(9)+L(11)+O(14)+N(13)=100
“‘Psy’, the corrupted letter of the Sixty-Ninth Inquisition, has a count of 56 as does ‘Fr Bacon’ while ‘Chy’ adds up to 34 which is his brother’s normal signature, ‘A Bacon.’”
Aren’t you stretching things a bit?”
“Not if this is some kind of secret code. As a spymaster, Anthony Bacon was familiar with all kinds of codes and ciphers.”
Their persistent whispering was annoying the other researchers in the room. Aware of the noise they were making, she scribbled a message in her notebook. ‘The triple ‘Chy’ concerns ‘Igne’ which also has a word score of 34. One confirms the other!’
Turning to the Seventy-First Inquisition she converted ‘Coelestibus’ into a number and did the same for Anthony Bacon’s name.
C(3)+O(14)+E(5)+L(11)+E(5)+S(18)+T(19)+I(9)+B(2)+U(20)+S(18)=124
A(1)+N(13)+T(19)+H(8)+O(14)+N(13)+Y(23)+B(2)+A(1)+C(3)+O(14)+N(13)=124
“And here’s the clincher,” she hissed. “The triple ‘Omega’ has a count of 39 or ‘F Bacon’ and is said to concern ‘Meteoricis.’”
M(12)+E(5)+T(19)+E(5)+O(14)+R(17)+I(9)+C(3)+I(9)+S(18)=111
“Okay, so what?”
There was such a thing, she said, as a reverse cipher in which you counted backwards so that A was 24 and Z 1.
F(19)+B(23)+A(24)+C(22)+O(11)+N(12)=111
“Satisfied?” she queried. “The Seventy-Second Inquisition picks out ‘F Bacon’ by both simple and reverse count and, to cap it all, 72 and 39 add up to 111. It’s mathematically perfect.”
He bowed his head in silent homage. But it wasn’t going to come from the senior librarian who had entered the room with a stern look on her face. Sam noticed the bulging belly, the frizzy hair and the grey roots at the scalp.
“I’m sorry, but if you can’t keep quiet I will have to ask you to leave.”
Freddie gave her a rueful grin. “Heartfelt apologies, Petronella, we’re going anyway.”
The librarian’s pale face lit up. “Oh, it’s you Dr Brett. I didn’t see you come in.”
“Well, we’ll be off before we cause any more trouble, but do give me a ring sometime. I’d love to see your paper on Shakespeare’s will.”
The sun was shining as they left the library. Sam dug him in the ribs. “She was flirting with you, Freddie. Sucking in her stomach and sticking out her lips. You must have noticed.”
He hadn’t. He only had eyes for her. The way her skirt swished around her shapely legs.
“The high placed Mason you talked about wouldn’t be Milton Cleaver by any chance?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed and a vein began to throb in her neck. “What if it was?” she said defensively. “It’s not my fault you hate the man.”
He could feel the anger rising inside of him. “If this Masonic lore is supposed to be a secret what’s he telling you for. I’m wondering how close you are to him.”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous. There’s absolutely no reason for that.”
“No, it’s not envy. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
Of course he was jealous. It was eating away at him like iron corroded by rust. The thought of Cleaver touching her made him feel sick.
“That makes two of us,” she replied, without breaking her stride. “But what I am curious about is the role played by the Abbot of Sponheim.”
Freddie came to a halt. “Who was he?”
“I am talking about Johannes Trithemius, the cryptographic genius who fashioned these secret codes. Since our trip to Sussex I’ve been reading up on him. He was an amazing scholar, Freddie, a real-life Doctor Faustus, who believed in the mystical power of numbers and tried to harmonise magic with Christian dogma. He set the stage for later Christian Cabalists like Dr Dee and Francis Bacon.”
“But where did he get his ideas from?”
“From the Greeks, from the academies of Pythagoras and Plato, and later from St Augustine who thought ‘the science of numbers’ could be used to interpret many passages in the Holy Scriptures.”
“Like the New Testament references to 666 in the Book of Revelation.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, the Number of the Beast, the Anti-Christ, but the Benedictine abbot kept well away from this, for a time at least.”
She explained that Trithemius’s intellectual output was in keeping with conventional religious beliefs until, in a letter to a fellow monk in 1499, he boasted about being able to use spirits to communicate over long distances. He called this secret messaging but, in a superstitious age, almost everyone thought it must be a form of black magic.
A century went by before Trithemius’s three volume book Steganographia was finally published in Frankfurt, alongside a decryption key for the first two volumes which proved that his discourses on spirits and angels and his tables of astrological formulae were no more than a disguise for ingenious cipher systems. Not that the Catholic Church believed this explanation. They outlawed the book.
“Even then, no one could be sure whether Trithemius was writing about magic or cipher and, in the hundred years during which his manuscripts are missing, he is a kind of bogeyman, a scary figure like Torquemada or Vlad the Impaler, and his work is searched for by both Church and State.”
“How did people know enough to be frightened?” Freddie asked.
“Rumour, gossip, word of mouth, what you call storytelling.”
“Well, this time it will be your turn to tell the story. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just a spectral presence on the information superhighway. Talking of high speed travel, how about another trip to Shoreham? We’ve quite a few loose ends to tie up.”
Sam didn’t seem sure. “I’m busy at the start of next week but I suppose I could manage Wednesday, that’s if you’re free then.”
Freddie began to relax. “Yes, I can do that. We’ll drive down.”
“You’ve got a car?” She sounded surprised.
“Of course I’ve got a car. It’s a Mini F56, nippy and manoeuvrable, perfect for London driving and the open road.”
“Okay, that’s settled.” She let out a deep sigh. “My stomach is rumbling. Perhaps we can get something to eat in that pub over there.”
“Better not,” he said, “unless you like dead animal and chips. Look, my flat is just around the corner in Walton Lane. Let me cook you something.”
“Wow, a man who can cook! Women love that in a guy.”
Freddie felt happier than he’d done all day.
HELL’S ANGELS
Snow was still falling in the Nahe valley. The swirling flakes blurred the massive outline of the Sponheim monastery before settling in the cobbled courtyard to form a thick blanket that muffled even the tolling bell on the eight-sided steeple. A loud banging noise in the cloisters announced the late arrival of Brother Ulrich. He had been last in line for the weekly shave and was still trying to get his scapular over his head when he burst into the scriptorium where his fellow monks had gathered to begin their daily labour.
“For shame, Brother,” the abbot scolded in a clear, piping voice. “Have you forgotten the teachings of St Benedict? The works of Christian scholarship will never reach posterity without the skill of the scribe and his accomplices. All will be lost and the emptiness filled by the roaring of the Devil.”
St Martin’s spiritual leader was a small, intense man with a fringe of wild black hair and blue eyes that could bore into a novice’s soul. Johann of Trittenheim knew that the best way to control a body of celibate men was to fill their waking hours with good thoughts and superstitious fears. There was nothing like the threat of Hell’s fire to frighten these simple souls into submission. By claiming that every work of the Lord was a wound inflicted on Satan, he had turned the dull routine of monastic life into a daily battleground with the forces of evil.
The front line in this war was the scriptorium, a dark and airless limestone cell lit only by candles and the odd shaft of sunlight that penetrated its narrow leaded windows, and it was here that the abbot’s workforce assembled every morning to transcribe his handbook of spiritual exercises, De triplici regione claustralium.
The monks formed a production line. One brother cut the pigskin parchment, another polished it, a third ruled lines to guide the scribe whose desk was in a screened off portion of the room. Sitting next to the writer, a fifth monk punctuated the pages before giving them to the abbot for correction. Once satisfied, the abbot handed the
proofs to the artists for pagination and illumination – the opening letter of each chapter was to be painted red and embroidered with a miniature picture. Then the leaves were collated and bound with wooden covers for onward dispatch to an already well-stocked library.
Each of these codices was large and laborious to create and there were those in the monastery who privately wondered why their abbot insisted on such a time-consuming activity when the German printing presses had been turning for the past sixty years. Naturally, in an enclosed order, this grumbling reached Trithemius’s ears and he had responded to their complaints in writing. His tract, De laude scriptorium manualium, In Praise of Scribes, argued that the very act of copying out the scriptures made the anchorite truly aware of the word of God. Yet the truth was of a more prosaic nature. The paper used in printed books wasn’t nearly as long-lasting as the parchment on which the monks wrote and with all the learning of antiquity miraculously restored to mankind, he wasn’t prepared to risk losing it again because of an inadequate manufacturing process.
Elected to office at the tender age of twenty two, Trithemius had inherited a decaying minor cloister in which the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience were no longer observed. The living quarters were dirty and a potential fire risk, the chapel was falling down, servants stole from the larder, and the avaricious monks sold library books to fund a comfortable lifestyle. To everyone’s surprise, the new abbot turned out to be a single-minded reformer who converted St Martin into a centre of learning. Where once there had been only 48 books, now there were almost two thousand religious works and classical texts.