The Queen's Cipher

by David Taylor

  Before she could exercise this right, Freddie’s remaining admirer rose from the floor and cuddled up to him on the bed. Her appeal was obvious: long legs, faded low-slung jeans, scoop necked blouse, shoulder length copper hair and a golden piercing in the left nostril to convey attitude. What’s more, this man-eater seemed to be on familiar terms with him.

  “Fuck intelligence,” she said emphatically, stroking his stupefied cheek with the palm of her hand. “If you really want to learn something, you should have a tutorial with Dr Brett here. He can bring Shakespeare to life. Can’t you, Freddie?”

  Apart from a twitching muscle in his trouser leg the object of her attention hardly seemed to notice what she was saying. As an appalled onlooker, Sam could see his bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils. When he spoke his words were hesitant and slurred.

  “My charms are all o’erthrown, and what strength I have …” His voice faded away. Prospero had left the building, sailing off to a land of chemical dreams.

  “You’re stoned, you are,” the girl said in a throaty whisper, rubbing her coppery tresses against his shoulder, “and here’s me wanting to tell you about my big day out.”

  She did so anyway, supplying an eye witness account of what went on in the National Stud’s covering shed during the breeding season. “So I’m taking a butcher’s when the mares arrive and most of them have what are called ‘foals at foot.’ That means they can’t be separated from their offspring during the sex act. Apparently, it’s in the foal’s best interest to watch mummy being boffed by a stallion. If this happened to us we’d call it child abuse. Guess how long a mare gets with her hunk in hooves? I’ll tell you. It’s all over inside a minute. Far too quick, I’d say.”

  Like a snake, the girl was coiling herself around Freddie without any noticeable resistance on his part. He seemed intent on studying her pale face and pre-Raphaelite hair as if he was John Everett Millais and she his model.

  Sam had seen enough. “So this is what you get up to, Freddie? Well, don’t let me interrupt you,” she shouted at him.

  The redhead gave her a cheeky grin. “What’s your problem then?”

  “My problem, as you so eloquently put it, is that you are pawing my boyfriend.”

  “Sorry, I’m sure. I didn’t know he was yours. Hoy Freddie, do you belong to this woman here?” She spoke like a London market trader.

  Freddie seemed incapable of speech while the girl’s companions sniggered unpleasantly.

  Sam wasn’t going to let this Cockney sparrow get the better of her. “Listen cutie pie,” she said in voice as sweet as acid. “You’re out of your league here. Why don’t you scuttle off like a good little girl?”

  “No, you fuck off Yank, back to wherever you came from.”

  “What a delightful use of the English language. You really are something. I’m already visualizing the duct tape over your mouth.”

  “And who’s going to put it there. Not a madam like you.”

  “You arrogant stick insect, I’ve half a mind to …”

  By now, Freddie was showing signs of life, flapping his arms around like a boxing referee, but the damage was done. Sam felt humiliated and banged the bedroom door behind her in a blind fury. The sound of laughter reached her ears as she rushed downstairs and stormed out of the house.

  Out in the cold night air, walking along a wet pavement towards the city centre, Sam quickly regretted having flounced off in such a dramatic manner. Yes, the young slut had been coming on to Freddie and no, he hadn’t objected, but what had she expected? He was as high as a kite and easily led. As for the girl, she had a sexy body as well as a foul mouth.

  A taxi pulled up alongside her and the pliable man opened the door. Sam clambered in without a word. It was warmer and safer inside the vehicle. Freddie did all the apologizing: he hadn’t meant to desert her. He hadn’t known what he was doing. To deal with his deep-seated depression, his doctor had him on benzodiazepine but it didn’t go well with booze. He wouldn’t do that again. And she was inclined to believe him – up to a point at least – and had raised no objection when the taxi dropped them at the end of High Street to greet the dawning May Day with Magdalen’s choristers.

  That was a couple of hours ago. Now she was wet and tired.

  “Let’s go home, darling.” Freddie had read her thoughts.

  Back at the flat his hands gently undressed her as he talked about the unconditional state of the heart. No ‘ifs’ or ‘buts.’ And no clothes either. Soon she was lying on the bed, her legs apart, writhing in pleasure. Then the bell rang and kept on ringing. Her partner reluctantly put on his dressing gown and went to the door. She heard voices in the hall and the sound of the kitchen door closing.

  Something wasn’t right. She could sense that. Slipping on a short, terry-cloth bathrobe and a pair of flip-flops, she rushed to join him. Freddie and a dark-haired man were sitting at the kitchen table. Their morning caller was a tall, slightly rumpled version of Paul McCartney in a belted black raincoat who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Chris Owen of the Counter Terrorism Command.

  “Sorry to disturb you, miss.” She struggled to make out what he was saying. The detective spoke with a nasal accent and strangled his vowels.

  “There are questions I need to ask. That’s if you don’t mind, sir.” The inspector was looking at her legs as she stood protectively behind Freddie’s chair.

  “Fire away,” he said casually.

  “I’m investigating the death of Professor Cartwright. I believe you knew him.”

  “Yes, that’s correct.” She could feel her heart thudding. “He was once my tutor.”

  “That’s right, sir, and you fell out, didn’t you. Rather badly I would say.”

  “Yes, that’s a matter of public record. What’s your point?”

  “His car exploded not far from here.”

  “I think everyone knows that,” Freddie snapped.

  DI Owen nodded affably. “Just so, but for the record, where were you when the bomb went off.”

  “He was in bed with me, inspector.” Sam intervened. “I’m his alibi. We were staying in Stratford and you can check that out with the hotel if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary, miss – not for now anyway.”

  The inspector produced a pocketbook and made a note. He seemed in no hurry.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea?” she asked.

  “That would be nice, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  Sam put the kettle on and dropped Earl Grey tea bags into a pot.

  “What is the Counter Terrorism Command?” Freddie was eager to make conversation. “Is it like Special Branch?”

  “That’s right, sir. SO15 took over from Special Branch a few years ago. Our chief role is to protect London from the threat of terrorism but in order to deliver our operational objectives going forward we also support terrorist investigations outside the capital.”

  DI Owen was obviously up on the latest police jargon and he had the presence to go with it. He was like an American television cop, she thought, compulsive viewing.

  “Professor Cartwright was killed by a remote controlled car bomb. Perhaps you read about it in the papers.”

  “No, I can’t say I did.”

  Sam took a tentative sip of tea and her stomach heaved. Owen was obviously leading up to something.

  “Do you know anything about bomb-making,” he asked.

  “Really, inspector, what kind of question is that.”

  “A relevant one, sir, and I’d be made up if you answered it.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase, what are you accusing me of?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything, sir. But it’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? Professor Cartwright claims to have new evidence about your role in a plagiarism scandal and he gets blown up. This must give us pause.” DI Owen raised an eyebrow.

  Sam’s blood ran cold. The inspector had segued from management speak into Hamlet’s famous soliloquy for a purpose. What
he was really saying was, whoa there, you limp-wristed academic, you’re a murder suspect and don’t forget it.

  Time to end this, she thought. “Look inspector, if you’ve no further questions, we’d like to get back to bed.”

  The detective hadn’t quite finished. “Just one more thing, sir, I’m looking at that kitchen shelf over there and wondering why you possess a book called Buda’s Wagon: A Brief History of the Car Bomb? A strange choice of bedtime reading, wouldn’t you say?”

  She could see Freddie’s distress. “You may not know this, inspector, but my parents were blown up by an IRA bomb in Northern Ireland. I wanted to understand what had happened. Davis’s book traces vehicle bombing back to a horse and cart that detonated on Wall Street in 1920. Since then it’s been like an implacable virus, a cheap way of fighting a guerrilla war with ever-increasing amounts of collateral damage. Davis calls the 9/11 planes car bombs with wings.”

  “And did knowing all of this help in any way?” Owen seemed genuinely interested.

  “No, I can’t say it did. Reducing decent law-abiding citizens to dust doesn’t further anyone’s cause. But terrorists don’t think like that, do they. They’re so righteous about what they are doing. Deep down, I think they enjoy inflicting pain and misery.”

  DI Owen closed his notebook and rose to leave. “My commiserations on your loss, sir, I’ll trouble you no further. Thanks for the tea, miss. I can see myself out.”

  2 MAY 2014

  Another ball ballooned over the baseline. They were playing tennis on one of Oxford’s public hard courts and, even with a borrowed racket, Sam was better than he was. She had a fierce topspin forehand and a sliced backhand that hit the lines and died on him. Most of the rallies were conducted from the back of the court where Sam’s speed of movement and ability to counter-attack with angled shots frequently embarrassed him. He would have to try something else.

  Freddie watched her tanned legs scurrying sideways as she chased down his tentative volley and hit the ball for another cross-court winner. Stranded at the net he found himself admiring not only the shot but what he could see of her body beneath a very short tennis dress. The sexual distraction was intentional. Sam didn’t believe in half measures. There were no draws in American sport.

  The thought stiffened his sinews. He slammed down an ace and was winding up for another big first serve when a loud electronic ring tone brought play on the surrounding courts to a standstill. Freddie rushed to the bench where he had left his coat. The call was from his solicitor.

  “Hello, Dr Brett,” Jason Cleverley’s well modulated voice carried an urgent note. “Sorry to ring you so early. I don’t know whether you’re aware of this but Professor Dawkins held a press conference yesterday to announce the defamation action he is bringing against you and The Times Literary Supplement. I also hear on the grapevine that the TLS intends to settle out of court which leaves you alone in the ring. Is this something you are prepared for?”

  “If needs be, yes,” Freddie replied without thinking.

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “I wonder whether you realize how costly libel actions can be and how difficult they are to defend. Under the existing laws, the claimant doesn’t have to demonstrate that what was written was false or damaging; the burden of proof rests with the defendant to justify the words he used. That is why so many libel cases are won by the claimant and defendants end up paying eye-watering damages and legal costs.”

  “Are you suggesting I throw in the towel?”

  “I think you should weigh things up carefully before proceeding.”

  Freddie didn’t like what he is hearing. His lawyer’s negativity was alarming.

  “What do you advise then?” he asked.

  “You could make an Offer of Amends. It’s not exactly a get-out-of-jail-free card for you must agree to apologize and to pay the claimant damages and costs but such a settlement will be markedly less than the six figure sum you might otherwise incur.”

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

  Freddie held on for several seconds before realizing the lawyer had hung up.

  “Are we playing tennis or what?” Sam was frowning at him across the net.

  “Of course, we are,” he replied, bending to pick up a discarded tennis ball. He waited until the game was over before telling her about his call.

  “What a disgrace,” she said. “Your English libel laws seem to have been drafted for the benefit of rich bullies. How much can you afford to lose?”

  “About twenty thousand pounds, I suppose.”

  “Not much of a fighting fund, is it? You’re between a rock and a hard place, sweetheart.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know!”

  The tennis players on the next court stopped their game. They must have heard the desperation in his voice. He couldn’t afford to litigate or to back down. A public apology would further damage his already fragile reputation.

  As soon as they got back to the flat she pulled him into bed. Things will be all right, she kept on saying as she climaxed. Lying back on the pillows afterwards, he wanted to share his partner’s optimism but, try as he might, he could see no way out of his predicament.

  Feeling thoroughly depressed, Freddie pulled on his pants and wandered into the kitchen to cook bacon and eggs. Sam appeared moments later, looking summery in a yellow gingham mini dress.

  While they ate he scanned the morning paper and his mood was not improved by news of a memorial service for Professor Cartwright.

  “I guess that’s one event you won’t be invited to, my darling,” Sam said.

  Freddie wiped his hands on a serviette and sighed loudly. There was a question that needed asking. “Don’t you think we should publish something on the Standen decryption and the way Hall and Marston used gematria to out Bacon as Shakespeare’s co-writer? I think History Today might take it. ”

  Sam lowered her eyes and ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip.

  He waited for her to speak. The silence lengthened.

  “We’ve got to go public sooner or later,” he added lamely.

  “Not yet, we don’t,” she replied. “The evidence we’ve got is circumstantial and heavily dependent on decrypted cipher which is the headless horseman of history. Think how our colleagues will react to that? We can’t afford to go off half cock. Without a smoking gun, they’ll tear us apart. You may be prepared to sacrifice your career but I’m not.”

  His shoulders slumped. Why was she being so negative?

  “I know what you’re thinking. All I’m doing is advising caution. We’ve got to find more evidence of Bacon’s collaboration with Shakespeare before we publish anything. Now, it’s a lovely day, how about taking me punting on the Cherwell. I’m told it’s a romantic way to spend an afternoon.”

  Freddie doubted this. Pushing a boat with a stick was not his idea of fun.

  3 MAY 2014

  Frankie Goes to Hollywood were singing ‘Relax don’t do it’ and with a broad-shouldered Adonis snuggling up to him, Professor Caspar Dawkins certainly wanted to ‘go to it’. The chicken was cruising for sex. You didn’t need gaydar to see that. It was Eighties Night in the Soho disco and the muscle-bound thud of the high energy dance music enhanced the effect Magnum PI was having on him. The sight and smell of the guy released enough endorphins to make his head spin.

  He had spotted him as soon as he slipped down the spiral staircase and made his way through the laser beams to the basement bar. With his thick moustache and Hawaiian shirt he looked very like the young Tom Selleck. Consumed with lust, Caspar watched him buy a cocktail and then saunter down the bar to join him. “Hi,” Magnum had said, establishing lasting eye contact before lowering his sights to study the professor’s crotch. Caspar could hardly believe his luck. Even in what he hoped was cool fancy dress – he was wearing a Top Gun bomber jacket and shades – he hadn’t thought it would be this easy.

  As a rule Caspar avoided gay clubs. A married man with a chair in a stu
ffy redbrick university had to be careful. Tonight, however, he wanted to let his hair down. Suing Brett and The Times Literary Supplement had been a masterstroke. Professor Cleaver had been right about the publicity value. His telephone line hadn’t stopped ringing and he had even been invited to speak at one of the better literary festivals. Things were looking up. And they were about to get a whole lot better.

  “What are you drinking?” he had inquired, pointing to Magnum’s creamy cocktail.

  “Seeing you ask, it’s a Screaming Orgasm. Fancy one darling?” his target lisped.

  That had been several drinks ago. Now, with enough vodka, Tia Maria and Amaretto inside him to float a battleship, Caspar had embarked on a voyage of self-discovery.

  “Don’t give a damn anymore,” he slurred. “Seek pleasure, my motto. Don’t keep up with the Joneses. Drag ’em down to your level, I say.”

  He looked around him, searching for agreement. Behind the bar, wine glasses began to vibrate as Bronski Beat hammered out ‘Smalltown Boy’ while club members in acid washed jeans, denim jackets and mullet wigs stamped away on the dance floor.

  “I was always a lonely boy,” Caspar shouted, picking up on the lyric.

  “No need to feel that now, is there?”

  “You a priest, by any chance?” he asked his new-found friend, sobering up quickly.

  “Why, do you want to make a confession?”

  “Some kind of City figure perhaps. What about a banker?”

  “Not on your life.”

  “My shout, I think.”

  The drinks arrived but such was the crush around the bar that Caspar was knocked to the floor. Someone had kicked his high stool from under him. “You all right,” Magnum asked, helping him to his feet. “Down the hatch and then back to your place I think.”