Dark Matter

by Philip Kerr

  “George Macey,” said Newton.

  “The very same. He brought with him a small sample of a code I had never before encountered, and expected me to work a miracle with it. Naturally. They all do. I told him to bring me some more letters and then I would stand a chance of overcoming the difficulty of it. He left the letter with me, but I had no luck, for it was the hardest I ever met with, though as I said, I had not enough material to be assured of any success. And I put it aside. I had not thought of it again until now, but I never heard from Mister Macey again.”

  Upon hearing Wallis mention a letter, I almost saw Newton’s cold heart miss a beat. He sat forward on his chair, chewed the knuckle of his forefinger for a moment, and then asked if he might see the letter Macey had left behind.

  “I am beginning to understand what this is all about,” said Wallis, and fetched the letter from a pile of papers that lay upon the floor. He seemed to know where everything was, although I could see no great evidence of order; and handing my master the letter, he offered him some advice also.

  “If you do attempt this decipherment, then let me know how you fare. But always remember not to rack your mind over-anxiously, for too much brain work with these devices is enervating, so that the mind is fit for nothing afterwards. Also be mindful of what Signor Porta says, that when the subject is known, the interpreter can make a shrewd guess at the common words that concern the matter in hand, and in this way a hundred hours of labour may be saved.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Wallis. You have been most helpful to me.”

  “Then reconsider your decision about your Opticks, sir.”

  Newton nodded. “I will think about it, Doctor,” he said.

  But he did not.

  After this, we took our leave of Doctor Wallis with Newton in possession of the new sample of enciphered material as well as several useful books; so that he was hardly able to contain his excitement, although he was very swiftly angry with himself that he had not thought to bring with him the other enciphered material that was already held by us.

  “Now I shall not be able to work on the problem while we are in that damned coach,” he grumbled.

  “May I see the message?” I asked.

  “But of course,” said Newton, and showed me the letter that Wallis had given to him. I looked at it for a while, but it was no more clear to me now than it had ever been.

  tqbtqeqhhflzkrfugzeqsawnxrxdgxjpoxznpeeqjtgmqlnliug dxvcnfgdmysnroywpdonjbjmpardemgmqdnlnkfpztzkzjm kgjhtnxqwxearowsualquwojfuidgrhjsyzzvccteuqzggfzqce tydcjgessicisemvttajmwgciurgopmdcuydtgafyudnrdivux gvhqtvgeoudkwvahhvxkjusukpwnvwcvedtqnljvhinmszpz blkiabzvrbqtepovxlsrzeenongsppyoujyhwexpnakqlotvsm curzybcstqqxfsxdihhbdlxfbtjymfvtubspvbxgftesuu

  I shook my head. Merely to look at the jumble of letters dispirited me, and I could not see how anyone could enjoy cudgelling his brains with its solution.

  “Perhaps you can read one of these books that Doctor Wallis has lent to you,” I offered, which partly placated him, for he liked nothing better than a longish journey with a good book.

  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 railler
y 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 saidthat 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.

  “Then for the Major’s sake, I shall make a point of proving you wrong, milord.”

  “You haven’t heard the last of this,” said Lucas. “Neither of you has.” And with a loud sneeze and a string of oaths he kicked the door open and marched out of our office.

  Newton yawned and stretched himself like a cat. “I believe I shall take some air,” he said. “Whenever I am in His Lordship’s company I feel like I am a candle burning in Mister Boyle’s bell-jar, which soon goes out for lack of atmosphere. Besides, I have not moved from this chair all night. What say you that we venture out to the Strand and call upon Mister Scroope?”

  “I think that it would benefit you, sir,” I replied. “For you are too much indoors.”

  Newton left off scratching Melchior under the chin and, glancing out of the window, nodded. “Yes. You are right. I am too much indoors. I should dwell more in the light. For although I have not yet much understood the Sun, I sometimes think its rays nourish all living things with an invisible light. I do not doubt how one day that secret light will be revealed as I have revealed the spectrum of colours; and when it is, we shall begin to know everything. Why, perhaps we shall even understand the immanent nature of God.”

  Newton stood up and put on his coat and hat.

  “But for the moment let us merely hope that we may understand the mind of Mister Scroope.”

  We walked to the Strand, and along the way Newton outlined his plan in greater detail:

  “Being a gold- and silversmith, Mister Scroope is obliged by law to keep a record of his stock of precious metals,” he explained. “For it is of great importance that the Treasury knows how much gold and silver there is in the country. I shall say that the Mint has the power to inspect Mister Scroope’s books. I shall inform him that I am handling the matter personally, in order that the inconvenience to his business shall be minimised. When I explain that such inspections often take a whole day but that I expect to complete my own within the hour, I believe that he will be more than pleased to co-operate with us. And while he is so diverted with appeasing me, you shall find an opportunity to slip away, perhaps to use the close-stool, and then to examine his library in search of the book by Trithemius.”

  “Is any of that true?” I asked.

  “About the Mint? Sadly, no. But it ought to be. For much of the time we are making up our powers as we go along. Of course, as a justice of the peace I could easily obtain a specific warrant to inspect his books. But that would look wrong, for we must counterfeit the appearance that our actions are in Scroope’s best interest, and he must apprehend that we are his friends.”

  Our walk took us along Thames Street and across the stinking Fleet Bridge with its many fishwives—where I bought threepence worth of oysters for my stand-up breakfast—onto Fleet Street and the Strand. I tried to raise the subject of Miss Barton, but when I mentioned her, Newton swiftly changed the subject and I was left with the feeling that I had done her greater injury than any that was ever done unto my master. That was what I thought. Later on, I formed a different impression of why he was reluctant to discuss his niece with me.

  Near enough an hour’s walking brought us unto Mister Scroope’s place of business, close by the Maypole at the junction of Drury Lane. Scroope seemed most discomfited by our arrival on his doorstep, which Newton I think enjoyed, being now most convinced that a man who did not graduate from his university was likely a bad lot; and that this vindicated his own neglect of Mister Scroope when he had been his tutor.

  Having heard Newton’s most plausible explanation for our returning to see him again, Scroope ushered us into his office while all the while he grumbled that there was so much regulation for a man of business to take account of these days that he could wish all men who made laws might be ducked in Bedlam’s night soil.

  “Everything is regulation and tax. If it’s not windows the Government wants money for, it’s burial or marriage. It’s bad enough that the closing date for the receipt of the old coin at full value is swift to be upon us. But so little new coin is produced.”

  “There’s enough being produced,” said Newton. “It’s expected this month will see more than three hundred and thirty thousand pounds’ worth of silver coin newly minted. No sir, the problem is that men hoard the new coin in expectation that its value will rise.”

  “That’s an accusation I know well,” lamented Mister Scroope. “I think I understand what it is to be a Jew, for the gold- and silversmiths of this city are most often thought guilty of hoarding. But I ask you, Doctor, how is a man expected to run this kind of business without keeping a certain quantity of gold and silver to smith that which a customer would desire? A man must have findings in this trade, or he has no trade at all.”

  Findings were what these goldsmiths called their stock of precious metals.

  “Well, sir,” said Newton, “shall we see what findings you do have? And then I promise to leave you in peace, for I like this ta
sk no better than you. When I left Cambridge for the Mint, I little thought I should become the money police.”

  “This is most inconvenient and aggravating.”

  “I came myself, sir,” Newton said stiffly, “because I wished to spare you the trial of being examined by one of these other rascals. But it might be better if you spent a day or two with one of the inspection bailiffs, after all. I daresay you would prefer their careful scrutiny to the blind eye of an old friend and fellow Trinity man.” And so saying, Newton made as if to leave.

  “Please, sir, wait a moment,” said Scroope, unctuous again. “You are right. I am most ungrateful for the service you do me. Forgive me, sir. It is merely that I was most occupied with something, and I am without a servant for an hour. But now I think that it can wait a while. And I should count it an honour to have my books inspected by you, Doctor Newton.”

  Scroope ushered Newton through to an even smaller office where, there being very little room, it was not possible for me to follow, so that I was obliged to remain behind; and as soon as I heard Scroope begin to explain his book-keeping to Newton, I excused myself and went to look about the house.

  It was plain to me that St. Leger Scroope was a man of very evident wealth. On the walls were many fine tapestries and pictures while the furniture reflected the taste of a man who had travelled a great deal abroad. There was a library of sorts, with several handsome bookcases and dominated by the largest and dustiest binding press I had seen outside of a bookshop; but there was no time to wonder at it, for I was quickly in front of the cases and examining the spines of Mister Scroope’s books; and finding these ordered according to the letters of the alphabet, I quickly found a copy of the Polygraphia by Trithemius. This book I removed from the bookcase and opened in the hope that Mister Macey might even have inscribed it, but there was nothing, and I was about to replace the volume when it occurred to me to look at some of the other books also; and finding many of these were on the subject of alchemy, I came away from that room with the strong notion that Newton’s suspicions were correct: that Scroope did indeed have some involvement in the terrible murders at the Tower.