by John Crowley
I cried when I got it. You are right. It’s in there, she put it in there and somehow her son carried it away with him, and she thought someday somewhere. You. Me. Oh my god Thea. What if it’s so.
S
From: “Thea”
To: “Smith”
Subject: RE:ILY
yes i thot the same thing last nite thinking of u
it seemed crazy to me or suspicious that she wd put the notes she made in the same trunk as the enciphered thing and the one page like you said because its much easier to break a cipher if you have a bunch of the text and so as soon as you guess that the cipher is the novel youve got all these repeating words to look for like the main guys name or other things
but then today my codes guy explained the principle of pgp that means pretty good privacy when you hide something you only need to hide it enough to keep it from the people you need to for as long as you need to like you can spell words aloud when kids are around thats pgp until they catch on so adas cipher was pgp because all she wanted was to keep it from her mom and after that she wanted it to be read she wanted us to get it she wanted it to be easy we were thinking of something hard but why it shd be easy am i right
From: “Smith”
To: “Thea”
Subject:
Thea—
Of course you’re right. Of course of course.
She was dying, Thea, and she did this last thing: she made this thing, this enciphered version of the novel her mother and her husband wanted her to destroy. She said she would destroy it, and she did. Her husband saw it burn, all of it—all but one page. Then her son came to visit, poor Lord Ockham, who never wanted to be a lord, and only wanted to run away and be with ordinary people, and do ordinary work. And she gave him these things, these papers he couldn’t read, and she didn’t tell him what they were. Plus the one saved page. And she said to him: Take them to America with you, where there aren’t any lords. Run away now and take them with you.
But Thea it isn’t so yet. It isn’t so until it’s translated or deciphered or decoded or whatever the right word is. I took it out of the box again tonight (Georgiana was asleep, she snores amazingly for somebody so small and thin) and I looked at it, and it was almost as though I could see through it to what it was inside. But it still could be nothing too.
So what’s that mean? If the code isn’t hard, or shouldn’t be hard. Does it mean a month, or a year, or an afternoon?
From: “Thea”
To: “Smith”
Subject: RE:[ ]
maybe an hour or two maybe a day dunno
but first you have to put all the numbers in with nobody knowing what youre up to you think thats easy its not im thinking of a way but i aint got it yet
the thing to find is the key any guesses what she used even if you know just the length of the keyword you can periodize but you can do it without what you wait for when the crunching starts is just to see some sense a word or a few words then you know and babe youll see it soon as i do if i do if im not crazy and if i am i hope youll forgive me
your friend
thea
• EIGHT •
Of Fame and its consequences, and of Law as it is practised, nowadays
LONDON! ALI HAD once before trod her blackened stones, and fronted the grey mobs, and avoided the haughty equipages of the world of fashion—which had, nevertheless, anointed him, with the mud of their passage. Then, he had walked and rode as in a dream, and as in a dream been taken to the offices of Solicitors, and the inglenooks of coffeehouses, each as unreal to him as the other. Now—the father was dead who had led him without pause or explanation along these streets, and Ali was grown, with a world of incident already stored within him, which even that Pandæmonium might not surpass in strangeness, or in horror. As has been said, the news of his rôle in the drama play’d upon the plains before Salamanca preceded his arrival in the city, and his progress through the streets to surrender his Person—which no appeal of Lieutenant Upward, nor of any other officer or friend, could dissuade him from—was accompanied by a small crowd, which became a large crowd, which became a Mob—some jeering, some commending loudly, some not knowing what was afoot but giving voice nonetheless. The proceeding before the Bench was brief—the Judge, aware also of Ali’s recent actions, was more inclined to permit him the extraordinary privilege of bail, and to accept his sureties and bonds, than the Scottish Magistrate had been. Stern was his demeanour, indeed—for the Law must regard with all gravity the murder of a Lord, whatever his character may have been (and the Judge knew the man of old)—but in not too long a time, Ali with his supporters emerged, temporarily at Liberty, to the admiring outcries of the People, as though they had had not Barabbas but the innocent Son of Man released to them.
His father’s agents raised what monies they could and must to support him who was, no other Claimants appearing, heir apparent of the Sanes, and little though it was, it was sufficient, for few indeed were the costs that Ali was allowed to sustain. A Club offered him a Membership—then a competing club offered another—and the first offered Rooms—and another larger ones—until Ali was ensconced in a chambre séparée in a respectable establishment that was not Watier’s or the Cocoa Tree, while his Father’s former agents brooded over his situation, and his claims. Lieutenant Upward, who was his chief companion, as he knew no one else in the Capital after whom he might inquire, threw himself upon the divan there provided, and lifted a glass of the Champagne also provided, to toast his now well-connected though bemused friend.
‘My Lord,’ quoth he, ‘you are splendidly bespoken. I warrant your wound and its discomforts have long since been assuaged by Honours and Pleasures, the best of medicines.’
‘I beg that you do not address me so,’ Ali said, himself remaining standing, and abstinent, as though unwilling to partake in gifts and goods he did not know how he deserved. ‘I am but myself, without additions, and shall be till all these proceedings be resolved. Then we shall see if, instead of a Title, I have a Number, painted across my back, on a ship of Transportation.’
‘Fear not,’ said the Military Surgeon. ‘Opinion, and the Regent, and the Generals, all are of your party; and if such are for you, who can be against you?’
Ali in some puzzlement turned away, and looked darkly, for he knew he ought to share his friend’s delight, and yet found himself unable to do so, and knew not why.
Through that day and the next, the cards of men of every party, and every quality, were dropt at his club, until it amounted to a blizzard of pasteboard. Among those come to gaze upon him, as upon a fabulous monster, were a Poet, who offer’d to write an epic of his adventures, and a Methodist, who offer’d to convert him, and a young Lady, who offer’d—Ali was not sure what, for she fainted before expressing her reasons for appearing before him. She had bribed the Porter, to be slipt in by night, in his absence—hid behind his Screen, and came forth at his return—fainted, as noted—was revived with water, and salts, and the attentions of the Military Surgeon—who argued that she might as well be entertained, once she had come round, but Ali insisted that she must be escorted out, which he did with all tendresse and regard, lest she, or her reputation, come to harm in that place.
He was the wonder of that nine days, which stretched to a fortnight unabated—and Ali sensed that many among those who gazed upon him, and took his hand, with ‘nods and becks and wreathed smiles’, saw in him something more, or other, than a British hero. ‘I know not why I am become such an object of interest, or at least of fascination,’ said Ali. ‘Does every man harbour a secret wish to murder his father?’
‘It is more to the point that you are a Turk,’ said his friend the Lieutenant, ‘and not a Christian, and yet are on the way to the House of Lords, where you may give your maiden speech upon the beauties of the Koran, or the necessity for Englis
h girls to go veiled. Anything contradictory interests us, be it a mermaid or a mechanical man.’
‘I am not mechanical,’ said Ali, ‘nor am I a Turk.’ And he observed, with some bitterness, the light wave of the Military Surgeon’s hand, and the airy lift of his brows, in dismissal of this tiresome objection. Just at that moment, the door was again knocked upon, and the porter announced another gentleman, and the name immediately relieved Ali’s dark mood, and brought a smile to his lips—who thought he had no real Friend among the million! ‘’Tis the Honourable!’ cried Ali, and hastened to bring within the gentleman who loitered somewhat bashfully upon the threshold.
‘Heigh-ho, the Hero,’ said the gentleman, and fell into Ali’s embrace. He was a small figure, almost miniaturised and yet perfect in all his parts, like a piece of clockwork; his dress was of the sort called exquisite in that day, which meant a vast expenditure on very white linen, and an inconvenient constriction of black broadcloth about the waist and other parts. It was, to be particular, Mr Peter Piper, who had been up at the Athens-upon-the-Fens when Ali had briefly resided there, and who had had every intention, Ali had heard, of remaining there, and sitting for a Fellowship, but had not—for he had seen more scope for his talents in the Clubs and at the baize tables of the City. The gentleman who now drew back and made an ironic leg before Ali was a figure such as was common in the days of the Regency of our present Monarch, indeed some were among the dearest friends of that Prince—he privately preferred their company and conversation to that of sober counsellors, or reverend Bishops—and so did I. And why ‘Honourable’, the epithet by which he was known to all his intimates? The exact reasons were somewhat lost in the mists of Time—but it seemed that, once on a time, his name had appeared on a list—a subscription, or an invitation, or a register—decorated with the names of Lord this and the Earl of that, his own appearing with a simple Esq appended. Given the list to look over, he had himself added ‘the Honourable’ to his name, to which addition he believed he had a claim, as being the third son of a Baronet (however King-of-arms might view the matter). His contention was, that he had only desired that the list be corrected and not appear with errors upon it, but—as so many of our little acts of vanity or even of self-preservation reverse themselves upon us—on this petard of his own devising, Mr Peter Piper was hoist—he was for a time a general butt, and no one afterward forgot it.
‘I happened,’ he now said, ‘to be present at the Bench, when your case was heard. No—I lie—for ’twas no accident I came there, but to view the wonder all men spoke of, and every paper lauded—or deplored, as did a few—and to see with mine own eyes if it were truly my old Companion. And lo! It was! Unchanged—unmarked, by the sorrows and hazards through which he had passed—there stood he—my Ali! And was his head down? It was not! Was his eye subdued? It was not! And with good reason too, as it soon appeared. Wise Solon who sat that day! A gentleman beside me—come to witness this extraordinary proceeding, even as I had—gave me three to one about your chances of being bailed—’twould have been higher, but something about you impressed even him—and I was able to collect a nice sum—yet for me the outcome was never for a moment in doubt.’
This was double or treble the words Ali had ever heard the Honourable to express without a pause, for he was in general a man who ‘says less than he knows’, &c., even in drink, and was known for his self-possession.
‘I have brought you, in this connexion,’ said he then, ‘a gift beyond price, which awaits in the foyer beyond, and if he don’t come bursting in as my prologue continues, I’ll be swanned. He is one you would be very wise to speak to, and even wiser to attend to. No—allow me to admit him—why, here he comes, pat, like the catastrophe in the old play!’
Even before Ali could assent to an interview, the man was in the room, or in possession of it, for he was a large and comfortably furnished gentleman, ‘round belly with good capon lined’, and the sort of man who made himself at home wherever he stood.
‘May I present Mr Wigmore Bland, of the Temple, Barrister,’ said Mr Piper, bringing forward the man, whose slight bow and eager hand Ali took as he must—for they were not to be refused. ‘I was before the Bench on another matter,’ said Mr Bland, in a voice rich as plum-cake, ‘which was recessed so that I might attend your Lordship’s case, and its disposal.’
‘You address me thus prematurely,’ Ali said, ‘as I have tried to tell these gentlemen.’
This animadversion Mr Bland turned aside with a wave of a hand large & pink. ‘Allow me to suggest to your Lordship that your rights in the matter, and your freedom, may easily be assured. The case seems to me to present few difficulties, and I make bold to offer my services in addressing them.’
‘He has saved many from conviction,’ Mr Piper put in brightly, ‘and many of those were completely innocent of any crime.’
There was nothing for it, then, but that Ali should invite the Barrister to enter in, and take wine, and hear the particulars of what had passed on that night in Scotland and pursuant, insofar as Ali could remember them—for it is difficult to remember clearly what we cannot understand. Mr Bland produced from within his coat a great Note-book, which he opened with the air of one about to read Gospel truths, but only proceeded to fill pages with the answers to questions he put to Ali. He knitted his brows in grave attention to Ali’s answers, and nodded like a great bell tolling, and tapped his stick upon the floor in dismay at the injustice done to the man he regarded already as his client.
‘I cannot pay your fees,’ Ali made clear to him. ‘If we should miscarry, and I lose my case, you will see nothing; likewise if I—if you—should be victorious, and I go free—for I have no incomes that are not pledged, and no properties which are not mortgaged already.’
‘No more of that,’ said the Barrister kindlily, ‘for I ask nothing of you. Believe me, Sir, there is profit assured, beyond ready money. Yours is the most interesting case to come before the Bench in many moons, and will be followed eagerly in all the papers—’twill be the talk of all the Clubs, and Balls—it may excite a question in Parliament, for aught I know. And if I am successful in your defence—as I have no doubt I shall be—why, only think how many must hear of the fact, and how many with pockets deeper than your own—as innocent as yourself, and as wrongly accused—in their own eyes—will be eager to engage my services! Sir, I do not brag—nor do I rate myself at any more than my worth—for that may be easily measured, in the proportion of cases in which I have secured a verdict of Not guilty for gentlemen in situations like your own.’
Ali looked darkly—tho’ it nothing discomfited his aspiring champion—as he thought that he did not know, nor had ever heard tell, of any gentleman in circumstances like his own. Nevertheless the contract was entered upon, and to Scotland when Assizes loom’d Ali proceeded in the comfortable Coach and Four which Mr Bland’s extensive practice had bestow’d upon him. The conversation therein turned in large part upon the trial to come.
‘Of course I shall speak in my own defence,’ said Ali.
‘With permission, but you will speak nothing at all, my Lord,’ quoth Lawyer Bland. ‘The Prosecution of the case have no right to compel your testimony, and must prove their case without your help. You need not appear before the Jury at all. We are in a new Age, Sir, and the way to the gallows, or the ship of Transportation, is a longer one, and not so plain now as once it was, or as the Prosecutors would like it.’
‘I wish the truth to be known, and the facts to come out,’ Ali protested. ‘I am innocent, and will declare as much.’
‘Sir, the Truth is not material; as for your Innocence, I am happy to believe it, yet it too is immaterial, as far as a successful defence be concerned. I beg you to leave all things to me.’ And with that, he turned to other matters, and pointed out to Ali the beauties of the landscape thro’ which they passed, which was picturesque indeed, and a credit it was to Mr Bland that he admired it.
The case, when at length it came before a Jury and Judg
e, was attended by all the late Lord Sane’s tenants and liegemen, who were about evenly divided (so it seemed to Ali, as he pass’d among them, to stand in his place in the Dock) between those who desired to see him hanged, and those glad to know that the old Lord had been, and incurious as to the question, by whom. The Officers of the Law, somehow shrunken, to Ali’s view, from the minions of majesty who had taken him into custody so long ago, once again told their tale, and how they had intelligence of a high crime—this intelligence, as it now appeared, was a certain ragged urchin of the town, who had a Penny from a man to summon the Law, but could nothing more remember—and loud was the laughter when Mr Wigmore Bland questioned the small person, and got in reply but ‘a Penny’, and ‘a Mon’, and nothing more.
The dead Lord’s Coachman was called, and near dead drunk himself he took the stand—he testified that on the night in question he had driven his master toward the Town, but that gentleman, having conceived a desire to rest along the way, had ordered him to halt at an Inn well known to the Coachman as a place his Lordship liked to stop, often to spend the night. The following day, the Coachman said, he was awakened by Lord Sane out of a deep sleep, the hour being about Noon (here there was some laughter in the room, which the Judge suppressed). He was ordered to drive his Lordship posthaste back to the Abbey, and yet not to enter in at the gate, but to stop at a far point, an old track across the fields, where Lord Sane swung himself down from the seat, and set off, telling his Coachman to await his return. For some hours, the Coachman said, he waited faithfully (here there was more laughter) and at dawn he returned to the Abbey, supposing his Master had found another way home—only to find the man stretched out dead upon the table in his hall, and the whole house in Uproar. No word had the dead Lord spoken to him, he averred, concerning why he chose to return, nor why he stopt short of his own Gate, nor what he intended when he set off alone.