‘Henry has arranged for you to meet Sir Samuel Morland. Do you know him?’ Thomas did not. ‘Morland, as we did, once served Cromwell. He’s a brilliant man – a fellow of Magdalene College, Cambridge, inventor, cryptographer and a distinguished linguist – but not easy to work with. To put it plainly, he’s bombastic and rude.’
Thomas risked an interruption. ‘If Sir Samuel Morland is as you describe him, he will be less than enthusiastic about my arrival, will he not?’
‘Indeed. That is why we have asked him to carry out a special commission – the development of a new family of ciphers – while you deal with the day-to-day work.’
‘Is he more enthusiastic about that?’
‘Not very. He believes himself capable of both jobs. However, I think we have reached an accommodation.’
‘It would perhaps be best if I did not do my work here.’
‘I have thought of that. A room for you to work in has been prepared at my house. You will have everything you need. I suggest you call as a matter of course twice each week – shall we say Tuesdays and Fridays at ten o’clock – and I will send for you if anything urgent comes to hand in between visits. Would that be convenient?’
‘It would.’
‘Good. In that case, Henry will describe the organization of the Post Office while I drink his Madeira and then you will meet Morland.’
‘I have also arranged for Lemuel Squire to join us,’ said Bishop. ‘I thought Thomas should meet him too.’
The name meant nothing to Thomas. ‘Lemuel Squire?’
‘Squire is responsible for the opening, copying and resealing of intercepted letters,’ explained Bishop, ‘and now that we use my mark, he has to work fast. All letters are stamped when they arrive. If their delivery is too long delayed, there are complaints. Squire and Morland are my two most senior officers.’
Thomas knew that Henry Bishop had introduced the ‘Bishop Mark’, which recorded the date of receipt of every letter at the Post Office and made the sender rather than the recipient responsible for the postage price. ‘So copies must be made quickly?’
‘They must.’ Bishop paused. ‘The mark helps prevent unwanted tampering, but it also affects our own activities. That is another matter Morland is addressing. Now the Post Office. All correspondence sent from London is either handed in here by the sender or delivered from one of our collection points in the city. It is sorted and stamped by our clerks, who come in at six in the evening on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Much of our work is perforce carried out at night. Indeed, the Clerks of the Road – there are six of them – who are in charge of the record and accounts books are provided with lodgings in the building.’
Thomas had never given much thought to the intricacies of the Post Office. Like everyone else, he took his letters to the Postmaster’s office in Romsey and collected those addressed to him at the same time. But, of course, it took a large and complex operation to make such a service work.
‘We have thirty officers and clerks working here,’ went on Bishop, ‘and thirty-two letter carriers in London alone. The Clerks of the Road and the local Postmasters are responsible for safe delivery of all letters and packets outside London.’
‘What about overseas correspondence?’ asked Thomas.
‘Outgoing letters are taken to the Foreign Letter Office in Love Lane, where they are sorted by country and delivered by mail coach to the appropriate office – Yarmouth for Denmark and Holland and Dover for France, for example. From there they go by packet boat.’
‘And incoming letters?’
‘These are sorted in Love Lane and brought to us for onward delivery. We extract all letters which might need our, er, attention, as indeed we do from the inland post. They are given to Lemuel Squire, who decides what to do with them.’
‘How do you know which they are?’
‘We don’t always know, but letters to and from Holland and France are routinely checked and we are aware of certain names and addresses here which require scrutiny.’
‘Yet innocent letters must be opened in the course of the work.’
‘That is so. If a letter is clearly harmless we simply reseal it and send it on its way. With our new techniques this is seldom noticed by the recipient. As Joseph knows, I do not condone this tampering with the mail, but I am obliged to accept it as a necessary intrusion.’
‘Is there anything else you wish to know, Thomas?’ asked Williamson.
‘Let me be clear about this. Suspicious letters are intercepted by one of the clerks and given to Lemuel Squire, who opens, checks and reseals them. If necessary, a copy is made by hand.’
‘Yes,’ replied Bishop. ‘An encrypted letter is always copied and the copy passed to Dr Wallis, that is until now. In future, encryptions will be brought to you at Chancery Lane.’
‘In both cases are the originals sent on?’
‘Other than in very unusual circumstances, they are. We do not generally want our enemies to know that we have read their correspondence and Squire is singularly adept at resealing it.’
‘Quite so. And Morland – what exactly does he do?’
‘Morland speaks and reads ten languages. He is in charge of translations and also assists with decryptions when the volume of work demands it. In addition to which, he is working on a machine which will greatly reduce the time needed to make copies of intercepted correspondence.’
‘A brilliant man indeed. I wonder you need my services as well as his.’
‘Morland’s hands are full,’ replied Williamson quickly. ‘We need another pair.’
‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said Thomas, ‘I have agreed to carry out this work and I shall do so, albeit with some reluctance.’
‘Then it’s time you faced Morland and Squire. Have a sip of Madeira and prepare yourself.’ Bishop rang a bell, and asked his servant to show the gentlemen in. They must have been waiting outside the door because they appeared before Thomas had taken his sip.
The two men were startlingly different. Sir Samuel Morland was in his mid-thirties, with long brown hair, a thin moustache of the type Thomas always distrusted and an even thinner mouth. He was dressed in the black coat and breeches of a Puritan and looked thoroughly dyspeptic. Only the silver buckles on his shoes offered the slightest nod to fashion.
Lemuel Squire, on the other hand, was a head shorter and might have been constructed from two spheres – the larger for his torso, the smaller for his head. There was no evidence of the connection between the two. A thick brown wig fell in ringlets to his shoulders and his eyes were hidden somewhere between bushy eyebrows and deep folds of skin. Thomas could not recall having ever before seen a purple coat matched with turquoise breeches. Only his enormous smile saved Squire from looking grotesque. He waddled forward and greeted Thomas warmly. ‘Thomas Hill. A pleasure to meet you, sir. Lemuel Squire at your service. We’ve heard much about you and how you served the late king so gallantly. Have we not, Samuel?’ Morland did not reply. ‘Welcome indeed to our little world.’
‘I’m obliged, sir,’ replied Thomas, suppressing a grin. He was struggling to take this extraordinary man seriously. Morland still said nothing. Thomas turned to him. ‘And it is a honour to meet you, Sir Samuel. I’m sure I shall learn much from you.’
Morland looked down his long nose. ‘Doubtless you shall. Remember, sir, that Machiavelli himself said that a skilful prince makes a watchtower of his Post Office. Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have important work to do.’ And with that, he was gone.
Squire’s laugh started in his ample stomach and erupted through his whole face. ‘Don’t mind Samuel, Thomas. He means no harm. Just a bit short on manners and fond of dramatic exits, that’s all. Ah, is that Madeira I see? Excellent.’ He helped himself to a glass and held it up to Thomas. ‘To you, sir, and a successful outcome to your work.’
‘I understand that you are in charge of opening and resealing intercepted letters, Mr Squire?’
‘Lemuel, if you please. I so
hate formality. Indeed, I am. We have excellent techniques for opening and resealing – far more advanced, though I say it myself, than those of the Dutch or the French – and Samuel is perfecting a machine for copying a page without damaging the original. It is most ingenious and will spare us having to employ armies of clerks to copy by hand at speeds which defy accuracy.’
‘I should like to see it.’
‘And you shall, Thomas. I shall show it to you myself.’ Again Squire’s plump face was split by the gigantic smile. It was impossible not to warm to the man. ‘The king’s dalliances in Holland and France are well known and there is talk of a Portuguese queen. The people fear a return to Catholic intolerance and there are continual threats from abroad. The Dutch and the French are invariably up to something. We have much opening and copying to do.’
So far neither Williamson nor Bishop had said anything. Mind you, with Squire in the room, thought Thomas, there’s scant need for anyone to say anything. He talks enough for all.
‘Well,’ said Williamson, ‘now that we’ve all met each other we’ll let you get back to work, Lemuel, before you finish off the Madeira.’
Squire pretended to be put out. ‘As you wish, sir. Good day to you all. I look forward to our meeting again soon, Thomas, and to demonstrating our work. Rest assured that I am at your service at all times.’
‘And I look forward to seeing you again, Lemuel.’
‘What a pair,’ exclaimed Thomas when he had gone, ‘an insulting inventor and a garrulous gargoyle.’
The corners of Bishop’s mouth turned up slightly. ‘Don’t underestimate them, Thomas. Morland looks and sounds like a righteous Puritan, I grant you, and Squire has acquired a certain notoriety for his manner and habits, but both men are brilliant at their work.’
‘I don’t doubt it, sir. I shall treat them both with the utmost respect.’
‘That would be wise, whatever you think of them. Although Squire has been with us for no more than a year, he has shown himself to be shrewd and reliable. He has an instinct for our work. Morland, like me, worked for Cromwell. I inherited him when I took over at the Post Office from John Thurloe, knowing him to be quite brilliant.’
Thurloe’s name brought Thomas up with a start. He had been Cromwell’s chief of security. ‘I wonder then why you did not give Dr Wallis’s work to him,’ he observed.
‘Allow me to answer that,’ said Williamson. ‘As you have observed, Morland is rude and arrogant, the kind of man who works best alone and in a locked room. He has no time for even the most basic social graces and I do not wish to work any more closely with him than I must. In addition to which, he is permanently short of money and demanding more. Does that answer your question?’
Thomas laughed. ‘It does, sir. I shall treat Sir Samuel with respect.’
Back in his room at the Carringtons’ house, it occurred to Thomas that spies and actors alike seek to hide behind a mask. He sat at a small writing table and scribbled idly on a sheet of paper.
Plato: ‘Life must be lived as a play.’
The Post Office
Dramatis Personae
Joseph Williamson: spymaster for the new king
Henry Bishop: suspicious spaniel and master of the king’s Post
Sir Samuel Morland: taciturn inventor, linguist and cryptographer
Lemuel Squire: spherical letter-opener and oenophile
Matthew Smith and John Winter: murdered intelligencers
He looked at his list, and added
Thomas Hill: ageing cryptographer and reluctant player
‘What would the bard have made of that?’ he said out loud. ‘All we need is the murderer and we’ll have a full cast.’
CHAPTER 7
THE DUTCHMAN DID not have to wait long for his fourth task. The two in the lane and one in the graveyard had been simple enough. This mark, he was told, made a habit of visiting a brothel in Swan Lane every Friday, arriving at eight o’clock in the evening and leaving between ten and eleven. He was described as well built and answering to the name of Henry. His body was to be dumped in the river.
Before carrying out a job the Dutchman always familiarized himself with what he called ‘the killing ground’. In Swan Lane he had identified the brothel and found an excellent spot behind a heap of rubbish from which to observe it. By sitting with his back to a low wall behind the heap he could watch the brothel door without the risk of being seen.
For this task he had been instructed not to use his hands and to use a different weapon. He had chosen a heavy iron bar, tapered at one end to make a handle and short enough to be hidden comfortably under his coat. The smith who had fashioned it for him had cut rows of nicks on the bar and prised up their sharp edges, so that it resembled a thick rose stem. It had never let the Dutchman down.
He had taken up his place behind the rubbish heap in time to see a man who matched the mark’s description enter the brothel, and had sat there for a little more than two hours. Soon after ten o’clock, the door of the brothel opened and the man emerged. He was tall and broad-shouldered – a different proposition to the other three. The Dutchman touched his maimed face. Being careful to keep his head down, he rose silently to his feet and took the iron bar from inside his coat. He stepped out from his hiding place and was about to follow the mark up the lane when the brothel door opened again and another customer emerged. The Dutchman ducked down quickly. He would not risk an attack on two men.
The second man followed the mark up the lane. The Dutchman swore under his breath and was about to abandon the job – the first he had ever abandoned – when the second man turned down an alley off the lane. Without conscious thought, the Dutchman made a decision. Still holding the iron bar, he ran up the lane until he was just a few yards behind the mark. But the mark had almost reached the top of the lane where the streets were likely to be busier. He called out, ‘Henry. Is that you?’ The mark stopped and turned. The Dutchman raised the iron bar and leapt forward. But he had lost the advantage of surprise and this was no easy opponent. The mark was alert enough to parry the strike with his arms and aim a kick at his attacker’s knee. The Dutchman sensed it coming, swivelled on his left leg and used the mark’s momentum to push him face down on to the cobbles. He was on the prostrate man at once. One hard blow with the iron bar and blood gushed from the back of the mark’s head. He lay still.
The Dutchman had to move fast. He might have been heard and someone might appear at the top of the lane. He would have left the body where it was and disappeared, but his orders were to dump it in the river. He stuck the iron bar back in his belt, picked up the dead man’s ankles and dragged him back down the alley. He was a big man and it was hard going over the cobbles. It was also noisy. More than once he was tempted to abandon the effort, but he prided himself on always completing a task exactly as instructed, so he pressed on, ready to let go of the ankles and run if he had to. He was lucky. No one had heard the commotion and no one appeared in the lane. When he reached the bottom of the lane, he dragged the body over a narrow strip of shingle littered with empty bottles and rotting food, and heaved it into the river.
It was done. Not even stopping to recover his breath, the Dutchman walked briskly back up the lane and set off for the house in Wapping.
CHAPTER 8
FOR THE FIRST two weeks Thomas had been proved right. He spent his time encrypting dull messages to Williamson’s agents in Holland and France and decrypting their equally dull replies. The few intercepted letters were easily dealt with, the most difficult being a nomenclator – a mix of letters and numbers – and he had been able to return every original with its transcription within twenty-four hours.
Despite not having used his skills for years, he quickly rediscovered what his old tutor, Abraham Fletcher, had called ‘Hill’s magic’. It was like riding a horse. Once you knew how, you never forgot, and his knack of visualizing the encrypter of a message soon yielded gratifying results. By seeing the man as young or old, short or tall, fat or thin, h
e could often divine what type of encryption he would have used. He found himself wishing for something more demanding. What was more, not one of the letters revealed anything more alarming than an enquiry about the date and strength of the next spring tide in the Thames and Thomas wondered why anyone had bothered to encode them. And he had heard nothing more about the deaths of Smith or Winter, or indeed of Babb.
On the day of Thomas’s fifth visit to Williamson’s house, however, matters took a new turn. He was awoken from a nap in his room just off the entrance hall by a loud knock on the front door and the arrival of a man with a loud voice.
‘Josiah Mottershead, ’ere for Mr Williamson. I must see ’im at once.’
‘Mr Williamson is upstairs and has asked not to be disturbed,’ replied the steward.
‘Tell ’im Mottershead’s ’ere. ’E’ll want to be disturbed for that.’
‘I’m not sure, sir . . .’
‘Mottershead. Just tell ’im.’
‘Very well, sir. Kindly wait here.’
While the steward went to find Williamson, Thomas wondered whether to make himself known to this insistent visitor. The day’s work had been particularly dull and he could do with a little excitement. He opened the door of his room and stepped into the hall. Josiah Mottershead was sitting in an upright chair, his hat in his hands and his hands on his lap. A stout stick rested against the chair. He jumped up when he saw Thomas.
‘Josiah Mottershead, sir, to see Mr Williamson.’
‘Yes, Master Mottershead, I know,’ replied Thomas. ‘I am Thomas Hill, an aide of Mr Williamson.’
For several seconds, the two men stared at each other, neither knowing what to say next. Despite being six inches shorter than Thomas, Mottershead was a powerful-looking man with muscular shoulders and thick legs. He had a nose that had been in more than one fight, a mangled right ear and a scar on his left cheek. He wore his hair tied back with a black ribbon and a short black coat and breeches, both of which had seen better days, and he held the stick not by the knot which formed its handle but six inches down the shaft. It took Thomas a moment to realize that Josiah Mottershead had unusually long arms for his height. While his right arm held the stick, the left reached almost to his knee. He did not immediately strike Thomas as a likely employee of the Post Office.
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