‘Your luck has changed, John,’ cried Thomas. ‘Here are two enthusiastic customers, thirsting to spend their money. No need to offer them special prices. They’ll happily pay as much as you ask.’
‘Thomas,’ said Simon sternly, ‘you know perfectly well that Franciscans eschew worldly possessions. I have no money, even for books. I am merely escorting Lady Romilly, who wishes to purchase a present for a friend.’
‘He is not a close friend,’ added Jane, pointedly ignoring Thomas, ‘so a small present will suffice. Can you suggest anything, Master Porter?’
‘Do you know anything of his tastes, madam?’ enquired Porter.
‘His knowledge of plants and flowers is pitifully slight. Have you anything of that sort?’
‘I fear not, madam. Is he perhaps of an artistic turn of mind?’
‘Literary, I think, rather than artistic.’
‘Then may I suggest a volume of poetry?’
‘You may. If you have concluded your business with this gentleman, of course.’
Porter glanced at Thomas, who was thoroughly confused. ‘While Master Hill is considering the matter, madam, allow me to show you what I have,’ he replied, leading Jane to a corner of the shop where a few dusty volumes sat on a shelf.
‘Take no notice, Thomas,’ whispered Simon. ‘You are the last person she wanted to find here. Better disappear.’
Taking the hint, Thomas waved a farewell to his friend and slipped out of the shop. A book of poetry for a literary friend who knew nothing about flowers was grounds for hope. But no more Milton, please. If John Porter had them, Shakespeare’s sonnets would be excellent. He would commit the best of them to memory when he was back in Romsey and time permitted. In Oxford, alas, time did not permit.
He could not dwell on the matter. He felt guilty enough at having missed most of a morning’s work, and he should get back to it without delay. The pile of paper would soon be growing again. Putting the lure of the meadows out of his mind, he went straight back to Pembroke.
The remainder of the day and part of the night were spent with quill and ink, encryptions and decryptions. Erasmus Pole must either have been a genius or, more probably, inclined to overlook some of the paper that came his way. It was hard to believe that one man could have coped adequately with the volume. When at last Thomas could do no more, his eyes and head ached and his hand was shaking from holding the quill.
Early the next morning he struggled awake to answer a knock on his door. It was Silas. ‘Good morning, sir. Master Fletcher asks that you join him at the gatehouse. I’ve just taken him there.’
‘Do you know why, Silas?’
‘He said something about seeing the town.’
‘But he can’t see.’
‘I know, sir. That’s why he wants you.’
Torn between duty and pleasure, Thomas had no difficulty in choosing pleasure. Another diversion, and Abraham’s company was always good. He pulled on a thick shirt and followed Silas to the gatehouse, where Abraham was waiting for him. There was an early-autumn chill in the air and the old man wore a heavy cloak and a hat. ‘Good morning, Abraham,’ called Thomas as he approached. ‘I gather you want a walk around the town.’
‘I do. And I need you to accompany me to make sure I don’t fall into any drains. I have enough problems without being covered in shit.’
‘I should be delighted, although I have had no breakfast and my pile of papers is a foot tall.’ Thomas took Abraham’s elbow and guided him out of the college. ‘Is there anywhere in particular you would like to go?’
‘Around the meadow and by the river, along High Street and into a college. I want to find out if I can tell which one it is by the sounds and smells.’
‘Very well. Let us be off.’
They made their way cautiously down St Aldate’s as far as the entrance to Christ Church Meadow, where they turned in and walked towards the river on the other side. Here the sounds were of the comings and goings of soldiers and townsfolk about their business. Men and women were cleaning and polishing the long lines of artillery pieces. I suppose a clean cannon must be more deadly than a dirty one, thought Thomas. More impressive, anyway. Some thirty yards from the river bank, they stopped.
‘I can hear the river and I can smell it,’ said Abraham. ‘How is it looking today?’
‘It’s running slowly. The level is low.’
‘I thought so. The sound is gentle. Last winter it was running very fast down to the Thames.’
They walked along the bank, neither man saying much, until Abraham stopped again. ‘Last night, I had a premonition of impending death. It rather frightened me, Thomas. That’s why I asked you to accompany me this morning. I feel it might be the last time I leave the college.’
Thomas was taken aback. This was most unlike his old friend, the most rational of men. ‘Oh come now, Abraham. It’s not like you to pay heed to such a thing. I daresay you’ll live to be a hundred.’
Abraham laughed. ‘Good God, I do hope not. I’d be deaf and crippled, as well as blind. Still, it did shake me. Foolish, of course. I’m an old man and we all have to die some time.’
‘We do, but not yet, if you please. I’d have to carry you back to Pembroke.’
Another laugh. ‘I’d best hang on, then.’ They entered High Street at the eastern end and passed University College on their left. ‘Not University, then?’ enquired Abraham, who had sensed where they were. Thinking that he might make Abraham’s task more difficult, Thomas led him up Catte Street, along Broad Street and down Turl Street as far as Lincoln College. Inside the college gate, he stopped. Abraham sniffed the air and listened. ‘Trust you to try a deception, Thomas. It didn’t work, though. I smelled the coal smoke and heard the beggars. This is Lincoln.’
‘How do you know? It could be Exeter.’
‘It feels small and I can hear the kitchen. The Lincoln kitchen is just inside the gate.’ He sniffed again. ‘Fish for dinner, I think.’
‘Fish, certainly.’ Thomas’s nose seldom let him down.
‘There. One sense replaced by another. Although a nose is a poor substitute for a good pair of eyes.’
‘I sometimes wish my nose was rather less good. Especially in this town. Are you ready to return?’
‘I am. Thank you, Thomas. I have enjoyed the walk.’ They left Lincoln and walked along Market Street and down Cornmarket towards Pembroke. Both, as ever, were heaving with market stalls and traders, and Thomas had some difficulty in guiding Abraham through them without tumbling into a drain. On the corner of Queen Street, Thomas noticed a tall soldier and his lady walking away from them along High Street, and having what sounded like an animated conversation. With a shock, Thomas realized that the man was Fayne and the lady Jane Romilly. He stared after them. He saw Jane put a hand on the captain’s arm. He went cold. Abraham sensed his change of mood. ‘What is it, Thomas?’
‘Oh, nothing. I may have just had a premonition, that’s all.’
‘Foolish things, premonitions, I’ve been told. Put it out of your mind.’
‘Good advice. I shall try.’
With Abraham safely back in his room, Thomas left Pembroke again and returned to the meadow. He did not feel like being cooped up in his room and he wanted to think. He retraced their steps past the rows of artillery and towards the river, where he found a quiet place to sit. Jane had said that she was no more than acquainted with Fayne. Yet they were walking together, and she had put her hand on his arm. Then he remembered Fayne’s vulgar boasts about a high-born lady. God’s wounds, surely not Jane Romilly? It was beyond belief. What on earth would she see in a loud-mouthed, ill-mannered oaf like Fayne? And why had she lied? Or had he misunderstood? No, he had not misunderstood. At the masque, she had been quite clear. Clear but untruthful, it appeared.
For nearly an hour Thomas sat and pondered. He was angry and jealous. Angry with her for deceiving him, jealous of him for having Jane. Suddenly he got up. Enough of this, Thomas. You’re a fool. Her business is no
business of yours. Forget it. You’ve work to do.
For two days, Thomas attacked the pile of papers with renewed vigour. The despatches were still as interesting as one of Knox’s sermons, but he set himself the task of getting through them twice as quickly as before. It helped to keep his mind off other matters. He left his room only for food and drink and brief bouts of exercise. He did not want to run into Fayne.
After one such excursion, however, he found that Fayne had run into him. Returning to his room, he found the lock broken and his clothes and papers thrown around the floor. He went at once to fetch Silas, who tut-tutted at the mess, arranged to have it cleared up and replaced the broken lock with a new one. While he was working on this, Thomas asked him about Fayne.
‘I don’t like him,’ said Silas. ‘He’s rude to the college servants and finds fault whenever he can. Do you think Captain Fayne did this?’
‘It is possible. Who else has a reason? His nose must still be out of joint at being turfed out of the room. A man like him would take offence easily and harbour grudges. He seems to have time on his hands.’
‘That he does. I couldn’t rightly say how he spends his days other than entertaining women in his room. Common whores, all of them. I haven’t seen him doing any soldiering.’
‘No ladies, Silas? Decent ladies, I mean.’
‘Not that I’ve seen.’
‘Do you know anything else about him, Silas?’
‘Only that he comes from a wealthy and respected family.’
‘So he told me.’
‘You don’t think this has anything to do with your work, sir? Not that I know what that is, of course,’ Silas added hurriedly.
‘Possibly, although, as far as I can tell, nothing has been taken. It looks more like an act of malicious spite to me.’
Silas finished the lock and handed Thomas a key. ‘There, sir, good as new. I’ll keep both spares.’
‘Thank you, Silas, I’m obliged.’
‘You will take care, Master Hill, won’t you?’ said Silas before he left. ‘Oxford is not the place it was when you were a scholar.’
‘You’re the fifth person to tell me to take care, Silas. Anyone would think I’m a child.’
‘My apologies, sir.’
‘No apologies necessary, Silas. Thank you for your concern and be sure that I shall take care, just as everyone wishes me to.’
Thomas sat at his table and gazed once more at the pile of recovered papers. A pity Fayne did not take them away, he thought. Then he wouldn’t have to read the wretched things. He was sure it was Fayne. He certainly hoped so. If not, it was serious. Someone knew who he was and what he did. Someone distinctly unfriendly.
Another day of drudgery, then another, and Thomas was beginning to wonder if he might be on his way to the House of Bedlam. Pages and pages of badly encrypted reports from under-occupied military commanders, the occasional equally tedious despatch found on an enemy messenger, and orders from the king, largely consisting of demands for absolute loyalty and stead fastness at a time of grave danger to the country. The madhouse looked a more likely destination than a bookshop in Romsey.
He had just about banished Jane from his mind when she arrived. She carried a small parcel and had a livid bruise on her cheek. ‘Good morning, Thomas,’ she said cheerily. ‘I trust that I find you well. May I come in?’
Thomas did not reply, but stepped aside to allow her into the room. She looked about.
‘Not large but almost dry, and adequate to your needs, I hope.’ Still Thomas said nothing. ‘Thomas, what on earth is the matter? Have you lost your tongue?’
‘I had not expected to see you.’
‘And I had not expected you to be struck dumb. I have come to borrow Montaigne’s Essais, as you suggested I should, and in return I have brought you this.’ She handed him the parcel. ‘Are you not going to see what it is?’ Thomas unwrapped it. It was a slim volume entitled The Sonnets of William Shakespeare. On the title page, Jane had written To Thomas from his friend Jane, with affection. He should have been pleased. He put it down on the table.
‘Thank you. Here are the Essais.’
She took them and looked at him quizzically.
‘Thomas, you are out of sorts. Please tell me what is troubling you.’ Without invitation, she sat on the edge of the bed and waited for a reply. It came eventually.
‘My apologies, madam. I have had much work to do.’
‘Is that all? I sense there is more.’
‘I would not wish to come between you and another man.’
‘What other man, Thomas? What are you talking about?’
‘I daresay I misunderstood. I thought you told me that you and Captain Fayne were merely acquaintances.’
Jane’s hand went to the bruise on her cheek. ‘Captain Fayne. So that’s it. And what exactly has discomfited you, if I may ask?’ Her voice was suddenly sharp.
‘It is not my affair.’
‘Indeed it is not. For your information, however, I have known Captain Fayne since we were children. Our families were neighbours.’
‘You were more than neighbourly when I saw you together in the town.’
Jane jumped off the bed and looked furious. ‘Have you been spying on me? How dare you!’
‘Certainly not. I happened to see you in High Street.’
‘Did you now? Well, you won’t be seeing me again.’ She threw the Essais on to the bed and stormed out.
Thomas stood and stared at the door. You handled that well, Thomas, he thought. You clod. Although I’d wager it was Fayne who gave her that bruise.
Not many minutes later, there was another knock on the door. Not daring to hope that she had returned, Thomas opened it. She had not returned. Captain Fayne had, and he was smirking.
‘I saw your visitor leaving, Hill. Seemed upset. Take the advice of a man who knows, and take her for a run while you may.’
‘Go away, Fayne. You are offensive.’ He made to close the door, but Fayne held it open.
‘Why don’t you go and sleep in the stable, Hill? The mare might join you there. She enjoys a morning gallop. Then I can have my room back.’
With a shove, Thomas closed the door and locked it. God in his heaven, what next?
What next came as a surprise: Silas’s boy with an urgent message from Abraham. Thomas was to come at once.
In his rooms, Abraham was waiting impatiently. When Thomas knocked, he was summoned brusquely in. ‘Thomas? You’ve work to do.’
‘Good day, Abraham. Why so urgent?’
‘This is why,’ said the old man, holding up a rolled document. ‘It arrived this morning from London. It was found on a man known to be one of Pym’s most trusted messengers, leaving the city at night on the Cambridge road. Quite by chance, the man was apprehended by a troop of our dragoons, and thoroughly searched. They found this hidden inside the lining of his hat.’
‘What is it?’ asked Thomas.
‘That is what I want you to find out. It’s quite long, and it was hidden. A double precaution. A very fortunate interception, which might be important. Hidden messages often are, more so the longer ones. The messenger was no help. They got nothing out of him before he died. Here it is.’ Abraham handed Thomas the roll. ‘Can you start at once?’
‘I can. I’ll give you the plain text as soon as I can.’
‘Good. I have another young man who can do all the routine work. I want you to concentrate solely on this. And, Thomas, be particularly careful. Say nothing to anyone but me. And do not make any copies. We don’t want this falling into the wrong hands. I sense that it is valuable.’
CHAPTER 6
THANK GOD FOR the dragoons who found this. Something promising at last. Thomas laid the document on his table, smoothed it out and studied it. Good rag paper, an unremarkable hand.
URF UBD HE XQB TF KGA OEMD RRFUO TLC WMG LRB WHT R XHGORKZ IO KPW769WA MQFV BVMF HPL ZFTD RVV57 4SEWMFREJ VGL SVKMGE 852 GTSC WZTD QETIJG IVL GJT RA KDOE IK EOJAAQLV GGJR MQU IOIGSI
GRQF HBFZG JGY ALG EE OLWEEA GJR YIFS1 82AEL2 64SGE SC AAD ZVY JP KP WXR JB JTN XBZ775XNW WJBS LA LWAK371 EAIH TPA AD RVV BAP TWPVV AGDN WWJ URR VUTIW EW HTI QCT WY QDT37 1IE852 769UMHT RKC CONT WSGV WMG IEN DJEE KWIHV ZW PNU EAIH371 ZV GJR YIFSS NQ DA BV NGGCVL LD SVMC IRLKW DN KMJ BS WINDU IITAE KW42177 5OX LCIVK IJM LXMV IFS PCI UT FFZ SEPI MZTNJQGCOW3 71E ZDWZTD QE SZGJ GYB LD 574SKIFS RVIV N GFL OX LC QFV WV AZPLCJJX NX IF TNU BG IHZA OP RJWGC
He started counting. On a single sheet there were twelve lines of text, made up of four hundred and fifty-six letters, forty-five numbers and one hundred and thirty-eight spaces. This intercepted message was not just longer than any other he had seen: the combinations of letters, spaces and numbers had a different feel to them. Ignoring all spaces, which would almost certainly have been inserted at random, the numbers appeared in sequences of three or six. That suggested that they were probably codewords, perhaps for names. If so, the text was a nomenclator – a mix of code and cipher – which would make it more difficult to break than a plain cipher, but still breakable. There would be clues somewhere.
Despite the length of the text, the sender did not reveal himself at all. Thomas studied the writer’s hand and tried to visualize him. He tried fat and thin, short and tall, old and young. He tried divining the man’s nature – mean, generous, kind, cruel. Nothing. After he had stared at the text for an hour, the man who had encrypted it remained hidden. Thomas’s magic, for once, was not working.
‘So much for art,’ he said aloud, ‘time to try science.’ Once again, he wrote out the letters of the alphabet across the top of a sheet of paper. Then he counted the number of times each letter appeared in the message. He wrote this number below each letter, and E, A and T under the highest numbers; then he examined the juxtaposition of each to other letters, found three instances of double letters, and concluded which encrypted letter represented each of them. He repeated the process to find the letters I, O, S and R, and tentatively applied this to the first few lines. For this exercise, all numbers were ignored. The result was nonsense. As he had expected, this was not a straightforward alphabetic cipher, either shifted by a keyword or mixed by a system of substitution. At least two substitutions had been used, perhaps more, and there was still the matter of the numbers. A double or even triple alphabetic substitution would eventually yield to close analysis and a little intuition, but it would take time. And Thomas’s instincts were shouting at him that this decryption was going to require all his skills. Hoping that sustenance would bring more success, he put down his quill and went to find food.
The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1) Page 10