The Cryptographer

by Tobias Hill

  The crowd has spilled out from the hall of fountains, across the arena of gravel, as far as the light from the house extends. She remembers Anneli, slyly confidential: Once we had a couple who slept in the woods for two days. Other couples make way for her at the door. She checks herself, her clothes and skin, her mother’s letter in her jacket pocket. Like a concealed weapon, she thinks, and puts the thought away, and goes inside.

  A camera flash, like lightning. A deafening escalation of voices. Music – a quartet drowned out beside the fountain, a piano played, not very badly, somewhere in the adjoining rooms. The arms race of laughter. The brittle resonance of glass. Champagne, its whiff of gunpowder.

  There is a moment when the impulse to step back, out into the night air, is almost overwhelming. Instead Anna makes herself wait, counting down thirty to nothing. She finds herself thinking of Lawrence: Lawrence, who would do this so much better than her. She wishes he was here. She wishes she was him.

  Her senses adjust. The noise is deafening but not painful; it is an uproar that can be lived with. She finds herself remembering Carl’s clubs, Janet’s dance floors, which she has come to like, where nothing is said and music is unassailably preeminent. Here the atmosphere is less forgiving. Faces sweat in the ranked light of the chandeliers. Everyone is trying to say everything at once. Along the edge of the hall Anna can see an elderly man moving as if clambering through conversations, his face turned protectively to one side.

  At the centre of the room two waiters have reached an impasse, their trays precariously loaded with champagne and kir, juleps, spilt ash, confections of caviar. Anna makes her way to them one step at a time and grabs a glass, finding too late that it is champagne, a drink she has never liked, though she wishes she did, as if liking it would better her. There is no sign of the Laws. Wherever they wait it isn’t here, where the newcomers make their entrances and pause to be seen, singling out the known and the desirable.

  Anna knows no one herself. There are only the people she almost recognises, the almost recognisably famous, some waiting with fixed expressions as if to overhear their own names, others around whom the crowd moves with fractionally added care, as if they might be breakable. She tries to remember the house beyond the hall. Some way ahead there are stairs, or so she thinks, a wide flight up to higher ground. It is something to aim for, at least.

  She has made it through the first hall and halfway through a cavernous second before she sees Terence: and sees him before he sees her, so that she has time for a measure of nervous satisfaction at having caught the security man at his own game. He is observing the crowd, not as a professional would but as an older man might; avuncular – grandfatherly, even – and merry, smiling through his moustache at no one in particular. There is a glass of water in his hand.

  His suit looks well cut, even here, but as a guest he is not convincing. He wears his clothes too much like a uniform, with too much care, standing too much to attention. It is only for a second, as he raises the glass, that Anna sees the outline of something worn under the tailored cloth. An unyielding edge and bulk.

  She is surprised to be surprised. Since she is not yet drunk enough, is she brave enough, she wonders, to go up behind him, this man who thinks she is an enemy, leaning to whisper in his ear, Hello Terence. Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?

  She has no time to decide. Already he has turned, finding her face through the crowd, smiling welcome. Making his way to her with inconspicuous ease.

  ‘You should try the cocktails,’ she says as he reaches her, and he glances at his glass, back at her, and knits his brows.

  ‘Family motto, I’m afraid. Smoke like a fish, drink like a chimney.’

  ‘They must be healthy.’

  ‘Oh, they are. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Here’s to a long life with plenty of trimmings. You got the invitation, then,’ he says, and smiles the way she remembers; sweetly, apologetically. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d come. Not your kind of thing, this, is it?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Too many people, is that it? Too much pressure?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Beyond Anna a young man with a glass in each hand throws back his head and laughs like an advert for good dentistry. Terence follows her gaze absently, as if what she chooses to see is none of his business.

  ‘It’s funny. I’d have thought you’d be used to it, doing what you do. I mean the pressure. How to survive it, how to apply it. But I told Mister Law he’d have a hard time getting you out of the Revenue for this. Almost as hard as getting the Revenue out of Anna Moore,’ he says, and sips. ‘That’s what I told him.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ she says, too loudly, her heart abruptly fast. The adrenalin spiralling up in her, like the arid bubbles in champagne. A waiter passes between them. She takes another glass. ‘When did you stop liking me?’

  ‘Now, why would you think that? I’ve always liked you.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yes. It makes my job more difficult, that’s all.’

  ‘Your job being what? You never told me.’

  ‘I never thought I needed to.’

  ‘To protect John from his enemies?’

  ‘Something like that, Inspector.’

  ‘Just Anna.’ And then, the knowing coming to her in the speaking, ‘You’re Terence Cutler, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s what it says on my moneycard.’

  ‘Mister Cutler, the head groundsman.’

  ‘I told you before,’ he says, ‘I do lots of things.’

  His voice is still quiet – he is the kind of man who always speaks quietly, and who is always listened to. But for the first time Anna can make out something else in his eyes. A predictable, mercenary coldness: a reliable violence. She remembers talking to Muriet, the first time she came to Erith Reach.

  You don’t look like a tax inspector.

  What do tax inspectors look like?

  Like Mister Cutler. Nathan says he used to be in the services.

  She was wrong, Anna thinks. We don’t look like this. He’s nothing like us. I’m nothing like him.

  I’m not his enemy,’ she says finally, and Terence Cutler shrugs.

  ‘He doesn’t think so, either.’

  ‘Then why –’

  ‘You know, sometimes my employers are their own worst enemies. Sometimes I end up having to protect them from themselves. A hard job I have with this one. And now you.’ He drinks his water. ‘A lot of people think the worst of him. The way they go on, you might have thought he kills people for a living.’

  ‘I don’t think that.’

  ‘Well then, that’s good, isn’t it?’ He is watching her again, his head cocked as if in measurement. ‘There was a man here looking for you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A Mister Finch. Friend of yours?’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘No, I don’t know anyone called –’

  ‘Because he’s no friend of ours. The girl was after you too, Muriet. Couldn’t wait for you to get here. Mister Law told her you’d come. I didn’t believe him, but he was right, wasn’t he? I’ve lost money on you tonight. Not that I suppose I’m the first.’ And he smiles again, this time with something approaching candour.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Here and there. You might try the balconies, or the casino rooms. But you’ll find him, I’m sure, I should think you’ll be good at that.’ Genial accusation. ‘Very professional, I should think, very businesslike. One other thing,’ he adds, as she is turning away.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look after yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No offence. It’s just advice.’

  Her skin crawls. ‘It doesn’t sound like advice.’

  ‘Don’t take it badly. Upstairs,’ he repeats, and nods her onwards.

  The steps are no less crowded than the entrance halls. At the top guests have clustered like tourists at an ob
servation point. They point out those below, as if recognising famous heads of hair, wealthy baldnesses. A woman in pearlised leather leans out too far, snatching illicit photographs. I mean, she says, why stop at Fall? Would summer be too much to ask? And: We don’t have fall in London, dear, says the woman beside her. We only have Autumn in London.

  Out of sight in the adjoining halls a clock is striking, seven, eight, nine … an hour later than Anna expects. She wonders where the time has gone. She has done nothing, found no one except Terence; and Terence Cutler, she thinks now, she would happily have never met at all.

  She turns from the stairwell, sweating, the railing firm against her back. There is a quality to the atmosphere she is only now aware of, an element just at the limit of her senses; the subliminal electric hum of endorphins and adrenalin.

  Her heart is going too fast and she takes a breath to steady it. The warm air cool against her face. She wipes her cheeks with the back of one hand, wishing for mirrors. Two women passing smile without stopping.

  Beyond the hallway she can see the upper rooms, the largest chambers, like John’s study, faced with glass. The crowd up against nothing, as if it might topple out into the dark –

  She can see Anneli. She stands out from her visitors, listening to something said, not quite laughing in response. Her hair is up, and in it there are diamonds, even from two rooms away Anna can see them, their brightness out of all proportion to their size. She looks happy, it seems to Anna. But the longer she looks, the more ambiguous Anneli’s face becomes, until, if Anna imagines her mouth away, it is no longer clear if the other woman is smiling at all.

  Something whacks against her hip. Muriet is beside her, leering maliciously, a glass in one hand, the other still curled into a fist.

  ‘What was that for?’

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For everything.’ Then with less reproach, more sympathy, ‘You missed all the best food. Nathan ate ermine. Do you like ceviche?’

  ‘Not if you’re going to hit me with it. Muriet, have you seen Nathan’s father?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to give him something,’ she says, one answer out of many. The first that comes to her.

  ‘A present?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘a kind of present.’

  ‘He was inside talking about money, then he was outside talking about snow, then he was outside with Nathan. I don’t know after that. He doesn’t like parties. Nathan says he used to like them but he doesn’t now. I saved you some ceviche,’ she says elliptically, as if to continue on a brighter note. ‘Nathan says it’s something like fish. Why did you take so long?’

  ‘I had to get ready.’

  ‘You look better.’ She reaches for Anna’s hand. ‘Come for a walk? I’ll show you something nice.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘Good. Not yet,’ she says, ‘Anneli wants you first.’ And holding on to Anna she leads her away through the milling of the crowd.

  They are seen before they are in speaking distance. Anneli’s face lights up with pleasure, relief, or some admix ture of the two. ‘Anna!’ she cries as they reach her, and the guests around her look up with forced goodwill, like diners disturbed at table. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’

  ‘Of course she came,’ says a woman in livid red brocade. ‘Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘Anna works for the Revenue,’ Anneli says, as if it is an acceptable explanation of antisocial tendencies, and then, as those around her express or feign varying degrees of interest, ‘Anna, this is John Tissier, the ex-Minister for Defence, his partner Jane – Jane Luther, the economist – Asian Saad, the mathematician. Professor Saad was just asking how we could stand living here.’

  The mathematician shrugs without embarrassment. He is young, heavy-jowled under a caul of sweat. Anna looks down, imagining Muriet’s expression, wanting to share in it, but the girl is gone. ‘I was making a legitimate point.’

  ‘You were being incredibly rude,’ says the ex-Minister for Defence mildly. ‘The way you always are. It must be something to do with numbers, do you think? Numbers and company don’t mix. Is your husband incredibly rude, Mrs Law?’

  ‘So rude no one can find him.’

  Laughter, more polite than genuine. Through it comes the mathematician’s voice. ‘It has everything to do with numbers. My rudeness. As you so call it.’

  ‘As we so call it?’ When the woman in brocade laughs her eyes narrow to affectionate slits, as if she is with old friends. There is a cigarette in her hand, motionless, burnt down to a ram’s horn of ash. ‘What would you call it?’

  ‘Curiosity. Numbers are always telling. For example, there is the number of people living in this house, and the number of rooms they inhabit –’

  ‘Eighty-eight, I read that somewhere,’ says the ex-Minister. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘But such handsome rooms!’ Jane leans in on her hostess, ‘Do you know, they always remind me of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue –’

  ‘Would anyone like another drink? Anna, or are you on duty? Jane, what’ll it be?’

  ‘The moon and stars and everything in between.’

  ‘How about something in the mean time?’

  ‘Martini.’

  ‘And how many is that?’

  ‘Mind your own business. People in glass houses –’

  ‘Eighty-eight rooms,’ repeats Asian Saad, ponderously insistent. There is a shine to his eyes which suggests he is not quite harmlessly drunk. ‘And three inhabitants. It is the mathematics of inequality, if you will.’

  ‘It’s not only us here, of course,’ Anneli says. When she speaks nervously it is too quickly, her accent comes through more strongly. The diamonds she wears glitter, bored, strung onto the strands of her hair. ‘There are the day and night staff, the guards, all of them have rooms here if they need them – the children’s tutors in term time. We don’t really live here alone. Not alone.’ She turns to Anna, shivers for effect. ‘Homes aren’t made to be lived in alone, are they? The homes of the single are a little scary, I find. No one is to know what they get up to.’

  More laughter, no less uncomfortable. But I live alone, Anna thinks, and doesn’t say, though to Anneli she doesn’t need to; the knowledge of her mistake is there in the other woman’s face, the way it falls in the moment before she is aware of herself. She turns to her other guests.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m afraid there was something I needed to discuss with Anna.’

  ‘Taxes?’ Avidly.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse us, Asian, please, Jane, it was good to – John –’

  ‘I told you – ‘ Anna hears, as Jane Luther turns away, but what she told her partner Anna will never know, can only guess. They are already gone, losing themselves in the crowd, and the young Professor too has almost vanished, as if he was barely present at all; only his arm is still visible, like the smile of the Cheshire Cat, reaching between faces for the nearest tray.

  ‘Creep,’ Anneli says after him. Her voice is low and warmly venomous, her head bent, and the naivety of the insult so unexpected from her that for a moment Anna thinks she must have misheard. Anneli, seeing her surprise, finds a smile. ‘It’s what Nathan and Muriet call them. The Creepy Cryptics.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘People like Saad, who attach themselves to John. I don’t know how he got in, he certainly wasn’t invited. I should probably tell Terence. They always creep in somehow and they’re always cryptic, as if they know something about us we don’t. So. It’s a kind of joke,’ she adds, absently helpful, stirring the ice in her highball. ‘I’m sorry. To use you as an excuse.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes!’ Anneli says, urging the apology on her. ‘Because I’m always apologising to you, aren’t I? And asking for favours. You’ve been very kind, in the circumstances. Are you enjoying yourself?’

  ‘Very much,’ Anna says; an easy lie, the expected one, but Anneli is shaking her head.

  ‘Act
ually no. That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Then what –’

  ‘Your work.’ Shrewdly smiling. ‘I meant your work. But I know you’re not, really. You’re just doing your job, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh. But my work here is finished. I’m not here as the Revenue, I’m really only here as myself … John must have told you –’ she says, but Anneli is waving her away.

  ‘I have another favour to ask you. It’s a question. Would you mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Do the wives always know?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Do they know?’ Anneli’s voice is conversational again, light and insistent as dancing, as if she is saying nothing. ‘When their husbands lie to the Revenue? When you meet the families of your clients, the loved ones, all those significant others, do they lie to you too? Do they know that they should? I suppose it’s a simple question. I’m asking if I should know.’

  The lights go out without warning. At the same moment, as if synchronised, there is an explosion outside the glass rooms. The sky is lit with suspensions of gold, so high up they might be atmospheric phenomena. There is a second burst, a third; hollow cubes, spheres, pyramids. The reports echo across the landscape. The shapes drift northwards over the river, collapsing into their own reflections.

  Fireworks, someone murmurs in the dark, in the tone of voice with which they might have said, It’s alright, it’s nothing. Go back to sleep. Even so there is a groundswell of voices, a sound both desultory and expectant. Above the explosions the distant fin lights of airships are visible, zeppelins holding their positions at high altitude, their proportions ghostly and martial in the pall of smoke.

  She becomes aware of the glass in her hand. She is holding it too tightly, the long bulb giving fractionally against her fingers. Delicately dangerous. She relaxes her grip. ‘Are you saying John lied to me?’ she says, and Anneli laughs as if the slight, dark figure next to her has said something charming, though her voice is falling over itself, no longer fit for public consumption.