by Holly Webb
“The house isn’t like that now. It doesn’t belong to the Penhallow family any more – it’s for everyone to visit. I promise William won’t mind that you’re here.”
“Can’t say the same for Magnus,” Rex muttered. “He’s an infernal snob.”
Magnus did look quite disgusted by the small rat-catcher but he managed to control himself. Polly thought it was because he was so pleased to see William lying on the nursery floor, surrounded by bits of paper and clearly enjoying himself. Magnus would put up with what he would probably call low company to keep his boy happy.
“You’ve already thought of the simplest sort of codes,” William said, his voice muffled by the pencil he was chewing. “I thought you might be right, turning it back into letters and then working the Caesar cipher, but it doesn’t fit.”
“The what?”
“Caesar cipher. Julius Caesar invented it – it’s what you were trying to do with jumping the letters backwards and forwards along the line.” He pointed to Polly’s written-out alphabet. “It’s a transposition cipher, you jump three letters forward – Caesar invented it so he could send coded letters. Our Latin master showed us one day when he was in a good mood.”
“Oh. So if it isn’t that, do you know what it is?”
“No.” William twirled the pencil round his fingers. “Could be a columnar cipher, I suppose. Which is a bit of a beast to solve since we don’t know their keyword. But usually it’s a series of letters… I don’t see why they’d turn it into numbers as well. It being in numbers like this probably means it’s a book code and we haven’t a hope of solving it unless we find the book. Which isn’t likely, since this was written three hundred years ago.” William didn’t look as though he minded, though. He was still staring vaguely at the code, obviously enjoying himself.
“Pretend you’re talking to somebody who’s never seen a book code,” Polly said, putting her hand over the message. She’d copied it out, so they weren’t putting their fingers all over the real one.
William blinked at her. “Really? You’ve never seen one before?”
“No! This is why I asked you to help!”
William beamed at her. “Right, I forgot. So, a book code’s when both people – the person sending the message and the person who has to read it – they both have the same book. And for each word in the message, the person sending it finds the same word in the book. And they put the page number and the line number and the number the word comes in the line. It’s very simple. Of course, there are much better sorts of code to use, using just a keyword so you don’t need to have a book…”
William’s eyes glazed over again and Polly sighed. “Please don’t start inventing new codes! We need you to solve this one! But … I’m not sure it can be a book code.”
“Why not? It looks like one – the way the numbers are set out.”
“I’m just not sure Jake and Nat would own books. I mean, this is hundreds of years ago and Jake was a stable boy, he can’t have had much money. Would he really spend it on a book? People didn’t have to go to school then, did they? It’s amazing he could even read and write.”
“Oh…” William looked down at the paper thoughtfully. “I see what you mean. What about a Bible, though? Didn’t most people have one of those, at least?”
Polly looked at Patch, who was looking between them, tracking the conversation anxiously. “Did Jake have a book? A Bible, maybe?”
The terrier pawed at the ground. “Not that I remember,” he said slowly.
“Maybe it isn’t that then… I’ll keep thinking,” William promised. “But the thing is, Polly, if it does turn out to be a book code after all – well, it isn’t much good without the book.”
Polly left the code with William – actually, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to tear it out of his hands – but she wasn’t hopeful. She said goodbye to Rex and Patch, and hurried up the stairs to the flat, thinking about highwaymen.
Even the word sounded dangerous – she imagined tall men in masks and flowing black cloaks. They’d have horses too, of course. Fast ones, which would have been trained not to bolt when pistols were fired over their heads at the coachmen… Were there highwaywomen, at all? Polly wondered. She had a feeling there weren’t – most of the dramatic jobs in the past seemed to have been only for boys.
But from what she’d heard so far, Jake’s brother seemed to have spent a lot of his time sneaking about in the dark. Being a highwayman probably hadn’t been nearly as adventurous as it sounded. And it was all very well rearing a horse in front of a coach and shouting, “Stand and deliver!” or “Your money or your life!” but Polly couldn’t help thinking of the poor people in the coaches, and how scared they must have been when they were held up.
Was there something about highwaymen in any of the books in the flat? Polly had read the guidebook to Penhallow all the way through now, but she didn’t remember it mentioning highway robbery.
“I’ll put the kettle on!” she called to her mum, when she heard the door to the flat opening a few minutes after she got back.
“Oooh, perfect.” Her mum slumped down on to the sofa, just like Rex had earlier on, and Polly turned back towards the kitchen to hide her smile.
“Did you finish all the stuff you needed to do?” Polly asked, when she returned with a cup of tea.
“Ye-es. I’m still working on all the last bits for the Halloween celebrations. But I’d love to think of some way to make the parade more special. And I can’t. We don’t want it to be scary, just fun. Thanks for the tea, sweetie.” She glanced at the book on the history of Penhallow that was next to her on the sofa. “Were you reading this, Poll? What were you looking for?”
“Oh! Highwaymen. You don’t know anything about highwaymen at Penhallow, do you?” Polly asked, sitting down at the other end of the sofa and squeezing herself under her mum’s feet. “I was reading a story with a highwayman in it and I just wondered if there was anything about them holding people up near here.”
Her mum frowned, a thinking sort of face that reminded Polly of William trying to solve the code. “There were some famous robberies in Cornwall, I know that. There was a woman called Mary Bryant who was transported to Australia for seven years for stealing a bonnet. Being transported was like a sort of even worse prison sentence, the British had a prison colony in Australia then.”
“Just for stealing a bonnet?” It sounded very strict.
“She was supposed to be hanged,” her mum said, sighing. “The law was a lot harsher in those days. And actually, she escaped from Australia. She and her husband and some friends stole a boat and managed to get away. They got caught again because her husband couldn’t help boasting about how clever he’d been. But Mary Bryant was from Fowey and that’s not very close to here, and I suppose it wasn’t quite highway robbery the way you meant either… Oh! I remember! I’m sure there’s something about highwaymen in the records of the local Justices. That people on their way to parties and balls at Penhallow were set upon by robbers.”
“Wow… So did the police catch them?”
“Well, there weren’t any police then. There weren’t really any at all until the Bow Street Runners were started and that wasn’t until the 1700s. I’m sure the records about Penhallow I’m thinking of were earlier than that.”
“But … but if there weren’t any police, what did people do? I mean, if someone was robbed? I don’t get it.”
“I know it seems strange – there were constables but they didn’t really chase criminals, they were more there to do the arresting once the criminals were caught. I think people almost acted as their own police – a bit like someone making a citizen’s arrest. That’s what happened at Penhallow. The owner of the house back then – he was a Justice of the Peace, which meant he’d be the one in charge of sentencing criminals. I seem to remember he was so furious about the robberies that he organized all the servants into a sort of police force and led them to catch the highwaymen himself.”
Polly swallowed. “So … which Penhallow was that?”
Her mum frowned, trying hard to remember. “Oh, I get them mixed up. The one before Laurence – I think it could be Anthony.”
Polly nodded. That was the name Patch had said.
“If you’re really interested, Polly, we can have a quick look in the picture gallery. Although I suppose it’s a bit late.”
“No, it isn’t!” Polly jumped up. “You can take your tea with you, Mum. Please…”
“Well, it is the holidays!” Polly’s mum smiled. “I know there’s a portrait of him because he’s painted with a set of scales, to show that he’s a judge. Judges are supposed to weigh the truth when they listen to a case,” she added, as she saw that Polly was looking confused again. “They weigh the evidence in their heads to decide if someone’s guilty or innocent. His name will be on one of those little labels on the portrait frame. I think there’s a painting of one of those grand parties as well, actually.”
“You’re not too tired?” Polly said, remembering the way her mum had flopped on to the sofa.
“Not if you pull me up. You know I love showing you this kind of stuff. It’s been brilliant having you here, where I work. I feel like you know loads more about my job than you ever did when I worked at the museum back in London.”
Polly grabbed her mum’s hands and hauled her out of the cushions, and they went down the twisting staircase and through the main house to the long, narrow gallery. It wasn’t one of the rooms that was open to visitors, and Polly like to read there sometimes. It had very comfy, tattered window-seat cushions. She couldn’t remember the particular paintings her mum was talking about but that wasn’t so strange – there were hundreds of them, hanging all the way up the walls.
Polly’s mum searched along the walls, muttering to herself. “Now, where was he? I know it was this side. Oh, here look, Polly. It is Sir Anthony, it says here.”
The man in the portrait had long, slightly curling dark hair and a thin moustache. He seemed to be wearing a grand sort of robe and her mum was right – there was a tiny pair of scales dangling from his hand. He looked – Polly bit her lip because she didn’t like to think it, but Sir Anthony looked cruel. As though he’d send all criminals he judged to the gallows without a second thought. It was something about his mouth, the way his thin lips were pressed together. Polly shivered.
“And this is the other one that I was talking about.” Her mum crouched down to get a better look – the paintings really did go all over the walls and this one was tucked away in a corner at the bottom. “It must have been an amazing party.”
“Do you know when it was?” Polly asked, kneeling down in front of the picture. It seemed very dark at first but when she looked closer, she could see that it was an evening party in the gardens. It was obviously Penhallow too – she could see the terrace in the background, and there were the statues of Magnus and Rex, with strings of glowing lanterns hanging on poles above their heads. “Was it for someone’s birthday? Or a wedding?”
“I don’t know.” Her mum shook her head. “Do you think that’s him?” She pointed to a figure with the same curly dark hair, dancing on the grass with a woman in a pink silk dress. He was looking out of the painting and he had that same hard expression on his face.
“Yes,” Polly whispered. She was starting to feel a little bit more sympathetic to Jake’s brother.
“Maybe we should think about moving this painting to be on display somewhere,” her mum wondered aloud. “It’s so interesting to see a painting of the house from back then.”
“I love the lanterns. They make the marble on the terrace glow gold. Hey! Mum!” Polly jumped up. “You know you wanted something special for the Halloween celebrations? You could have a lantern parade!”
Polly’s mum stared at her, eyes widening. “With everyone in their costumes… Oh, Polly, what a fab idea! I’ve seen photos of lantern parades, ones where people made the lanterns themselves out of paper. I wonder if we’ve got time to organize some lantern-making workshops? There’s a whole week to go before Halloween…”
“I could help – I mean, it’s half-term so I’m around. Making lanterns sounds fun.” As long as it doesn’t stop me finding out what happened to Jake and Patch, Polly added to herself.
The next morning, Polly was still huddled under her duvet when her mum came in with a plate of toast. “Morning, sweetie!”
“It’s too early…” Polly groaned. “It’s practically still dark, Mum! And it’s the holidays!”
“I know, sorry. I was just so excited about your lantern idea. I sent some emails about it last night and the volunteers who help with the Halloween celebrations think it’s a great idea too. So I’ve been up early, ordering the special paper and the willow sticks we’ll have to use to make the lantern frames. They’re going to be delivered tomorrow!”
“Wow!” Polly unrolled herself from the duvet. “That’s fast.”
“Yes, it turns out that Nina’s made them before and she’s very enthusiastic. She says she wishes she’d thought of it herself. So she’s happy to lead the workshop. And I’m going to ring the local paper to get them to put in something about the parade. It’s so exciting! Anyway, you don’t have to get up right this minute but I brought you breakfast.” She put the toast down on Polly’s bedside table. “And something to read, look. I found this in the filing cabinet. It’s a folder with photographs of some seventeenth-century documents that relate to the house. Somebody must have been planning to use them for a display. I’ve made photocopies of them for you, Polly. You might find something about highwaymen at Penhallow. See you later!”
Polly reached out a hand to the toast and blinked thoughtfully at the folder, which her mum had balanced in a crease of the duvet. She was suddenly feeling a lot less sleepy. The documents might give her some clue about what had actually happened to Jake. Yawning a little, she wriggled back, pushed up her pillow and started to flip through the pages.
The first few were all copies of account books from the estate and not very interesting – they listed the rent payments for the various farms that belonged to Sir Anthony and noted the wages for the servants. Polly tried to skim through them – after all, Sir Anthony might have paid them extra money to go and fight highwaymen. But there was nothing like that.
She was about to give up when she found something entirely different. It reminded her a little of the Wanted poster they’d found in Jake’s leather pouch – something about the heavy black type. But this was more like a poem or a song, laid out in verses.
“The Tragical Ballad of Johnny Marks,” she murmured to herself. It sounded so familiar. Then her heart thumped hard. She did know it. Patch had told her – it was the song that Jake and his brother would sing or whistle to signal that it was safe to meet.
Polly turned the sheet between her hands, confused. It seemed odd for it to be just one page. She’d thought at first that someone had torn it out of a book but the edges looked quite clean. The person who’d assembled the collection of papers had added a sticky note to the photograph, which her mum had photocopied with it. Ballad sheet – 1660s? Odd marks on some lines, it read. But it was hard to see what that meant. Polly peered at the photo, wishing she could see the original paper. It looked like there might be faint lines drawn under some words. It did seem strange.
Polly looked at it for a few moments more, then she yelped and leaped out of bed, the sheets from the folder flying all over the room. She dragged on some clothes without even looking at them properly and raced out of the flat clutching the photocopy. She galloped down the turret steps, then back up the main stairs to get to the nursery corridor.
It was only nine o’clock and the house didn’t open until ten but there were staff around already. She couldn’t go flying into the nursery yelling for William like she wanted to. Instead she dithered in the passageway, peering in hopefully. Lizzie, one of the volunteers, was dusting the huge doll’s house and Polly couldn’t think of an excuse to get
in there, let alone to try and call William.
“Did you actually brush your hair this morning?”
Polly slapped her hand across her mouth to muffle her shocked squeak and ducked away from the door. “Don’t do that to me!” she gasped. She grabbed William by the arm – flinching a little as the ghost-substance of him gave way beneath her fingers – and pulled him up the passageway into the old nursery kitchen, which wasn’t open to visitors. Magnus lolloped after them.
“It looks like you just got out of bed,” William said, eyeing her hair sideways. “It’s everywhere.”
“I don’t care. And I did just get out of bed, anyway. Look!” She held the sheet up in front of his nose and William took it. Magnus looked over his arm to see what it was too.
“A poem?” William frowned at her. “What are you so excited about a poem for?”
“It isn’t a poem. It’s a song – The Tragical Ballad of Johnny Marks. It’s their song! Jake and Nat’s song. William, I think this is the key to the code! I don’t know, could you buy ballad sheets like this? It wouldn’t have cost much, would it? So they could have a copy each.” She leaned over his shoulder, pointing at the underlined words. “Doesn’t that look like somebody trying to work out which words to use? They’ve underlined ‘You’, look.”
William snatched the paper closer, gazing at it eagerly. “It could be. Here, look.” He pulled Polly’s copy of the original message out of his pocket and the pair of them leaned on the windowsill in the dusty old room, scribbling and counting.
