The Locksmith's Daughter

by Karen Brooks

  ‘Ah, Erasmus’s In Praise of Folly.’ I glanced back at Sir Francis, then at Thomas, who looked astonished that I recognised the title. Were they testing my knowledge of Latin? Before I could say anything, Thomas jerked his head towards the book.

  ‘Turn to page thirty-three.’

  I silently moved one of the candles closer and turned to the page as directed. Instead of a page of prose, there were rows of letters neatly arranged in columns, followed by some symbols.

  ‘Do you know what that is?’ asked Sir Francis.

  ‘Aye, I’ve seen this before. In a copy of Stenographia by the Abbot Trithemius.’ Incredulity crossed Thomas’s face. I pressed on. ‘I purchased it from one of the book booths at the Royal Exchange.’ I’d been thirteen years old. Master Fodrake had been delighted. ‘It’s a cipher of some kind.’ I looked at Thomas. ‘Is it not?’

  Sir Francis chuckled. ‘That’s exactly what it is.’ He reached over my shoulder and stabbed the page with a finger. ‘The letters in every second line substitute for those here in the first.’ His finger drifted across the symbols. ‘These are nulls, used when a word ends or to confuse a code-breaker. We don’t often worry about phrases or paragraphs, but run the message in continuous lines. My men are very skilled at deciphering these, Thomas especially.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ added Thomas, ‘particularly if you know to whom you are sending the code, a mere symbol will suffice — we can convey with a few symbols what would otherwise take sentences.’

  Sir Francis withdrew his hand. ‘I want you to learn to use this cipher, and others, so that when you compose your reports for me, only we can read them. This will be your first lesson and Thomas will be your teacher. Do you think you can do this?’

  What was I to say? That I relished the thought of immersing myself in such a task? That writing code was akin to a game or learning a new language that only a few spoke? That to be included in such an enterprise when I was excluded from so many others was thrilling? I balled my hands into fists and forced myself to sound calm.

  ‘I think so.’ Modesty. And mediocrita.

  ‘Good. You will practise — with Thomas and me and, later, others. We will use the same cipher. Each night, you’ll be set a page to translate — into English or another language before putting it into code — or a report to write.’

  ‘Is that all you want me to learn, Sir Francis?’

  Thomas bit back a sound that might have been a groan.

  ‘Oh, no Mallory,’ said Sir Francis, folding his arms and looking down his long nose. ‘This is just the beginning …’

  TWELVE

  HARP LANE, LONDON

  Mid-January to early March, Anno Domini 1581

  In the 23rd year of the reign of Elizabeth I

  And so it was. How do I describe the world into which I was plunged over the next few weeks? From locks and tools as familiar to me as my own fingers, I became an avid explorer in a new world, once more the best and most earnest of students.

  It took me less than a week to learn the code I was first shown. Every night I was given a passage from a book or a letter to either decipher or turn into code. I accomplished this with no mistakes. Much to my surprise, I was also given responses to none other than Campion’s ‘Brag’ to put into code, the very letter the Jesuit wrote to the Privy Council to defend his presence in England. These included extracts from a pamphlet by William Charke and another by an Oxford theologian named Meredith Hammer. Both men took Campion to task and identified him as an enemy to be feared. I was given Catholic tracts to cipher, as well as parts of John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs and many more works besides. Not only were these assignments teaching me to code and decode, they were lessons in the battle being waged between Catholics and Protestants.

  Unable to believe there were no errors in what I handed to him each morning, Thomas set me more and more complex work. He even had me ciphering different languages. The results were without flaw. After two weeks, and a particularly difficult letter coded in French, he gave me what might have been a smile. Looking back at the paper I handed him, he nodded approvingly.

  ‘Well done, Mistress Mallory. We may make a watcher of you yet.’

  Thomas accompanied me home one afternoon and insisted we go a roundabout way via Leadenhall Markets, where he had dwellings. Snow had fallen throughout the day, making our passage more difficult and sodden than usual. Clouds hung low in the sky, giving the streets and lanes an oppressive air and darkening the afternoon light.

  Groups of heavily wrapped folk stood shivering behind stalls or before crackling braziers that sent sparks spiralling into the sky, and eyes followed their glowing ascent lest they land on thatch. I didn’t think there’d be much danger of fire when everything was so damp. A few vendors tried to attract our attention, calling out their wares, stepping into our path, but their efforts were apathetic at best. Ale-houses were doing a fine trade, with customers spilling out onto the road. Down the laneways, hammering could be heard, as well as voices raised in argument. Outside one inn, a row of men stood with their backs to the street relieving themselves against a wall; one kicked a cat that had meandered between his legs. Dogs and children dashed past, the cold making them fleet-footed, though I noticed Thomas’s hand dropped to the sword at his side whenever anyone pressed too close. I’d lived in London long enough to be wary of pickpockets, but Thomas’s weapon and the way his hand hovered above the pommel kept our purses safe.

  Lamps were being lit and the night watchmen had taken to the street by the time we reached my gate. I turned to thank Thomas for his escort, wondering why we’d ventured so far out of the way.

  ‘For tonight’s undertaking,’ he began. Despite working with me so closely for a number of weeks, he maintained a distance between us. I was never to forget who was the master and who the student. ‘I want a full report of everything you observed as we walked here — the people, the buildings, the mood. Was anyone suspicious? If so, why? What conversations did you overhear? What were people carrying? Buying and selling? I want you to record everything.’

  I stared at him in consternation. ‘You could have told me this before we left Seething Lane.’

  ‘I could have,’ he said. ‘But what purpose would that serve?’ He doffed his hat and before I could reply, disappeared into the shadows, narrowly avoiding a gentleman on horseback.

  ‘What purpose indeed,’ I sighed, and opened the gate.

  I laboured long and hard over my task, burning candles well into the small hours and losing sleep. When I passed the report to Thomas the following day, I watched in silence as he read it. It was all I could do not to lay my arms upon the desk and rest my head.

  Behind me, the door to Sir Francis’s study was closed. I’d not caught sight of him in weeks. Committed to Parliament, he oft slept at Whitehall, where he had rooms. Knowing he’d be absent didn’t prevent me from searching for evidence of his return. There was none. Yet I knew he was aware of everything I did, my strengths and weaknesses. Thomas wrote to him daily.

  Minutes passed. The small fire burned, the candles sputtered and still Thomas read. After all, there were many pages to get through. What he hadn’t known when he set me the task was that I had excellent recollection. As a lock-pick and an only child, my memory was both an essential tool and my finest friend.

  So when I wrote down what I’d seen on our long walk to Harp Lane, I included the name of every single street and byway, the number of shops we’d passed and what they sold, the different stalls we’d seen and the roaming vendors, their panniers and baskets half-empty. I recalled the cow with the discordant bell and the thin, disconsolate maid leading it. I described in detail the clothing of the women lingering near the conduit in Cornhill Street, the number of children, the toys they carried and even the condition of the dogs scavenging among the ditches. The pigs being herded into the churchyard of St Benet’s didn’t escape my notice either, nor the swineherd who, though he wore a grubby jacket and breeches, was possessed of a creamy shi
rt and hands that didn’t belong to a farmer. With his cap pulled low, I couldn’t see the cast of his eyes, but his beard was well trimmed, as was his hair. A finely dressed woman admitted him into the yard, looking over her shoulder as she clumsily hauled the gate shut. She was of middling years and, from the linen kerchief pressed to her nose and lips, uncomfortable with the odour of the swine.

  I listed every church between Little Eastcheap and Harp Lane as well as the number of times the bells tolled. Admittedly, much of this was not something I knew simply from the afternoon’s amble, but from years of living within the parishes. I even made note of the men dressed for a meeting at the Baker’s Hall who spilled from the Queen’s Arms as we passed, as well as the three wenches who, with décolletages on display, tried to delay them.

  I saw money change hands, a pistol drawn and flourished, four boys spoiling for a fight and, in the darkening reaches of Love Lane, just as we passed St Andrew Hubbard, two young women tugging each other’s hair, spitting and wailing while a group of men and women urged them on.

  All in all, I was pleased with what I wrote, and how I had ciphered it, but as Thomas continued to read, and his expression revealed nothing, my confidence began to retreat. What if this was not what Sir Francis or Thomas wanted? What if my woman’s eye was not as discerning as a man’s? Would he mock my observations? Discard them as the feeble ramblings of a dizzy-minded female? I’d grown accustomed to Thomas and his ways. He was unlike any other man of my acquaintance — Papa, Caleb, Raffe or Lord Nathaniel — and indifferent to anything but his work. I was not so much a person as another task to be completed. He hovered between treating me with barely disguised resignation and, lately, a little pride. As if I was a job well done.

  I was so preoccupied, I didn’t notice he’d taken off his glasses and begun to wipe them with a kerchief, his eyes still on the paper before him. He cleared his throat. My hands were balled so tightly in my lap, my knuckles were white.

  ‘Well?’ I asked hesitantly.

  Thomas wrapped the metal ends of his spectacles around his ears, blinked and stared at me. He had the look of a dishevelled owl, and I resisted the urge to reach out and flatten the tuft of hair sprouting from his head.

  ‘Mistress Mallory. I have to say, this is exceptional.’

  ‘Really?’ I sat forward. I hadn’t known how much I wanted to hear words of praise from this clever man’s lips.

  ‘Really. I can scarce believe what you’ve noted; the detail you’ve given, and all without mistake.’

  My heart pumped so hard it hurt. I twisted the document around, the pages fanning beneath my hands. ‘The swineherd at the church —’

  ‘Ah, you’re quite right. He is not what he seems. I’m astounded you observed what you did about him. We walked past there swiftly as well.’

  I couldn’t help it; I beamed. ‘And the women — the ones near the inn. I felt they weren’t simply —’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ said Thomas, turning the pages back to face him, picking them up and straightening them by tapping them on the desk. ‘They were not.’ He held up a hand to stop me talking further.

  ‘Mallory — I may call you that?’

  I nodded.

  ‘This is quite simply remarkable. Not only for the insight and descriptions that would give our man, Charles Sledd, pause, but you have mastered one of the most difficult codes of all. I never thought I would say this, but I am impressed. Furthermore, I know Sir Francis will be as well.’

  I didn’t dare speak.

  ‘I think it’s time we added some more lessons to the curriculum.’

  The report I wrote about our walk home to Harp Lane altered my relations with Thomas Phelippes. Whereas he’d begun instructing me grudgingly, simply because his master had ordered him, he now became my ally. He not only taught me because he had to, but also because he understood he had a willing and apt pupil. From ciphers (of which I learned three more — even using genuine documents from earlier in the Queen’s reign, ones pertaining to marriage agreements, the movement of troops in Ireland and more besides), I graduated to being able to make and write with invisible ink. The juice of oranges, lemons and even milk sufficed, all of them being absorbed into paper until they could no longer be seen. Upon heating, the script, and thus the message, was revealed. It was an alchemy that was marvellous in my eyes.

  At home I would take an occasional piece of fruit from the kitchen or a tankard of milk from the pail, carry it to my room and delight in practising. Able to eat the pulp of the fruit, I’d only to discard the rinds. If I forgot to drink the milk, Latch would purr with gratitude.

  Over the following weeks, other men with different talents were brought to my small room at the rear of Sir Francis’s house in order to further my training. Without exception, they resented sharing their skills with a woman. They spoke in barely coherent sentences, refused to answer my questions, provided examples a scholar would be hard pressed to emulate, and left before I was able to practise or ask them to repeat anything I didn’t understand. Ungenerous with their time and knowledge, they wanted me to fail.

  Of course, I made sure I would not. I redoubled my efforts. And I never breathed a word of complaint.

  I’d no idea who these men were. They did not give their names and were not given mine. From their dress and my knowledge of the sumptuary laws, which prescribed which ranks could wear certain clothes, it seemed they came from all walks of life: from the nobility to gentlemen to those below them. Whether garbed in rich velvets, silks and brocades and carrying a pomander between their beringed fingers, or wearing stained leather, fustian and wool, these men would pace the room or perch on the stool at the very end of my desk. Others, clothed in dirty smocks and with ruinous teeth and breath, would leer at me over the desk, or sit with their arms folded, barely meeting my eyes. Most, however, were dressed like my father — cleanly and neatly, with an air about them of lawyers or merchants. What made them so interesting was that, over time, I came to understand that any one of them could be in disguise, for that was something else I was taught.

  At first I thought it was as simple as donning a different outfit or fitting a wig. But, like the codes that appeared straightforward on the surface, there was much more to it than wearing another set of clothes or affecting an accent. Moving your body a particular way, altering the pitch of your voice, the tempo of your speech, the way you addressed folk, mannerisms, stride: all were essential to being convincing in a role.

  Late at night in my room, I would practise becoming someone different — older and younger; saucy women and polite gentlewomen. Emulating those I saw on my daily walks, I would affect their facial expressions, their way of speaking and moving, becoming more confident and surprising Thomas with my skill. For certes, observing Caleb and helping him con his lines as well as attending the theatre meant I’d had years of absorbing such talents.

  What astonished me was how much I enjoyed it. I thought all joy in wearing pretty clothes, using my smile and my eyes to express pleasure, show affection or interest, had gone for good. Drawing attention to myself only led to pain. My false knight had taught me many things about being a woman — a woman who existed only for one man’s notice. He noticed me with lips, fist or cock, depending on his mood.

  Sir Francis and his men weren’t undoing the lessons Raffe had imparted so much as transforming them, encouraging me to use my attributes, such as they were, to attract notice or, when required, to pass without a second glance, to appear browbeaten and defeated. For the first time since my rescue, I was able to draw on my experiences and use them in a way I had never anticipated.

  This went some way to restoring my confidence and helping me reclaim who I’d once been, only tempered, honed and steeled — like the locks Papa forged.

  Locks were another way I was tested. Oft-times Thomas would appear at my door, a padlock or small locked box in his hands, requesting I open it. It was easy to bring my lock-picking tools to Seething Lane as they fitted neatly in my purse. Th
omas would watch while I inserted the picks and sprang the various mechanisms, then passed them over without a word. Indifferent to my skills at first, as some of the locks became more complex Thomas could no longer feign a lack of interest. One Sunday, when the house was all but empty, the servants attending a late service, Thomas led me through the place, making me unlock every door then relock them. Not once, but thrice, we moved up and down the corridors, my speed increasing each time. The only exception was Sir Francis’s study.

  Without a word, he led me back to my room and passed me a letter from an agent in France to decode. When he brought me a cup of ale and some bread moments later, I knew he was pleased with my efforts. In the short time I’d known him, I’d discovered Thomas was a man of few words whose actions defined him.

  I was also given lessons in geography, but not of our country or the lands and seas around it — of what use were they, when a map told me all I needed to know? It was the nearby streets and laneways, as well as those across the river, I was to learn by heart. Every exit and entry into the various churchyards, ale-houses, inns and taverns was explained over and over, as were the tunnels beneath the city, holes in the walls, short cuts from one parish to the next. I learned who could be paid to keep silent and who, for a groat, would talk. Crude line drawings were made which I was forced to replicate the next day and the next, drawing arrows to indicate how I would flee if pursued, where I would hide. I was told how to exit from the river without being seen, disappear over a rooftop, which houses were empty and regarded as ‘safe’. Who I could ask for shelter. Who to avoid.

  One day in late February, Thomas met me at the door of Seething Lane and, instead of welcoming me in, took me by the arm and walked me through the same streets I’d been studying, subtly pointing out the errant staircase, broken window, torn pigskin or almost hidden snickets by the river and the various hiding places. Sometimes, the ladder I’d been told about had vanished, the hole in the wall repaired, or a house believed vacant had occupants.