The Explorer's Code

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “I think there were some British naval ships named Nautilus,” Tom said, skimming through the book.

  Marian was sitting quietly, staring at the paper. “I know this may sound silly,” she said, “but I think these numbers could be a book cipher.”

  They all looked at her in surprise.

  “I read a lot of mysteries,” she explained. “Tom usually thinks I am filling my head with all kinds of nonsense. And he is probably right. . . .”

  “She always has a mystery on her bed table,” he affirmed. “But, Marian, I wouldn’t dream of criticizing what you read.”

  They exchanged a tender glance as Marian continued. “I don’t know if you have heard of a ‘book cipher.’ It was popular in Victorian literature.”

  “How does it work?” asked Cordelia.

  “There is usually a key text. It’s the basis of the code. For example, it can be a passage in the Bible or any other classic book, like David Copperfield or Moby-Dick.”

  “Marian, I had no idea . . .” Tom was looking at her in astonishment.

  “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created this type of code in the ‘The Adventure of the Dancing Men.’ ”

  “Could this be that code?”

  “No. I was just using that as an example. There are thousands. It’s called cryptoanalysis. Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Gold-Bug’ also uses a cipher text. Poe was an expert at ciphers and codes. The hero in that story uses it to find the buried treasure of Captain Kidd.”

  “It sounds very plausible, if codes were popular at the t—” said Sinclair.

  Cordelia broke in. “Wait! If it’s a book code . . . when was Jules Verne published?”

  They all stopped to consider, but nobody answered.

  “In Jules Verne,” Cordelia continued, “the captain of the Nautilus is Captain Nemo in Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.”

  “Of course,” said Tom and Sinclair in unison.

  “I haven’t read it since I was a child. But that book is what started my interest in submarines,” Cordelia explained.

  Tom had pulled down a volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and looked up the entry for Jules Verne. He read silently for a moment.

  “Verne was at the peak of popularity in the 1870s,” Tom said, snapping the book shut. “That was right in the middle of the Victorian era. The book would have been very well known when your great-great-grandfather was writing this code.”

  “It was published when he was a child,” observed Sinclair. “He probably read it when he was young, just like Cordelia did.”

  Sinclair and Cordelia exchanged a look of suppressed excitement.

  “Do we have a copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea?” asked Marian.

  “As a matter of fact, we do,” said Tom.

  “Let’s see if I can remember this,” said Marian as she took the novel in her hands. “It’s actually pretty simple, as far as codes go. But, of course, I have never decoded anything, so let me think a moment. John, why don’t you write down the letters as I call them out. There is a pen and paper over there on the writing desk.”

  “How do you begin?” asked Cordelia.

  “Is there anything that looks like a page number or a line number on the note?” Marian asked.

  Cordelia bent over the scrap of paper.

  “Yes! It says P-thirty-five, L-sixteen!” said Cordelia.

  “Page thirty-five, line sixteen reads: ‘ “I have hesitated for some time,” continued the commander, “nothing obliged me to show you hospitality,” ’ “ read Marian.

  Sinclair wrote out the sentence, assigning each letter a consecutive number. Cordelia looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the cipher.

  I-1 H-2 A-3 V-4 E-5 H-6 E-7 S-8 I-9 T-10 A-11 T-12 E-13 D-14 F-15 O-16 R-17 . . .

  “That looks fairly complicated,” she observed.

  “Not necessarily,” Marion reassured her. “You will see how simple it really is.”

  They turned back to the paper under the glass. Tom read off each number, and Sinclair wrote down the corresponding letter. The whole exercise took about five minutes.

  “So what do we have?” asked Marian.

  “It makes no sense,” said Sinclair, showing them the paper. It read:

  AFH BIVW IM RIETOU IEL ES TMDOECD

  “Something is wrong,” puzzled Marian. “The numbers must be off.”

  “Are you sure we have the right page and line?” asked Tom.

  “Yes, it says P-thirty-five, L-sixteen. It couldn’t be more clear,” said Cordelia.

  “That’s what I have,” said Marian, recounting the lines on the page. “What could be the problem?”

  They all sat for a moment, thinking.

  “Hold on now,” said Tom. “What edition is that copy of the book? The original book was in French. That means many translations, many different editions.”

  “We need the edition Elliott Stapleton used,” agreed Sinclair.

  Marian flipped over the book she had in her hand and looked at the cover page.

  “This edition is 1941.”

  “He would have used a 1908 edition or earlier. He was on the steamship from Boston when he wrote the journal entry,” said Cordelia.

  “Where can we get a copy of Jules Verne from 1908?” asked Sinclair.

  “And a copy from an American publisher,” added Cordelia. “He was coming from America at that time.”

  “How do you find something like that?” asked Marian.

  “We can call Jim Gardiner,” assured Cordelia. “He knows how to do everything.”

  Cordelia took the robe from the back of the wardrobe door and folded it around herself. It was cold in her room; her bare feet were freezing on the wood floors. She supposed she had been spoiled by American central heating, and too many expeditions to the Bahamas.

  She opened the door of the blue bedroom and tiptoed out. If anything, the hall was even colder. A dim light burned on the table, and the corridor disappeared off into cavernous darkness. The paintings were softly illuminated, and there wasn’t a sound. Sinclair had said he was three doors down, in the Chinese bedroom. She counted carefully, and knocked on the heavy door.

  Sinclair opened it immediately and pulled her in, wrapping her into his robe against his warm body. It was heaven.

  “I thought you would never get here. What took you so long?” he demanded, but didn’t bother to wait for an answer. He just kissed her deeply.

  “Delia, it’s so good to hold you,” he murmured into her hair. “Come to bed.”

  He slipped off her robe and her nightgown and pulled her, naked, under the covers of the enormous carved bed. She no longer had to worry about freezing. Within minutes, she was throwing the blankets off.

  It seemed like years since she had been with him, and his every touch set off a ripple of pleasure. He caressed her tenderly, aware of her every tremor. They merged immediately, unable to wait, and it went on and on. All sense of time was lost. Her arms stayed wound around him as they lay across the bed until she fell asleep.

  Much later, she woke and roused him. “John, I’m cold.”

  He stirred, and without a word reached back and pulled the heavy coverlet up around them, gathering her close to his warm body in a private cocoon for sleep.

  Outside Cliffmere, in the back-entrance service lane, two men sat in a truck. Thaddeus Frost was smoking out the window, trying to overpower the cologne the other man was wearing. Frost filled his time picking apart the components of the scent. It was a game for him. The first aroma was citrus, woods, and amber. The lemon was initially sweet but then there was a more vegetal undertone, a stylized violet with cloves, and then the powdery whiff of carnation. He threw away his cigarette butt and thought about it more. It was the sweet notes that bothered him. The deeper notes of sandalwood, birch tar, and the woodiness of orris were all good. Frost looked at his watch. Midnight.

  “Why don’t we head back? It’s not likely anything will happen at this hour.”

  “R
ight,” the other man answered. “The house is dark. I’m picking up the signal that the alarms are activated.”

  “It’s about time,” observed Frost. “I could use some sleep.”

  “I have a hunch whoever is out there will strike soon.”

  “I agree. I think they will see plenty of activity once they find that deed,” said Frost.

  “Well, we better get there first,” the other agent said as Frost started the truck.

  Cordelia opened her eyes to see Sinclair looking at her.

  “Good morning, my love,” he said. “Good morning.” She smiled. “What time is it?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “That late!” said Cordelia, sitting up and looking for her nightgown and robe. Sinclair reached for them on his side of the bed and handed them to her.

  “Do you have an appointment?” he asked with amusement.

  “No, but how am I going to sneak back to my room in broad daylight?” she countered, pulling her nightgown over her head. When her face emerged, he kissed her hard on the mouth.

  “Who says you’re going back?”

  The breakfast room was empty when they arrived downstairs. They found chafing dishes on the sideboard, and racks of toast set at each place along with the famous Cliffmere butter, apricot jam, and English marmalade. They helped themselves to eggs, sausage, bacon, and grilled tomatoes. The housekeeper came in to ask if they would like juice or fruit, and put a carafe of coffee on the table for them.

  “Do you think we can get hold of Gardiner today?” Sinclair asked, pouring her a cup of coffee. “We need to find that book.”

  “Yes, I will call this afternoon,” said Cordelia. “I also promised Marian I would help her repot the begonias in the conservatory.”

  Sinclair was smiling at her. “I can see you love this place,” he observed.

  “You know,” she admitted, spreading marmalade on her toast. “I feel so at home here. Tom and Marian are the closest thing to family I have in this world.”

  “You have me,” he said softly.

  She smiled at him, chewing her toast happily.

  “And that makes me the luckiest woman in the world.”

  Sinclair dialed Charles in Monaco and got his voice mail.

  “Charles, we will be staying for another week at Cliffmere. You can get me on my cell if you need me.”

  Sinclair looked at his watch. It was already a quarter to ten. Tom had asked him to meet him at the stables right after breakfast. Sinclair opened the French doors and set out across the lawn.

  He cut through the kitchen herb garden, down the grass terrace on the east side of the house, past the maze, through the eighteenth-century rose garden, to the woodland park. A dog bounded out of the underbrush and came up to lick his palm.

  “Hey, fella,” Sinclair said. “Want to tell me which way to go?” The beautiful hound looked at him expectantly. Suddenly Sinclair saw Tom come out from behind the yew hedge.

  “I gave up on you,” he said.

  “Sorry. Late morning. I sort of overslept,” apologized Sinclair.

  “Let’s go to my office at the stable. It’s a good place for a talk.”

  Tom’s land-management office was spacious and comfortable, with deep leather chairs and a large window looking out over the lawn. The room was lined with wooden cabinets for all sorts of historical documents, many of which dated from the Elizabethan era. Modern records for the organic farm were in file cabinets and online: produce yields, animal registration and sales documents, land-maintenance schedules, and purchase receipts. On the wall behind Tom’s desk were reproductions of the estate’s historic garden plans—among them one for the original Elizabethan knot garden—and diagrams for the landscape park by Lancelot “Capability” Brown.

  “Since I retired, the farm has been pretty much a full-time job,” Tom announced, sitting back in his leather chair behind the desk. “I never knew it would be so successful.”

  Sinclair stayed silent. Clearly something else was on Tom’s mind.

  “I guess you want to know why I brought you here?” Tom said. “Marian wanted me to talk to you about Cordelia. We feel we need to look out for her.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. She really doesn’t have anyone looking out for her except her lawyer, Jim Gardiner,” said Sinclair.

  “Well, she has us now. And I want to make that clear.”

  “That will be a great comfort to her, I am sure,” Sinclair affirmed.

  “Yes,” continued Tom, shifting uncomfortably. “In that vein, I wanted to speak with you because somebody has to ask you, and I believe in all decency the job falls to me.”

  “Ask me what?”

  “What are your intentions in regard to Cordelia?”

  Looking back on the conversation, Sinclair realized it was one of the best he had ever had in his life. He told Tom about his previous marriage and the fatal accident that had claimed his wife.

  Tom had listened sympathetically, but then broached another subject.

  “Forgive me, but I am a bit concerned about some recent press reports about you.”

  “You mean the tabloids, about Shari?”

  “Yes. It’s all over the Internet.”

  “Shari and I are finished. It’s not an issue.”

  “Marian tells me you and Cordelia have been together for less than two weeks. Is that true?”

  “Yes, it started quite suddenly,” Sinclair admitted.

  “These things always start suddenly. What’s more important is how they end,” said Tom.

  “Are you telling me to end it?” Sinclair asked, aghast.

  “No, what I am telling you is that Cordelia is a very vulnerable young lady.”

  “Tom, I know. I will do the right thing.”

  Tom sat silently for a moment.

  “I am counting on you to do just that,” Tom said.

  After an hour of transplanting begonias, Marian told Cordelia to take a nap. But Cordelia usually couldn’t manage it in the middle of the day, so she sat on the divan next to the window reading the journal.

  IT HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT NORWAY HAS BEEN ENCOURAGING THE LAND CLAIMS OF ALL AND SUNDRY MANNER OF INHABITANTS OF THE ISLAND OF SPITSBERGEN. A SWARM OF NEW CLAIMANTS HAS SPRUNG UP AND IS TAKING POSSESSION OF IMMENSE TRACTS OF LAND ON THE ISLAND, AND NEARLY ALL CLAIMS ARE FILED BY FISHERMEN AND HUNTERS WHO HAVE NO COMMERCIAL INTEREST IN POSSESSION OF THE LAND. THERE SEEMS TO BE NO ACKNOWLEDGEMENT THAT THE ARCTIC COAL MINING COMPANY BENEFITS NORWAY AND, MOST SPECIFICALLY, SCORES OF NORWEGIAN STOCKHOLDERS. I HAVE BEEN ALERTED TO THIS BY MY AGENT IN SPITSBERGEN VIA OUR VERY DISCREET METHOD OF COMMUNICATION.

  Cordelia put a bookmark in the spot, got up, stretched, and went out to find John.

  Sinclair walked across the terrace with Cordelia. The light was soft, and the west garden was verdant and glowing. It was a pleasant day, just cool enough to require a light jacket. The trees were tinged with color, and he could feel fall coming.

  Sinclair was glad to have Cordelia all to himself, if only for an hour or so. At Cliffmere, until now, they hadn’t had much time alone. This afternoon, under a bright blue sky, they walked through the garden, their strides matching perfectly. Sinclair linked his fingers through hers and thought of nothing but the feel of her hand in his—skin against skin, one of the most elemental pleasures in the world.

  They began exploring the garden nearest the house. The immediate vicinity was deserted, but the activity of the farm could be heard in the distance. There were many formal flower beds in final bloom. The kitchen garden, with its rows of herbs, was still thriving, and Cordelia bent down to read the markers: THYME, BASIL, MARJORAM, CAMOMILE. Farther along, the rose parterre had gone dormant, and the bushes were pruned and wrapped in burlap for the winter. They went down the stone steps and started across the broad expanse of lawn.

  Sinclair had every intention of keeping to the open areas, in full view of the house. It would not be safe for Cordelia to wander on the wooded paths or in the f
ields. There were plenty of places they could explore without taking risks.

  At the end of the lawn, they came across the boxwood maze. Together they stood and read the plaque that said it had been planted in 1760. Even this late in the season, it was green and dense with leaves. The monolithic hedges loomed eight feet tall and spanned at least an acre.

  “Let’s go in,” said Cordelia. “I have always wanted to see one of these.”

  Sinclair hesitated. The entrance looked like a dark green cave.

  “I’m not so sure. It’s too hidden,” he cautioned. “Someone could be watching us right now.”

  “Don’t be silly. Who would be hiding in a maze?” she scoffed. “John, that’s really too melodramatic.”

  Sinclair pulled her toward him and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I just want to be cautious,” he explained.

  “John, it’s fine. Come on, I really want to see what it looks like.”

  “Listen, darling. Let’s not be reckless,” he pleaded.

  “Reckless?” she replied, and broke away, laughing. She sauntered into the hedge-lined alley that served as the starting point.

  “Delia, seriously, I don’t think we should,” Sinclair said, following behind her. His better judgment told him to stop her immediately, but that might come across as too controlling. She was very sensitive about that. And why curtail her fun? She had been through so much in the past few days.

  He would stay right with her, and make sure they did not get separated in the labyrinth. After a few yards, it was too narrow to walk side by side, so they went single file, with Cordelia leading. He relaxed a bit and started to enjoy the challenge of finding the center. Together they followed serpentine routes that led around the blind corners and ended in cul-de-sacs of greenery. They looped around paths that put them back where they started. Within minutes, they were lost.

  “I love this! It’s so much fun. Come on, John.”

  Cordelia stepped quickly ahead and turned right. She disappeared from view. He turned twice to the right, once catching a glimpse of her, but then lost sight of her. He could hear her calling to him. She sounded close.