To Sketch a Sphinx

by Rebecca Connolly

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “I think you might be the most brilliant mind in England and France.”

  “Hardly. I’m married to you.”

  John turned in his seat to give his wife an amused look. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  Hal’s eyes widened, and she tossed her head back on a laugh, one of her naturally curled tendrils tumbling from the hold she’d placed them in earlier. “I didn’t mean that!”

  “I’d be most interested to hear what you did mean, then,” John pressed, grinning in the face of her delighted laughter.

  There would never be a more beautiful sight to him than that. Never.

  “I meant that I could never be brilliant when compared to you, John.” She shook her head, her expression now turning exasperated. “I do not doubt that if you had heard Jean, you’d have leapt to the exact same conclusions as I did, and you undoubtedly would already know how to apply them.”

  “I still believe you are the more brilliant one.” He shrugged and leaned his arm on the back of the chair, lacing his fingers together. “I have no complaints about it, my pride is not in the least offended.”

  Hal snorted softly. “Well, that is a relief. I was so concerned about your pride. Besides,” she paused, situating herself on the divan in their parlor with a sigh, rolling herself to one side to face him more fully, “I couldn’t be the most brilliant mind in France. They are the ones who devised this system, whatever it is.”

  John exhaled a heavy sigh of disappointment, still smiling. “Always determined to minimize your brilliance, Ange.”

  “Have you met me, John? I never minimize anything I do.” She flashed an impish grin that made him positively mad to kiss her senseless.

  “No,” he murmured slowly, pushing out of his chair and moving towards her, “nor should you, by heaven. All should be in awe of you, as I am.”

  Her eyes darkened, her smile deepening. “Are you, indeed? Well, well, Mr. Pratt, what do you intend to do in the face of your awestruck state?”

  One of his brows quirked at her blatant teasing, and he leaned close to her. “I’ve an idea or two…”

  A knock at their parlor door had them both groaning.

  “Infernal interruptions,” Hal grumbled, her expression souring. “What could not wait but five minutes more?”

  John chuckled. “It’ll keep, Ange.” He closed the gap between them and kissed her quickly, pulling away when she arched in for more. “Now, now,” he scolded with a warning look, though his legs were presently on fire for her.

  Hal scowled further and moved herself to a more proper position on the divan. “We need to have a serious discussion about your priorities, Mr. Pratt.”

  “I welcome the discussion the moment it is appropriate, Mrs. Pratt.” He opened the parlor door, politely smiling at the footman there. “Yes?”

  “A parcel has arrived for you, monsieur,” the heavily accented voice intoned, extending a gold tray out to him with the wrapped package atop.

  John nodded and removed the parcel, his pulse lurching with sudden anticipation. “Merci.”

  “And le baron wishes to know if Madame Pratt is feeling improved?”

  A wry smile crossed John’s lips. “She is resting at the present, but I daresay she will be well enough to join us for supper this evening. Please thank the baron for his concern.”

  The footman bowed in acceptance, snapping his heels together, then moved back down the corridor to deliver his message.

  “Next time, inquire as to the menu for supper before promising that I shall attend,” Hal suggested as he closed the door. “My wellness may depend on it.”

  John gave her a look as he moved back to the table, tearing the paper off the parcel. He replied with a noncommittal humph.

  She swung her legs down from the divan and pushed up to join him. “Did he get it?”

  There was no need to respond, as she could see for herself.

  The music to Suspendez a ces murs was in hand, and now the true test could begin.

  “Remind me to ask the Shopkeepers to increase whatever they are paying Ruse,” John murmured as his eyes darted from note to note and word to word on the page. “Perhaps even double it.”

  Hal wrapped her arm around his and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Let’s see if this works first. Where will you begin?”

  John’s mouth curved on one side. “I have already begun. The moment we returned here, and you placed the candle in the window, I tried the letters using that phrase uttered at the meeting. Vous ne me verrez pas mourir.”

  “And?”

  “And the difficulty with deciphering is that one cannot know one’s success until the whole puzzle reveals itself.” He turned his face and kissed the top of her head. “But I think the music might be the key.”

  Hal stroked his arm gently in response. “Why is that?”

  “Hard to say.” He eyed the music again, nodding to himself. “This feels right. I cannot explain any further than that, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t need further than that. Let’s go to work.”

  John glanced at her as she left his side and pulled out another chair from the table. “You’re going to help?”

  Hal gave him a quizzical look. “Yes… You have quite a number of letters there, and we will be trying a number of solutions to get that damned code to reveal itself. I can follow instructions well, so tell me what to do.” To emphasize the point, she sat and placed her hands in her lap, waiting for him to follow.

  He’d had help before, this was no novelty, but more often than not, he preferred working in solitude, thought more clearly without assistance or spectators.

  This, however, he felt he could do with ease.

  “Very well, Ange,” he murmured taking his seat once more. “First, let’s look at the song.”

  Hal nodded once. “Why?”

  John laid the music down and smiled in near exasperation. “Why? Are you going to question the entire process?”

  “Not questioning,” she replied without a hint of amusement or ruffling. “Inquiring. Why do you want to look at the song?”

  Her curious mind was really something of a wonder, and he had no qualms about satiating it however he could.

  “Because,” he explained, pulling a letter and one of his discarded attempts at deciphering it over, “it is clear to me, from the errors so far, that there is a layered aspect to their code. You were clever enough to see significance in the opera Napoleon loved and that our Faction friends quoted. It seems to me that there is something about this song that resonates with them, and if it were only a matter of words, I should have seen some pattern already.”

  A puckered furrow appeared between her brows as she craned her neck to look at the letter again. “But there are any number of phrases from the song that could have been used. How do you know?”

  John reached for the music again and searched for the phrase he needed before pointing at it. “Because everything has meaning to the Faction. Why else would they have chosen that exact phrase to recite in response to the usual Sieyès quote? People love hidden meanings, Ange, and we are dealing with a group of quite dedicated idealists.”

  Hal nodded repeatedly, now looking at the music with him. “So, what would we use in this song, if we were them?”

  “Well,” he said on an exhale, letting his eyes rove the page at will, “I’ve seen music used before, mostly taking familiar tunes and changing them somehow to suit the needs of a code. This, however, strikes me as something rather pure to our friends, so I cannot believe they would alter it…”

  His words trailed off as he began laying out the pages of the song, tracking here and there for ideas and options, the melody floating in and out of memory out of sheer habit. But there had to be something obvious, else new additions to the Faction’s circle would struggle immensely with communication.

  Unless all communication was only exchanged between important members.<
br />
  Not that such a level of significance had much relevance here. Any of the members could have copies of the music at their residences, much as they did here, and simply followed the pattern for deciphering as laid out.

  But what was the pattern, and how could he find it?

  “Do you read music, John?” Hal asked after a moment, her voice somehow seeming far away.

  He nodded absently. “Rather well, as it happens. Jeremy took more pains to dance to music, while I was far more interested in playing it. Mother wanted us both tutored in music, but Jeremy would have none of it.”

  “Do you sing?”

  “Not at all.” He smiled but kept his eyes on the music. “I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”

  Hal laughed and took a letter from the stack to review. “I believe I will recover.”

  John went back to the first page and looked at every mark thereon. The description of emotion of a part, the notations on volume, each phrase that repeated itself in lyrics. Still, none of that answered his questions.

  What was he looking for? What could they…?

  “Could they?” he murmured to himself, returning to the beginning of the song as an idea struck him. “Why not? Simple, yet effective, and not plain to the naked eye…” He found himself nodding as he studied each note in turn, almost as though he intended to memorize the melody for his own enjoyment. “And does it change…?” He plucked the other sheets up and ran his eyes over them.

  Hal sat silently beside him, but he could feel her attention on him, could almost feel the same excitement he felt rising in her.

  “Yes,” he whispered, circling his find with a finger. “Brilliant. Right before the eyes, in plain sight, and yet so easily missed…”

  A fresh sheet of paper was slid under his left hand, and he glanced at the disruption before looking up at his wife, whose smile brought on one of his own.

  She tilted her head to the page. “It seems you’ve got it. Go to it.”

  He could have kissed her but settled for taking the paper and pen and jotting down his discovery.

  “It’s the music,” he said aloud as he wrote, looking between the notes and his page as he copied everything down. “The actual music itself. The time signature is the letter number, in this case, every fourth. The key signature is the key letter, so as we start, this is D.”

  “But it changes so quickly,” Hal pointed out, tapping the page where the key signature changes. “So, the key letter would change as well?”

  John nodded, now scribbling away. “Yes. C, in that instance. Now, the distance each note is from the major key letter is the number of letters away from whatever letter is written. Here. The key note is C, and this note is D, which places the corresponding letter of the code as one letter advanced of what we see.” He frowned to himself, tilting his head at the music. “Sharps… flats… Likely as obvious as the rest, so a sharp added to a note would be an additional one ahead, and a flat would be one behind. That would mean a natural sign would correspond with whatever it does to the note in that key signature. If the note is sharped in the key signature, it would be one ahead, if it’s flatted, it would be one behind. Does that make sense?”

  He laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. “Marvelous coding. Genius, really. Change in key signature changes the key letter value, but the principle is the same. And here,” he paused to tap the initial find that had settled him on this code as the right one. “A time signature change would indicate a change of which letter we must identify; here, it means we go to every third letter.”

  For a long moment, the only sound was that of the nib of his pen scratching away at the page before him, and then he paused again, his mind spinning.

  “What?” Hal’s question was faint but insistent.

  Poor lamb, she likely had no idea what he was talking about as yet; he was barely making sense to himself. But this was his process, and though he spoke his findings aloud, his explanation wasn’t exactly thorough.

  “But what about the value of each note?” he murmured, staring blankly at the music again. “In each measure, the note itself… That could add a new dimension…”

  Hal’s hand suddenly covered the music. “John,” she said sternly, taking his chin in hand and forcing him to look at her. “Anyone would already have to spend hours in an attempt to code this. We cannot assume that everyone in the Faction has a brilliant mind like yours. Kindly don’t give them more credit than they deserve, and just see if this works.”

  John searched her eyes, the tension of frustrated efforts coiling in his chest. Then, to his surprise, it relaxed and enabled him to breathe as well as smile. “You’re right.”

  “I know,” she quipped, patting his cheek, “but it is good practice for you to say so.”

  He chuckled and leaned in to give her a quick kiss. “Impudent.”

  “Always.”

  He winked and returned his focus to the mountain of work they now had before them. “Right. Time to go code hunting.”

  Hours later, including a reprieve for supper with the de Rouvroys, John continued staring at the pages before him, the jumble of letters still not offering clues as to the next layer of code.

  They’d deciphered every letter Hal had copied from Leclerc’s pocket using the music, and yet, they were somehow far from answers. Closer than they had been before, it was true, but now he was back at the beginning of the process once more.

  And his mind was tired.

  It wasn’t often he could claim that, as he had worked on a number of cases and ciphers in his career with the Home and Foreign Offices, the War Office, and the individual groups such as the Garden, the London League, and special missions from the Convent. This was his forte, his strength, his gift, and his calling. This was what he offered to the Crown as a show of his loyalty and fidelity.

  And he was tired.

  He sat back in his chair roughly, shaking his head at himself. There was very little more he could do without the cipher for this next layer, and until he had some proper rest, he would not find the strength or capacity to discover it. There was nothing to indicate that any of these messages were time-sensitive or crucial to England or her interests, so he could only hope and pray that nothing would be risked by his pausing the process.

  Surely, there was room for him to be human.

  John blinked and looked across the room where Hal dozed on the divan, her head tucked down as it laid against the armrest, her body curved into itself. She’d changed out of her supper finery some time ago, though he was still dressed in his. His cravat was long gone, and the buttons at his throat were undone, his jacket slung over the chair, but in all other respects, he was dressed the same.

  Somehow, John hadn’t been much aware of Hal’s change in attire, so focused was he on his work. She’d donned her nightgown and worn a dressing gown over it, cinched at the waist and entirely modest. Still, there was something stirring about the woman he loved in her nightgown, hair completely loosed and magnificent about her shoulders, remaining out in this parlor with him while he worked rather than seeking the comfort of her bed.

  She’d done what she could to help him with the decryption, proving herself quite useful in the more menial and time-consuming task of applying the code to each letter. Then, when that had all been done, she had encouraged his thinking aloud at what the next layer could be, challenged him to think deeper, reach further, and expand his possibilities wider than he possibly had ever done before.

  She was a magnificent wonder, his wife, and he had no understanding of how he might deserve her.

  Sighing with exhaustion, John rose from his chair, stretching out his back and groaning at the pain there, then shaking out each leg as it cramped, protesting his rising. He yawned and paced about the room for a moment, stopping at Hal’s sketches, all laid out on the floor.

  She must have pulled them out at some point while he was whittling away at the words of each letter. The likenesses of each were startling, and, but for t
wo or three, John could identify each one. Some slight color had been added to each, if for no other reason than to indicate the coloring of each man, but the features were unmistakable.

  They had names and faces, and hopefully soon, they would have words as well. But what did they want? What were their aims?

  And why did those aims include England?

  Oh, he had no doubt that there would have been operatives in France had the interests only extended there, purely to keep an eye on things and keep significant parties informed. They’d done so during the Revolution, in fact, which had been of real value to England herself. Eagle had been one of the chief operatives there, and Weaver, too, though he had been coded Fox at the time.

  Weaver would have been in the very earliest days of his operative career. What an assignment to be given so young!

  Had that been why he had sent Hal to France now? The face of France had changed greatly since then, but there were likely some things that remained the same. Weaver could not function as an operative himself now, not being so public a dignitary and almost-ambassador to all of Europe, but he could very likely still have interest in certain members of France. Had he wanted to see faces he might know from missions long ago?

  It wouldn’t make much difference, John supposed as he stepped back to look at the sketches on the whole. Weaver had long proven his selflessness when it came to England, and if he had suspicions that had been founded from previous missions, they would be well-founded now.

  A soft sound from behind him brought John around, and he smiled as Hal shifted sleepily on the divan.

  He moved there and gently scooped her up into his arms, pressing his lips gently to her brow as she nuzzled into him. “Come on, Ange,” he murmured. “Time for bed.”

  “Come with me,” she mumbled as she nestled more comfortably into his chest. “Sleep, too.”

  He chuckled and carried her towards her bedchamber. “I will, love. In a bit.”

  “Now,” she insisted, though there was no force to her words.

  “I will, but in my bed tonight. We both need sleep.” He entered her darkened room and paused, letting his eyes adjust.