Fortified by an excellent mutton stew from Silas’s kitchen and half a bottle of claret from his cellar, Thomas lit a cheap tallow candle and started again. This time he attacked the forty-five numbers. He still suspected that they were codes for names, but needed to be certain. Assuming that the numbers were actually in sequences of three digits, the sixes being two names together, he found eight separate numbers, of which 769, 574, 852 and 775 were repeated once, and 371 occurred four times. That made a nomenclator almost certain, and decoding 371 would be a huge step forward. After two more hours, however, and four more candles, he had made no further progress. He had identified not a single word from the letters or numbers, and had no more idea what secrets they held than when Abraham had handed the paper to him. Beyond the facts that a complex system of encryption and encoding had been used, and that the message must be important, he still knew nothing about it. Without bothering to undress, he lay down and slept.
Next morning, Thomas went first to visit Abraham, hoping his old friend would provide an insight into the problem. He described the text in detail – forty-five numbers, 456 letters and 138 spaces. He told Abraham how he had approached the task, the old man nodding encouragingly as he did so, and finally he told him that he had learned nothing. They discussed poly-alphabetic substitutions, nomenclators, variable Caesar shifts, homophonic substitutions, keywords and codewords. At the end of the morning, they had agreed only that this was not a message intended to be decrypted quickly, even by someone with the key. It was too complex. So it was not a standard military despatch, and, although important, would not be battlefield-urgent. That made it of strategic rather than tactical value. There was no context, and there were no other clues. They still had no idea what it was about, who had written it or for whom it was intended. Abraham could tell from Thomas’s voice that he was tired and frustrated.
‘My best advice is that you put it away for today. Go for a walk. Hill’s magic might return with the dawn.’
Taking heed, Thomas spent the afternoon by the river, and the evening with his friend Montaigne. He fell asleep thinking of Polly and Lucy, and of Jane Romilly, who had stormed out of his room in a fierce temper.
The next three days were spent on the intercepted message. The marks on the paper had become his enemies. He tried a variety of double and triple alphabetic substitutions, he tried assuming that all the numbers were meaningless, that they hid keywords, that the message was in Latin, that it had been written backwards, and he even guessed at a few possible keywords to create alphabetic shifts, such as PARLIAMENT, OXFORD and PROTESTANT. The guesswork was futile without at least some facts, and he knew it. He gave it up when Montaigne tapped gently on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, ‘Thomas Hill, have I taught you nothing? Rational thought is greatly superior to intuition. Think, don’t guess.’
On the fourth morning, he went again to see Abraham, and again reported his lack of progress. Abraham tried to be encouraging. ‘Thomas, you have made progress,’ he said. ‘You know a good many things that this cipher is not.’
‘Indeed. But if I have to eliminate all the things it is not before discovering what it is, I shall be even older than you when I finally do so.’
Abraham laughed, and then voiced the thought that both had so far left unspoken. ‘Could we be facing Vigenère, Thomas?’
‘It’s possible, of course, although the numbers must also be serving some purpose. Have you heard of a square used with numerical codes?’
‘I haven’t, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. If the numbers are codes, the cipher will work just as well if they are ignored.’
‘Abraham, a Vigenère cipher has never been broken, with or without word codes.’
‘I know. Trust a Frenchman to come up with such a diabolical thing. Tedious to encrypt, tedious to decrypt, and proof against even you, Thomas, unless you can divine the keyword.’
‘I can try, Abraham, but you know it’ll take a miracle.’
Abraham was thoughtful. ‘Perhaps not. Look again at the numbers. Could they be telling us which rows on the square to use? If so, the cipher would still be secure against anyone un familiar with Monsieur Vigenère.’ He picked up a thin strip of wood with a straight edge and passed it to Thomas. ‘If it’s Vigenère, you’ll need this.’
Thomas took the strip of wood. ‘Thank you. I’ll assume it’s Vigenère and try the numbers again. Prayers thrice daily, Abraham, please. I shall need them.’
That evening, Tobias Rush visited again. All in black, silver-topped cane in hand, he called to tell Thomas that his letter had been safely delivered to Margaret. ‘Was there a reply?’ asked Thomas hopefully.
‘Unfortunately, no. The courier had to reach Southampton by dusk and could not afford to wait,’ said Rush with a shrug. ‘No doubt your sister will find a way of writing back, however. Do let me know when she does.’ He paused. ‘And how did you enjoy the masque?’
‘Masque? Oh, the masque. Remarkable. A remarkable entertainment.’
‘Indeed. Their majesties have unerring eyes for beauty. And speaking of beauty, how did you find Lady Romilly? Well, I trust?’
‘Quite well. An unusual lady.’
‘You refer to her eyes, I imagine?’
‘In part, yes. They are striking. But not just her eyes. She’s a lady of spirit.’ As I am only too well aware, thought Thomas.
Rush smiled his thin smile, and changed the subject. ‘How goes your work, Master Hill?’ he asked, looking casually around the room. His working papers were underneath others on the table. Just as well, thought Thomas, although I must be more careful in future. Abraham had insisted on absolute secrecy, even from Master Rush. He dissembled. ‘Routine matters only. Not much has changed since I last worked with codes. I would prefer something more interesting.’
‘Oh? Have the enemy not offered you anything at all appro priate to your skills?’
‘Not as yet, sir.’
‘Be sure to let me know if they do. The king has impressed upon me my duty to assist you in any way that I can. I would not wish either of us to disappoint him. Now, I shall bid you good day.’ And he was gone.
Odd how he’s here one minute and gone the next, thought Thomas, and how he changes the course of a discussion. A hard book to read and a hard bird to cage.
Work on the numbers began before dawn. If this was a Vigenère square, the king’s enemies would assume that its secrets were safe and would see no need to change their plans. The square itself had remained unbroken for over seventy years. Using the strip of wood as a guide, Thomas began by writing out the square.
If the message had been encrypted using the square, each letter would have twenty-six possible encryptions. The letters in the top row represented the letters used in the message, and the letters of the keyword were contained in the first column. So if the keyword began with the letter T, the letter O would have been encrypted as H.
Then he wrote out the forty-five digits at the top of the message. For some time, he sat and stared at them. Apart from the dupli cations, he saw no patterns. If the numbers were indicating the rows of the square to be used for decrypting, any number above twenty-six must be either a null or have some other function. Proceeding on this basis, he divided the digits into arbitrary one- and two-digit numbers and tried decrypting the first line according to the rows indicated by his selection. When the word DOG appeared, he thought he was on to something. But when the following words turned out as KTLO, BQICMS and XPD, he knew that the dog’s appearance was no more than chance.
All morning Thomas sat at his table, the encrypted page, sharpened quills, inkpot and a pile of blank papers before him. The pile diminished as the floor became covered in used and discarded ones. Just as well Abraham had laid his hands on a good supply. By the time his stomach started complaining, how ever, he had achieved very little. Nothing, in fact, except the growing certainty that these numbers did not hold the key to the rows. He had tried adding and subtracting, transposing the digit
s of the higher numbers, multiplying and dividing – all to no effect. Apart from dog, not a single plain word had appeared from the text. It was a bad start. He did not need the unwelcome compli cation of codewords, tricks or traps. What he did need was a clue to guide him to the keyword. And he needed fresh air.
Emerging into the daylight, Thomas was greeted by a beautiful late-summer day – dry and windless. The Pembroke courtyard was still a military dump, young officers and their women still lounged about doing very little, and the stench of human waste was still sickening, but the sky was cloudless and the sun warm. Thank God one was permanent and the other, God willing, merely temporary. Perhaps very temporary if he could break the encryption.
Thinking that he had been so preoccupied with the message that he had again lost touch with what was happening beyond his room, he wandered down to the meadow. As always, it was a mass of soldiers and their weaponry, and, unless he was mistaken, there was even more hustle and bustle than before. No one made any objection as he walked among the lines of artillery pieces and the knots of men gathered around them, for the first time paying the armoury more than passing attention. He stopped to examine a huge cannon loaded on to a long flat cart with wheels of different sizes. Two shafts protruded from the back, into which a horse would be harnessed. Wondering how far a ball would travel when fired from such a monster, he stooped to peer down the barrel. There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see a grinning artilleryman. In a thick shirt, leather trousers to the knee, woollen stockings and wooden clogs, the poor man must have been slowly cooking.
‘Take care, sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘If you fall in, I’ll have to fire you out.’ He spoke with a strong accent – German perhaps, or Dutch.
Thomas returned the smile. ‘I fancy that would damage me more than the enemy.’ To make conversation, he asked, ‘How many horses does it take to pull this?’
‘One in the shafts, sir, and six pairs in the traces,’ adding helpfully, ‘It can fire a two-pound ball as far as a mile.’
And knock over a line of men like so many skittles, thought Thomas. Lifeless skittles if they’re hit by a ball from this beast. ‘There’s much going on today. Do you know what’s happening?’
The man laughed. ‘God bless you sir, I’m just a poor soldier from Amsterdam. No one tells me anything.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Not much anyway. We’ve been told to make ready to march. Where to and for what, we’ll find out when we get there.’
‘No rumours at all?’
‘Gloucester’s most people’s choice as Prince Rupert is still laying siege to the town, but I’ve had a wager on Reading. They say the Earl of Essex is heading that way. If he is, we’ll be sent to stop him reaching London, and I’ll be five guineas richer.’
‘I hope you are, and that you’re able to collect it.’
‘If I’m not, sir, it’ll go to my wife. I mean widow. That’s the agreement.’
Thomas nodded. ‘Good luck then.’ A Dutch mercenary, fighting for a living. Hardly a matter of principle for him. Not all the cannon were as enormous as his. As he walked down the line, Thomas counted four other types, right down to a little fellow with its own wheels. He stepped around heaps of rope, piles of cannonballs of different sizes, blankets, sacking and barrels of powder. What an immense undertaking war was. Immense and costly – and not only in money. How many men would die when these merciless destroyers started dealing out death? A thousand? Five thousand? Ten thousand?
At the end of the line, he came to the river and looked across. In the fields on the far bank, infantry were gathering. Among their tents he could see pikemen in their helmets and breastplates practising their drills, and musketeers with their long-barrelled matchlocks, ammunition, cleaning prickers, gun rests and swords. The word ‘apostle’ came to him – it was what the small flasks of powder on their bandoliers were called. An odd choice of word. The wise musketeer measured out each charge very carefully before going into battle. Too little and his musket would not fire, too much and he might go up in flames. Who would be a soldier? Having to carry pounds of equipment all over the countryside, sleeping in the open or, at best, in a leaky tent, surviving on scraps, and if the enemy do not kill you, you’ll probably kill yourself. Infantry drilling, artillery making ready – there was something afoot, to be sure.
From the meadow Thomas made his way to the Crown. He was in need of refreshment before going back into battle with that wretched message. As before, the inn was busy – soldiers enjoying a final drink or two before marching off to war, perhaps. Thomas had to shoulder his way in and shout to be heard over the hubbub. Having ordered a bottle of claret and a rabbit pie, he looked about for somewhere to sit. Seeing no spare chairs, he made his way towards the back of the inn, hoping to find one there. Right at the back, at the same table as when he had first seen the man, was Fayne, unmistakable in a short crimson coat and tight crimson breeches. There were three others with him, and a game of hazard was in progress. Despite himself, Thomas moved quietly up behind Fayne, the better to observe the game. As a student, he had prided himself on being rather good at it, and had paid for many a meal out of his winnings. It was a game of chance, but a mathematician’s knowledge of the odds and a quick way with numbers were a decided advantage. It would be interesting to see how well these soldiers played.
The man on Fayne’s right was the caster, the man opposite him the setter, who acted as banker for the three players opposed to the caster. As Thomas watched, he picked up the two dice, shook them in his hand and rolled them out. They showed a five and a six. The caster cheered and the setter pushed a pile of coins towards him. It was the setter’s job to make sure the right amounts were paid out on each hand. As different combinations of main and chance points were played at different odds, he had to have a quick head for figures. Sensible fellow, thought Thomas. He must have set a main point of seven, thus winning with a throw of eleven. Seven was very slightly the best number to set as a main in hazard, and the wise caster never chose anything else. His opponents groaned and fished in their pockets for more coins. ‘The devil’s balls,’ cursed Fayne, ‘do you never choose anything but seven? Where’s your spirit, man?’
Undeterred, the man again set a main of seven, pushed a crown into the middle of the table and watched as each player did the same. There were no scholars’ pennies or farthings in this game. This time, however, both dice showed six, and the caster had to find two more crowns to cover his loss. Thinking his luck had changed, he chose nine as the main for the next round and tossed more crowns on the table when he threw eleven. Foolish fellow, thought Thomas, another main of seven and he would have won. The caster tried nine again, and this time threw four followed by nine. Unlucky, but it happened. Having lost three consecutive hands, the caster passed the dice to Fayne, the man on his left.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ barked Fayne, ‘time to make things more interesting. The main point will be five.’ He put down four crowns and waited to see who would wager against him. All three did. Fayne rattled the dice and threw them down. They showed a four and a one. With a roar of delight, he scooped up the coins and put them in his pocket. ‘There you are, that’s how a sporting man does it.’
One of the players stood up. ‘I’m finished,’ he grumbled. ‘No luck today.’ And he sloped off towards the door.
‘No spirit, young William,’ sneered Fayne. ‘Still, perhaps there’s someone else who’ll join us, eh, gentlemen?’ He turned in his chair and looked around. He saw Thomas immediately. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t the little bookseller. Care for a hand of hazard, bookseller, or haven’t you the head for it?’
If you’re going to choose mains of five, thought Thomas, I have the head and the heart. ‘Captain Fayne, you look a most accomplished player. I am little more than a novice, and I could not play for crowns. A shilling or two would be my limit.’
Again Fayne sneered. ‘Hardly worth the effort, bookseller. What do you think, Philip?’
&nbs
p; ‘If this gentleman cares for a hand, I say we should oblige him,’ replied Philip, clearly seeing in Thomas the price of a good meal or two. ‘I am Philip Smithson.’
The third player, who offered his name as Hugh Tomkins, agreed.
‘Very well,’ said Fayne. ‘Take a seat, bookseller, and get out your shillings.’
Claret and pie forgotten, Thomas took the empty seat. In his pocket he had six shillings. If he lost those, that would be it.
Fayne, having won the previous hand, was still the caster. He put a shilling on the table and announced that the main would be seven. Damn, thought Thomas, who was hoping he would stick with five. He put down his shilling and hoped for the best. Fayne shook the dice and rolled them out. Two fives. That set ten as the chance point. Now, if he threw ten before he threw seven, Fayne would win, and if he threw seven before he threw ten, he would lose – a reversal of the first throw in each hand, and a reversal of the odds. Thomas knew that it was the moment to lay a side wager and ordinarily, he would have. But he had only six shillings, so he kept the other five in his pocket.
Fayne threw again. This time, the dice showed six. He threw for a third time. A six and a four. He raked in the shillings. ‘Never mind, bookseller, you’ll do better on the next hand,’ he gloated. ‘The main will be seven again.’ Three shillings were wagered against him, and he threw the dice with a flourish. When they showed a four and a three, he had won again. Thomas was down to four shillings, and needed a change of luck.
The King's Spy (Thomas Hill Trilogy 1) Page 11
