The Queen's Cipher (21 page)

2 MAY 2014

Another ball ballooned over the baseline. They were playing tennis on one of Oxford’s public hard courts and, even with a borrowed racket, Sam was better than he was. She had a fierce topspin forehand and a sliced backhand that hit the lines and died on him. Most of the rallies were conducted from the back of the court where Sam’s speed of movement and ability to counter-attack with angled shots frequently embarrassed him. He would have to try something else.

Freddie watched her tanned legs scurrying sideways as she chased down his tentative volley and hit the ball for another cross-court winner. Stranded at the net he found himself admiring not only the shot but what he could see of her body beneath a very short tennis dress. The sexual distraction was intentional. Sam didn’t believe in half measures. There were no draws in American sport.

The thought stiffened his sinews. He slammed down an ace and was winding up for another big first serve when a loud electronic ring tone brought play on the surrounding courts to a standstill. Freddie rushed to the bench where he had left his coat. The call was from his solicitor.

“Hello, Dr Brett,” Jason Cleverley’s well modulated voice carried an urgent note. “Sorry to ring you so early. I don’t know whether you’re aware of this but Professor Dawkins held a press conference yesterday to announce the defamation action he is bringing against you and
The Times Literary Supplement
. I also hear on the grapevine that the
TLS
intends to settle out of court which leaves you alone in the ring. Is this something you are prepared for?”

“If needs be, yes,” Freddie replied without thinking.

The lawyer cleared his throat. “I wonder whether you realize how costly libel actions can be and how difficult they are to defend. Under the existing laws, the claimant doesn’t have to demonstrate that what was written was false or damaging; the burden of proof rests with the defendant to justify the words he used. That is why so many libel cases are won by the claimant and defendants end up paying eye-watering damages and legal costs.”  

“Are you suggesting I throw in the towel?”

“I think you should weigh things up carefully before proceeding.”

Freddie didn’t like what he is hearing. His lawyer’s negativity was alarming.

“What do you advise then?” he asked.

“You could make an Offer of Amends. It’s not exactly a get-out-of-jail-free card for you must agree to apologize and to pay the claimant damages and costs but such a settlement will be markedly less than the six figure sum you might otherwise incur.”

“I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Freddie held on for several seconds before realizing the lawyer had hung up.

“Are we playing tennis or what?” Sam was frowning at him across the net.

“Of course, we are,” he replied, bending to pick up a discarded tennis ball. He waited until the game was over before telling her about his call.

“What a disgrace,” she said. “Your English libel laws seem to have been drafted for the benefit of rich bullies. How much can you afford to lose?”

“About twenty thousand pounds, I suppose.”

“Not much of a fighting fund, is it? You’re between a rock and a hard place, sweetheart.”

“Tell me something I don’t know!”

The tennis players on the next court stopped their game. They must have heard the desperation in his voice. He couldn’t afford to litigate or to back down. A public apology would further damage his already fragile reputation.

As soon as they got back to the flat she pulled him into bed. Things will be all right, she kept on saying as she climaxed. Lying back on the pillows afterwards, he wanted to share his partner’s optimism but, try as he might, he could see no way out of his predicament.

Feeling thoroughly depressed, Freddie pulled on his pants and wandered into the kitchen to cook bacon and eggs. Sam appeared moments later, looking summery in a yellow gingham mini dress.

While they ate he scanned the morning paper and his mood was not improved by news of a memorial service for Professor Cartwright.

“I guess that’s one event you won’t be invited to, my darling,” Sam said.

Freddie wiped his hands on a serviette and sighed loudly. There was a question that needed asking. “Don’t you think we should publish something on the Standen decryption and the way Hall and Marston used gematria to out Bacon as Shakespeare’s co-writer?  I think
History Today
might take it. ”

Sam lowered her eyes and ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip.

He waited for her to speak. The silence lengthened.

“We’ve got to go public sooner or later,” he added lamely.

“Not yet, we don’t,” she replied. “The evidence we’ve got is circumstantial and heavily dependent on decrypted cipher which is the headless horseman of history. Think how our colleagues will react to that? We can’t afford to go off half cock. Without a smoking gun, they’ll tear us apart. You may be prepared to sacrifice your career but I’m not.”

His shoulders slumped. Why was she being so negative?

“I know what you’re thinking. All I’m doing is advising caution. We’ve got to find more evidence of Bacon’s collaboration with Shakespeare before we publish anything. Now, it’s a lovely day, how about taking me punting on the Cherwell. I’m told it’s a romantic way to spend an afternoon.”

Freddie doubted this. Pushing a boat with a stick was not his idea of fun.

3 MAY 2014

Frankie Goes to Hollywood were singing ‘Relax don’t do it’ and with a broad-shouldered Adonis snuggling up to him, Professor Caspar Dawkins certainly wanted to ‘go to it’. The chicken was cruising for sex. You didn’t need gaydar to see that. It was Eighties Night in the Soho disco and the muscle-bound thud of the high energy dance music enhanced the effect Magnum PI was having on him. The sight and smell of the guy released enough endorphins to make his head spin.

He had spotted him as soon as he slipped down the spiral staircase and made his way through the laser beams to the basement bar. With his thick moustache and Hawaiian shirt he looked very like the young Tom Selleck. Consumed with lust, Caspar watched him buy a cocktail and then saunter down the bar to join him. “Hi,” Magnum had said, establishing lasting eye contact before lowering his sights to study the professor’s crotch. Caspar could hardly believe his luck. Even in what he hoped was cool fancy dress – he was wearing a Top Gun bomber jacket and shades – he hadn’t thought it would be this easy.

As a rule Caspar avoided gay clubs. A married man with a chair in a stuffy redbrick university had to be careful. Tonight, however, he wanted to let his hair down. Suing Brett and
The Times Literary Supplement
had been a masterstroke. Professor Cleaver had been right about the publicity value. His telephone line hadn’t stopped ringing and he had even been invited to speak at one of the better literary festivals. Things were looking up. And they were about to get a whole lot better.

“What are you drinking?” he had inquired, pointing to Magnum’s creamy cocktail.

“Seeing you ask, it’s a Screaming Orgasm. Fancy one darling?” his target lisped.

That had been several drinks ago. Now, with enough vodka, Tia Maria and Amaretto inside him to float a battleship, Caspar had embarked on a voyage of self-discovery.

“Don’t give a damn anymore,” he slurred. “Seek pleasure, my motto. Don’t keep up with the Joneses. Drag ’em down to your level, I say.”

He looked around him, searching for agreement. Behind the bar, wine glasses began to vibrate as Bronski Beat hammered out ‘Smalltown Boy’ while club members in acid washed jeans, denim jackets and mullet wigs stamped away on the dance floor.

“I was always a lonely boy,” Caspar shouted, picking up on the lyric.

“No need to feel that now, is there?”

“You a priest, by any chance?” he asked his new-found friend, sobering up quickly.

“Why, do you want to make a confession?”

“Some kind of City figure perhaps. What about a banker?”

“Not on your life.”

“My shout, I think.”

The drinks arrived but such was the crush around the bar that Caspar was knocked to the floor. Someone had kicked his high stool from under him. “You all right,” Magnum asked, helping him to his feet. “Down the hatch and then back to your place I think.”

Caspar quickly swallowed his cocktail.

Magnum stood up. “Call of nature, I’m afraid. Wait for me here.”

As the man with the moustache slipped out of the room there was a commotion at the bar.

One of the customers had fallen off his stool again.

By the time the ambulance arrived Professor Dawkins was already dead. His heart had stopped functioning.

5 MAY 2014

“Well, what’s it to be, Miss Stone. I hope you’ve given your thesis subject some thought.”

“I have indeed, Dr Brett.” The emphasis on his surname indicated her displeasure.

Ever since the May Day party Freddie had been dreading this tutorial and she certainly wasn’t making it easy for him. She had tousled her hair, left the top buttons of her blouse undone and was wearing her shortest skirt. He shouldn’t be noticing such things and yet his eyes were drawn towards her. Keep it cool and formal, he thought.

“There is of course a wide range of subject matter. Have you decided what to tackle?”

Cheryl pouted prettily. “I thought it might be fun to have a go at
Love’s Labour’s Lost
, the courtly comedy that is, paradoxically, the dirtiest play in the entire Shakespeare canon and the only comedy without a happy ending. Jack doesn’t get Jill.”

Freddie knew he was blushing. “W-what in particular would you like to look at?”

“Oh, its secret agenda I think. The play is full of topical allusions and it’s the only Shakespeare play with an original plot. Normally they were nicked off somebody else.”

“What do you think the comedy is actually about?”

“It’s about growing up, saying things that mean something instead of just being clever.”

“That’s right,” he enthused. “It’s about separating what is real from what is artificial. The king of Navarre and his lords vow to lock themselves away for three years, not eating or sleeping or seeing women and, of course, they can’t keep it up because it’s unnatural for young men to do without sex.”

“Well, you’d know about that, Dr Brett.”

She wasn’t going to let the matter rest. He would have to say something. “Can we please concentrate on your dissertation, Miss Stone, and put other considerations to one side or would you prefer to have another tutor.”

“No way,” she replied hastily. “But I’ll tell you this for nothing. Where that American woman is concerned, you’ve got to press it to you.”

He had heard those words before. They were code for ‘repress your urges’, taken from a track on a Gorillaz album which must have been a musical benchmark in her adolescence.

She hadn’t finished yet. “You’d be much better off with me. We think alike. There, I’ve said it. Let’s move on.”

And move on they did to discuss the play’s use of language. Freddie could see a trap opening in front of him.
Love’s Labour’s Lost
was packed with double entendres but before his eager student could sink her teeth into its sexual puns he brought proceedings to a close.

Later, as he sat at his desk coping with his drug withdrawal symptoms, he remembered what she had said.
We think alike
. That was it!

Energy restored, he picked up his briefcase and charged out of the study.

He found Sam in the flat doing her ironing. “You’re back early,” she said. “Look, I’ve something to tell you. Bad news I’m afraid. Cleaver is terminating my leave of absence. He wants me back on campus by the end of the week.”

Freddie’s heart sank. He’d half expected this. She had been over here for a month. Of course she had to go back. But why had Cleaver changed his mind about the time she could have off. Did he know they were having an affair?

She was expecting him to say something and his mind was in turmoil. “Let’s enjoy the time we’ve got left together. What would you like to do?”

Sam took down the ironing board. “Well, we could make passionate love or maybe we should take a look at that book Strachan gave us. There is obviously something in it he wants us to see.”

“Okay, let’s solve the Shakespeare mystery,” he said with heavy irony. “Actually I’ve got an idea. It came to me at work. The engravings, Sam, the emblematic title page pictures in
Cryptomenytices
. If Strachan is right, one shows Bacon with the author, Duke August of Brunswick-Luneburg, and the other reveals Bacon with Shakespeare. Why create such a triangle in what is supposed to be a book about Trithemius’s ciphers? The answer must lie in Bacon’s relationship with the duke. They thought alike. They were both idealists seeking a better world, noblemen hiding their light under a bushel, writing anonymously, belonging to a secret brotherhood and with a penchant for cryptography. Bacon employs a straightforward version of Trithemius’s four-fold number code in his
Alphabet of Nature
while Duke August devotes a whole book to the monk’s ciphers. Wouldn’t you expect it to contain a number alphabet?”

The logic was inescapable. “Of course you would,” she said.

The huge volume had found a temporary home in his kitchen cupboard. As Freddie retrieved it, a small piece of yellow paper fluttered to the floor. Sam picked it up. What she was holding was a post-it on which a few words had been scrawled in biro, presumably by Strachan.

Selenus – based on Trithemius – a square then an alphabet – Matthew 27.3

“What do you think?” she asked. “Is this an aide-memoire or a deliberate clue for us to follow?”

Freddie thought the latter. Writing under the pseudonym of Gustavus Selenus, Duke August had authored a book on Trithemius’s cipher systems. It seemed reasonable, therefore, to assume that
Cryptomenytices
outlined ciphers that took the form of a square and an alphabet.