It was the longest speech Thomas had ever heard Rush make. Almost effusive. ‘Thank you, sir. Now, if you will excuse me, it has been a tiring day for me too.’
‘Quite so. Put the whole thing out of your mind and leave me to deal with matters. The king will wish you to be at your best for the work that lies ahead.’
Somewhat confused, Thomas made a swift exit and walked quickly back to Pembroke. What a strange man indeed. His mood could shift in a trice, and for no apparent reason. Still, better a friend than an enemy.
The college kitchen was as obliging as ever, and, with a full stomach, and exhausted in mind and body, Thomas was asleep within the hour. The message was safely hidden beneath a floorboard under the bed, with a pisspot on top of it, and there it would stay when he was not working on it.
Ten hours later, his first thoughts on waking were of Margaret and the girls. Conscious that there had been other matters to occupy him, and that he had given them less thought than he should have, he allowed himself the indulgence of lying on his bed and watching them in his mind’s eye. He saw them in the kitchen, Margaret reading, Polly and Lucy playing one of their games or struggling with the sewing stitches they were trying to master. He saw them at the market, with baskets of eggs and vegetables. And he saw them asleep in their beds. God forbid that any harm should come to them, and God forbid that he should be apart from them for much longer. If it had occurred to him, he might have ridden that horse straight to Romsey, not Oxford, and damn the consequences. He missed them terribly.
Then he thought of Jane Romilly. What exactly was her relation ship with Fayne? ‘Just an acquaintance’, as she had claimed, or something more? It had certainly appeared more when he had seen them in the street. Yet Jane had called on him in this very room and brought him the book of sonnets she had bought in John Porter’s shop. There was only one thing for it. He would call on her in Merton. First, however, he must visit Abraham.
The old man was in his usual place by the window, his unseeing eyes looking out on to the courtyard. He heard Thomas knock and enter unbidden. ‘Is that you, Thomas?’ he asked.
‘It is, Abraham. How are you?’
‘Much as before, thank you. More importantly, how are you? I hear you’ve been to war.’
‘Reluctantly, and, thank God, I did no fighting.’
‘Was it as bad as they say?’
‘Whatever you’ve heard, it was worse. Thousands dead and maimed, families destroyed, and for nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Prince Rupert and the king have now returned to Oxford, and Essex will march on to London. If it goes on like this, the war will end only when there are no men left to fight.’
‘Yes. I sometimes think we’d do better if we left it all to the women. We men make such a bloody mess of everything.’
‘I don’t know, Abraham. Queen Elizabeth claimed to have the heart and stomach of a king and threatened to take up arms herself. And she cut off more than a few heads.’
‘Had them cut off, I think you mean, Thomas. Now, what else have you to report?’
‘Rush lent me his carriage for the journey home. He travelled with the king. We were attacked by two highway men, who shot both coachmen and searched the carriage.’
‘Good God. Did they shoot at you?’
‘Oddly, no. They wrecked the carriage, found nothing of value and made off. I rode home on one of the carriage horses.’
‘And what did Master Rush have to say about that?’
‘At first, I don’t think he believed me. Then he seemed convinced and was quite solicitous.’
‘Did they take nothing at all?’
‘Nothing. Nor, thank the Lord, did they find Monsieur Vigenère, who was hiding in my stocking.’
‘Do you think they were looking for him?’
‘I did wonder, but how could anyone have known I was in that carriage, or that I even have the message?’
‘You haven’t told anyone, have you, Thomas?’
‘On my life, Abraham, I have not. Not a soul.’
‘Good. Then Rush is probably right. Just two robbers who went home disappointed. Although why they did not shoot you, too, or take the horses, is a mystery.’
‘It is. I can only suppose they took pity on a poor fellow with but a few coins and a small bag of clothes to his name.’
Abraham closed his eyes. ‘Have you made any progress with the message?’
‘I fear not. The square has been unbroken for over seventy years and it may well stay that way for another seventy. I have come up with nothing.’
‘Then back to work with you, Thomas. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I’m sure this is something of grave importance. Vigenère, numerical codes, hidden in a hat on the London to Cambridge road. It all points the same way.’
‘Any advice, Abraham?’
‘Encouragement rather than advice. You were a brilliant scholar, you have a rare talent for cryptography, and if anyone can break the code you can. Assume it can be broken. There’s a key there somewhere and you will find it.’
‘I wish I shared your confidence, but thank you for yours. If I fail, it will not be for want of trying.’
‘Off you go then, and leave an old man to his rest.’
Back at his table, Thomas took his copy of the square out. It was time for a fresh start. Taking a new quill and a clean sheet of paper, he wrote out the square again.
Twenty-six possible encryptions for each letter. Using Abraham’s straight edge to guide his eye, Thomas imagined the keyword to be LOVE, and the encrypted word to be JANE. Using the letters in the square where each letter of JANE met its counterpart in LOVE, the encryption would be UOII. Proof against any known method of analysing the frequency with which each letter appeared in a text. And proof, so far, against the attentions of Thomas Hill. For an hour Thomas sat and stared at the square, hoping for inspir ation. None came. Then he retrieved the message itself from under the floorboard and stared at that. Still nothing. Not a glimmer.
By that evening, after another day of boiling frustration, Thomas had given up hope. He was not going to be the man who broke the Vigenère square. Whatever this message contained would remain a secret until too late and there was nothing he could do about it. He had failed. He put it back under the floorboard, poured himself a glass of Silas’s claret and tried to think about something else. Anything but the infernal square.
It took most of the bottle to do it, but eventually his brain surrendered.
As soon as he had breakfasted the next morning, he washed, shaved, dressed carefully and set off for Merton. He was resolved. Monsieur Vigenère might have defeated him, but Jane Romilly would not.
At Merton he was escorted to the Warden’s lodgings by a member of the queen’s guard, and asked to wait while the guard informed Lady Romilly of his arrival. Nearby he could see the tennis court, where he had learned the game and become proficient enough to defeat all but the best of his fellow scholars. He wondered how he would fare now, ten years on. He was fit enough, and strong, but would some of his old speed have deserted him? Idly, he practised a few strokes, imagining the corners into which he was aiming to hit the ball. It would be good to try his hand again.
The guard returned, shaking his head. ‘Lady Romilly is not present, sir. Another of the queen’s ladies suggests you return tomorrow.’
Thomas did not believe the man. All the queen’s ladies would be present at that time of the morning to ensure that her majesty was suitably attired for the day and wanted for nothing. ‘Kindly try again,’ he said, ‘and if, by some chance, Lady Romilly has un expectedly returned, tell her that I am here on a matter of great importance and will wait until she consents to see me.’ With a shrug, the guard did as he was asked. He was back within a minute.
‘It seems that Lady Romilly does not wish to see you, sir. I am to escort you to the gate.’