The Cthulhu Encryption (3 page)

“That’s my understanding too,” Chapelain put in, loyally. “If there’s a more sophisticated one, it has escaped my notice.”

“That might well be to your credit,” Dupin admitted, “for the other meaning is one that is more likely to recommend itself to the Baron Du Potet, now that he is haunting the bookshops of Paris for esoteric tomes of all sorts.” The edge in his voice suggested that he did not appreciate the extra competition, give that there were more than enough bibliomaniacs in Paris already—not to mention those in the provinces, who occasionally mounted voracious raids on the bookshops of Paris.

“So tell us,” I said, a trifle sharply. “What is a cryptogram, to intellectuals of a
less vulgar
stripe?”

“Originally,” Dupin said, “a cryptogram was a particular kind of magic spell. The format has been cheapened by overmuch imitation, of course—you can see magical squares of this sort, almost invariably manifesting the same seven-by-seven formation—in numerous alchemical texts and so-called grimoires. Many of those attempt to adapt the format to a Christian context to which it is ill-fitted, while others pretend—always falsely, so far as I can tell—to be the most celebrated legendary original.”

“What
legendary original
is that?” Chapelain queried, the hint of impatience in his voice not entirely due to his heavy day at Bicêtre.

“The so-called Key, or Seal, of Solomon—the instrument with which the great king is said to have bound the demons that once supposedly ravaged the earth: the djinn, as Arab folklore calls them.”

“Ah!” said Chapelain. He seemed slightly disappointed. I could understand why: the
Clavicule Salomonis
was one of the so-called “forbidden books” on Dupin’s shelves—or, to be perfectly accurate, two of them, for he had two entirely distinct tomes bearing that title, both of them printed in the sixteenth century. The mere fact of their having been printed robbed them of any real claim they had to be considered esoteric, while the fact that various distinct versions existed illustrated the sad truth that the occult
monde
in which the likes of the Comte de Saint-Germain and Mademoiselle Valdemar moved was awash with such optimistic fakes.

“Perhaps that’s the real one,” I quipped, nodding my head in the direction of the piece of paper that Dupin was holding.

“Perhaps it is,” he said, sarcastically. “But it has been scribbled on modern note-paper with a steel-nibbed pen, in a rather slapdash manner, so I would beg leave to doubt it, even if Dr. Chapelain had not found it in the possession of a mercury-addled syphilitic whore who suffers from bizarre hallucinations.”

Chapelain took some slight offence at that, presumably on behalf of his patient. He was a good and humane man, who did his best for all his patients, whether they came to consult him from the aristocratic houses of Faubourg Saint-Germain or somehow came to his attention in the dire wards of Bicêtre.

“That’s not the original,” of course,” he said, mildly. “That’s a copy made this afternoon by Dr. Leuret—but you’re correct about the steel nib. Fine detective work, that.”

Dupin smiled, wryly. “You should have brought the original,” he said, in a tone of mild reproof, “but I accept the rebuke.”

“That would have been somewhat impractical, although not actually impossible,” Chapelain countered. I could tell from his tone that he had a revelation up his sleeve with which he hoped to put Dupin’s nose ever so slightly out of joint.

“Is it hewn in stone then?” Dupin asked, lightly.

“No,” said Chapelain. “It’s inscribed on the woman’s back—that’s the pattern of the inflammation to which I referred, although the version you’re holding is considerably larger than the original, which is no more than five centimetres across. As I said, Leuret thinks that it was tattooed a long time ago, but it certainly wasn’t done in any inking parlor in Paris or Le Havre, and I beg leave to doubt that it was contrived with a steel needle.”

“Ah!” said Dupin thoughtfully. “That
is
intriguing, as further complications go. It’s far more intricate, is it not, than the growths and birthmarks that are usually identified as the Devil’s marks? Have you asked her what it is?”

“No—I’m not even sure that she was aware of its presence until the wretched orderlies drew attention to it. I dare say, though, that she would me more likely to attributed it to King Oberon’s magic than the Devil’s…or Merlin’s.” His voice seemed slightly strangled as he pronounced the last name. He did not wait to be asked a question before adding: “She calls me Merlin, having adapted me into her fantasy.”

“Of course,” Dupin observed, in a tranquil tone. “What does she call Leuret?”

“She calls him the Mahatma—but she refuses to associate him with a character in her consolatory Underworld. As I said, I think she might be English by birth, but possibly born in India. That would probably have made tales of ancient Britain and Britanny seem even more exotic when they were old to her as a child. Her favorite character seems to be Tristan de Léonais, and that’s reflected in what she claims to be her own name. She calls herself Ysolde—Ysolde Leonys. That’s L-E-O-N-Y-S, with the stress on the second syllable rather than the first: another clue to her English origin….” He trailed off, having belatedly noticed Dupin’s expression, to which puzzlement had returned in full force. “Do you recognize that name?” he added, belatedly.

“Yes,” Dupin said. “As it happens, I’ve heard it mentioned quite recently.”

“By whom?” I prompted, when he did not seem inclined to continue—but he was studying the cryptogram again, with a new intensity. “You don’t really think it might be the Key of Solomon, do you?” I said, although I felt foolish as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

For once there was no hint of mockery in his response, even though the question was so obviously fatuous. “There’s no such thing, strictly speaking,” he said. “It’s a legend, perverted as well as preserved by virtue of its incorporation into three religions…but it’s a legend that might well have
some
foundation in fact. I can’t believe for a moment that this might be a copy of one of the cryptograms that gave rise to the legend, but it just might be one of those spun off from it…which are not without interest in more than one antiquarian sense. She was born in India, you said?” The last sentence was couched in a much sharper tone, and addressed to Chapelain.

“I suspect so,” Chapelain confirmed, his tone now wary. “Those characters aren’t Sanskrit, thought…not, at least, any representation of Sanskrit that I’ve ever seen.”

“No,” Dupin agreed,” they’re not Sanskrit. They’re almost certainly improvised to represent phonemes, but if this really is a serious attempt to reproduce, synthesize or fake a cryptogram, it’s futile to try to solve it by trying to translate the symbols in such a way that they spell out a message, in Sanskrit, English, Latin, French or any other known language. I’d like to see your Ysolde, Dr. Chapelain, if that’s possible.”

“She’s not really
my
Ysolde,” Chapelain said, his tone still very wary. “If she’s anyone’s, she’s Leuret’s—but she came to the hospital voluntarily; she wasn’t committed by the law. In theory, she’s a free agent, although she’s in no condition to exercise her freedom.”

“So much the better,” said Dupin. “If she’s free, then she’s free to receive visitors. Will Leuret raise any objection?”

“I don’t think so. I told him that I would show you the design, and he seemed glad—he knows you by reputation, and not solely on the basis of my remarks. I’m sure that he’ll be very interested to know what you make of the design…and what you make of the patient, if you can make anything out of her at all.”

“How is it that you recognized her name, Dupin?” I asked my friend, bluntly, when I could get a word in.

“I heard it from Père France,” Dupin told us. Père France, whose real name was Thibault, was one on the book-sellers with whom he had regular dealings—a man known to and greatly respected by every bibliophile in Paris. “He asked me whether I knew of any documents signed with that name, or referring to it, perhaps in connection with the name Taylor. He was asking on behalf of one of his provincial customers, a renowned bibliotaph who calls himself Breisz. The collector in question has a keen interest in the Levasseur cryptogram, as well as many other occult matters, and Père France thinks that his enquiry regarding the name Leonys was connected to his interest in that crytogram.”

I did not have to ask what a bibliotaph was—it was one of Père France’s favourite sarcasms. A bibliotaph is the kind of bibliomaniac who hides his collection away, as if in a tomb. There is, according to the worthy bookseller, no species of miser more secretive or avaricious, and no kind of bibliomaniac less sane—although I doubt that men of that sort frequently end up in the care of men like François Leuret, for it’s the kind of eccentricity that requires considerable wealth. Nor did I have to ask why the bibliotaph in question merely “called himself” Breisz;
Breisz
was the Breton word for
Breton
—a far more likely pseudonym than surname. I contented myself, therefore, by asking: “What’s the Levasseur cryptogram?”

“I’m surprised that you don’t know,” Dupin retorted, reverting to type. “Your friend Poe certainly does—he based a story on his legend, although, as a good American, he naturally substituted an American pirate for the French one.”

“Captain Kidd, you mean,” I said. “In ‘The Gold Bug’?”

“Precisely. The idea of coming into possession of a cipher offering directions to a pirate’s treasure is hackneyed now, but it was relatively fresh once, and it was in connection with Olivier Levasseur that it was first popularized in France.”

“But you can see such clichés any night of the week in the cheap theaters of the Boulevard du Temple,” Chapelain interjected. “If poor Ysolde has been a streetwalker for twenty years and more, she’s bound to be exceedingly familiar with such fare—but there’s nothing about pirates in her fantasies, which are of an altogether more fabulous stripe.”

“Pirates are fabulous enough in their own right,” Dupin assured him. “Especially Olivier Levasseur. You must have heard of him in your youth, although the name has clearly slipped your memory now.”

“You’d better remind me, then,” said Chapelain, “if you really think it’s relevant.”

“I don’t know whether it is relevant,” Dupin confessed, “but the mere possibility….” He left that sentence hanging, and told us the story instead.

CHAPTER TWO

OUR LADY OF THE CAPE

“Olivier Levasseur,” Dupin said, settling into oratorical mode, “was a seaman who obtained a
lettre de marque
from Louis XIV in order that he might serve as a privateer during the War of the Spanish Succession. When the war ended in 1714 he was ordered to return to France, but, like numerous other privateers, he elected to continue his new way of life instead, originally joining a Caribbean pirate fleet commanded by the Englishman Benjamin Hornigold. Hornigold was soon recruited by the English government to hunt down his former peers, however, and Levasseur found it diplomatic to remove himself from his treacherous ally’s reach.

“Levasseur took his ship to the east coast of Africa, where there were moderately rich pickings by virtue of the booming slave trade. His attention was soon diverted further eastwards, because the increasing British activity in India and thriving trade with the Far East were making the Indian Ocean much busier. The area was dangerous for European pirates, however, because a native pirate fleet based in India had a virtual monopoly. It was commanded by a warlord named Angria, who had a fortress in Callaba, not far from Bombay, and the support of the Mogul. When the British East India Company lost patience and became determined to put a stop to Angria’s activities he seems to have made some kind of clandestine treaty with them, whereby he was licensed to plunder Portuguese, French and Dutch ships to his heart’s content, with a ready market for his prizes. In order to find a measure of safety in numbers, Levasseur joined forced with the English pirate Edward England—who has a chapter dedicated to him in Captain Johnson’s famous history of piracy—and the two of them established a base on an island near Madagascar early in 1721. Whether they made any kind of agreement with Angria, no one knows—but he does not seem to have attacked them, as he surely could have done.

“Johnson is unclear as to the details, but Edward England was deposed from his command by one of his subsidiary captains, John Taylor, apparently for attempting to forge a treaty of his own with the East India Company via one of its captains that the pirates had captured. Taylor marooned England on Mauritius; he is said to have escaped, but he disappeared from the historical record thereafter.

“In collaboration with Taylor, Levasseur then made the single biggest capture ever attained by any pirate anywhere, when the two of them captured the Portuguese galleon
Nossa Senhora del Cabo
—
Our Lady of the Cape
, in English—which was carrying the Bishop and Viceroy of Goa home to Lisbon, with the respective fortunes they had made by colonial plunder. The haul was so massive than when the routine division of gold, silver and gems was made between all the members of the various pirate crews—who must have numbered more than a hundred—each man is said received a fortune worth more than a million francs in today’s money. Taylor and Levasseur, as captains, obtained an extra share, which was largely made up of goods other than metals and precious stones. Levasseur, however, took the most celebrated artefact: the so-called Flaming Cross of Goa—a church ornament made with gold plundered from the Indian continent.