The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction (41 page)

“Here, I think you need proper attention.” There were voices ahead on the high road and Robert heard Will saying, “This feller’s been attacked, robbed most like – stop a cab can you, he needs a doctor,” before he lost consciousness.

*

Ada walked swiftly along the corridor of Westminster Hospital behind the orderly. The hospital still smelled new and fresh, not yet overlaid with the stench of sickness and medicines. She felt a tingling sensation between her shoulder-blades, as if her mother was watching her, or at the very least knew exactly what she was doing, and was planning a severe punishment as well as a lecture. But she would be only ten minutes here, no more; and who could object to her spontaneous gesture of giving – bringing a basket of food to the sick and needy in this brand new building, just opened on Broad Sanctuary, Westminster, on her way home from a shopping trip in the Strand? The waiting driver in their carriage would not know she had actually spoken to one of those needy patients.

“Constable Robert Duckett, Miss,” the orderly said, opening the door to a private room and, leaving the door open, positioned himself on a chair outside.

Robert was sitting up in bed, several pillows behind him. His forehead had a bruised swelling on it and he was pale, but otherwise well – and surprised to see her.

“Why, whatever are you doing here—”

Ada held up a finger before he could say her name. “And why shouldn’t your cousin visit? Were you hurt badly? What happened?”

He quickly understood. “Thank you, cousin, I was set upon from behind near the White Hart Public House. I hurt my head when I fell.” He touched his forehead then winced, “But it’s my ribs he gave a good workout, and they’re all bandaged up. Nothing broken though.”

“Do you have everything you need?” Ada asked. “I’ve spent so many long hours in the sick-room at home, struck down by debilitating conditions –
erm
, as you of course know – the hours can hang heavy. I could send you a book.”

“Thank you. And my friend Will’s sending in pies for me to eat.”

Ada glanced over her shoulder. The orderly was standing in the middle of the corridor gossiping with a passing laundrymaid. She dropped her voice. “Did you learn anything? We’ve been working night and day on the ciphers. I expect you heard we broke the second quadrant.”

“I learned nothing; but, the second quadrant …” Robert leaned forward, eyes bright.

“‘Where many are gathered together, and the light is bright, there shall I strike,’” she repeated the words carefully. “It was the simple frequency method that worked in the end; we found that every third—” She broke off, as Robert leaned back, eyes closed, frowning. “Are you all right? Some water?” She reached clumsily for the glass at his bedside, accidentally brushing his bare arm, but he didn’t seem to notice, or was too polite to react.

“Very Biblical sounding,” Robert said. “There’s something there but, no, I can’t recall.” He opened his eyes, their blueness startling her as she leaned close. “That knock on the head has affected my memory. I was sure there was something said – a name, maybe a place, in the White Hart, but it’s gone now.” He looked at her. “I call him the Prankster, this code-maker. It’s all about proving how clever he is, making us run round in circles. He knows he’s hooked us, with me going in that pub.”

Ada gasped. “You mean it was him who attacked you? Not one of the Radicals or a robber from the Rookery?”

“Not him in person, I suspect, but word got back to him the police were sniffing around, and he sent us another message of a different kind. How did you know I was in here anyway?”

“When Mr Babbage was telling Mr Clark our progress with the code, Mr Clark said we were on the right track, and that he’d sent you to the public house ‘with no results but a cracked head’ was how he put it.”

“Huh!” Robert said.

Ada heard the orderly returning to his chair, and straightened up. “I have to go now. God speed your recovery. You are a brave man,” she added, cheeks flushing, before marching out.

Robert lay back on his pillows. Brave? He didn’t think so, but, if a young lady wanted to think it, he didn’t object. And now Miss Ada Byron would return to her world of dances and supper parties, and he to his lodgings – his family far away in Bristol.

He imagined himself at a supper party – and what a botch he would make of it – when he had a sudden thought: November the Fifth. That was a night when there would be crowds and bright lights, and a man with a political statement to make could set the largest number of tongues wagging. And perhaps even explosions of his own to make. He’d pass that on to the Sergeant for what it was worth.

But just for now he was feeling very uncomfortable and very tired. Time to have another sleep.

*

“Miss Byron! I did not send for you.” Charles Babbage fiddled irritably with the small microscope in front of him, not meeting her eyes.

So, he was in one of his moods, and she was Miss Byron today, not “my dear Ada”. The maid who’d announced her still hovered in the doorway, in case she had to show her out again. Ada stepped forward, taking off her bonnet and gloves and handing them to her. She would not be deterred by his grumpiness. The maid shrugged and left the room.

“I saw Constable Duckett two days ago,” she said sharply, noting that he wore his oldest smoking jacket, its elbows rubbed, and his stock was all askew. “In hospital.”

“What?” He sat up and looked at her, but not with his usual sociable warmth. “Oh yes, Clark said something to me, I don’t know what—”

“That’s right,” Ada said, sitting on the low Ottoman that now stood where the Difference Engine had been. The Engine had at last been moved to the building next door. “Mr Clark sent him there to find out more information. The Constable was very brave …”

Charles muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Spare me another one of your heroes,” but she ignored him. A black mood was not to be indulged. Lady Byron had taught her that lesson well.

“I have not heard from you in three days. We must redouble our efforts on the cipher. The Prankster knows we have it, or he would not have set upon the Constable. We must—”

“It’s all folly. What can I do about it?” He stared gloomily at the blank wall above her head, where the Engine had stood.

She sat bolt upright. “You can do everything! Supposing Mr Clark is right and the code is warning of some terrible event to come. We can save lives, preserve the stability of this Government—”

“Why should I care what happens to this Government? Short-sighted fools that they are.” Charles jumped up. “None of them has any understanding of what I can do, of what I can achieve. My ideas – the new ideas of any inventor – are like pearls before swine to them. I’ve told Wellington I must start again, build a newer and better Engine; maybe
he
understands, but those around him are dolts and dullards.”

He must have had his latest request for funding rejected, Ada thought, and that coupled with his long running dispute with the engineer who built the Engine and who now refused to return the plans, would explain the black cloud over him.

“You will prevail eventually, Mr Babbage,” she told him. “With me at your side, we can achieve everything.”

He stared at her. The flush left his cheeks. He was about to speak when there was a knock at the door.

“Miss Byron, good morning.” Charles’s mother-in-law stood in the doorway with Dugald and Henry, Charles’s youngest sons. They wore warm coats. “Charles, I’m taking the boys out for fresh air and exercise. Say goodbye to Papa, now.”

Ada watched as he spoke fondly to his sons, patted their shoulders, and then went to the window to watch and wave as they crossed the street. His eldest son was visiting relatives in Devon.

Now can we get back to the code
, she thought. It was like an itch in her brain, the longing to fill her mind with puzzles and patterns, calculations and calculus. She’d lain awake for most of the night yet again, with figures and numbers whirling and cascading through her mind – as if she was the Difference Engine herself – and till her heart was hammering, and she’d broken out in a sweat. Only here could she find some relief from the pressure of – she did believe it sometimes – her genius.

Charles was ringing the bell to the kitchen. “I’ll order some coffee to be brought to the dining room and we can use the table there. I want to be away from this room with its aura of doomed projects.”

At last Ada could slide into that other world, the one of symbols and of certainties, of patterns that sounded in her mind like music. She passionately believed that if she followed the logical steps, the truth would be revealed. Nothing would be hidden from her any more. She’d find an absolute truth, without questions or evasions; no hidden meanings or obscurities. In this world her mind could soar, her heart and body be left behind. If only she could stay and lose herself in this world forever.

Coffee cups drained and pushed aside, they worked on the lower left quadrant. Having exhausted the possibilities of the frequency method, Charles suggested they now move on to transposition. “As you know, Ada, this is how science works. We work our way through each of the postulations till, at last, one of them matches all the parameters and we can fit the key. Although,” he added, with the twinkle returning to his eye, “A leap of the imagination often helps too.”

Ada gave an internal shudder. Imagination. That’s what her father had had, in abundance. It had led to terrible things. What exactly they were, she had not been told. Sometimes, when she languished in her room in one of her ill periods, all sorts of weird images came into her mind and made her feel worse. They were not to be spoken about, her mother had made plain.
He
was not to be spoken about, but she must never forget that he was a ruiner of lives – his own as well as others’.

The letters swam before her eyes and she did her best to focus, and to banish these thoughts before they dragged her down again. Apply the method, following Charles’s instructions, and she would be in control again.

After a while she became aware that Charles had put down his pen and was staring into the distance. She became as still and quiet as possible. This was what he was like when new ideas were coming to him. He got up and went to the window, staring up at the cloudy sky then down at the autumnal leaves that had collected on the pavement. He turned back.

“That’s it,” he said. “While we are still working on the cipher to uncover what message our man is sending, I will send him one of my own. You said that Constable Duckett was ordered to that public house in the hope of drawing out – what did you call him? – the Prankster. It may not work, but my guess is that this man will also enjoy the challenge of
The Times
Personals. I shall place a message for him.”

“What will you say?”

“That’s what concerns me. How about something like ‘The net is getting tighter. You cannot succeed. We are very close.’ Or something like that,” he waved a hand airily, seeing Ada’s frown.

“But how will he know it’s for him, that could be for anyone.”

“True, and that’s why, Ada, I have a special request.” He sat down again beside her and took her hands in his. “I would like to use the symbols that you interpreted as Wanstead Abbey, along with the name of Byron, perhaps a line from
Childe Harold
. Would you allow that? It’s all I can think of using – we could mention bright lights, being ignored – but again that’s open to interpretation.”

Ada lifted her chin. Robert had not been afraid, neither would she. And she knew none of her father’s poetry, so it would not matter to her. “You must use it. Why not ask him to meet you? Or ask what it is he wants!”

“I’ll work on it. Thank you, Ada.”

“But – don’t you think we should ask Mr Clark first?”

“Hah – if we wait for government departments to make up their minds, we’ll still be waiting for an answer at the next Millennium!”

*

“Is the syllabub to your liking, Ada?”

“May I fetch you some wine, Miss Byron?”

“You are looking a little pale, are you chilled? Shall I fetch your shawl?”

Ada smiled. It was certainly flattering to have the attention of these young men, to be surrounded, when other young women looked on in envy. And she never lacked for partners when the dancing started, which was good because she enjoyed it so much. Yes, it might be because of her name and her fame but, if they didn’t like her, surely they wouldn’t stay?

“Yes, and yes please, and no thank you, I’m not cold,” she answered. As one swain went to fetch her some wine she said to the other two, “Have you seen Mr Babbage’s Difference Engine? I’ve had the pleasure of working with him on—”

“A most fantastical machine, I’ve heard,” interrupted the first young man hastily. “But I wanted to ask you, Ada, if there was perhaps something fantastical at the theatre you would like to see? Perhaps your Mama would allow—”

“Nonsense, not the theatre. Miss Byron, I could arrange a day at the races, would that be more to your liking?”

“It would indeed. I was at Doncaster not long ago, and the thrill of it! I want to learn about horses, and, of course, the arithmetical calculations on the betting odds are intriguing – oh!”

Her wine was being handed to her, but not by one of her swains. Instead, it was Mr Clark.

“Good evening Miss Byron. May I compliment you on your yellow outfit? A most striking and vivid combination. A beacon in this room.” He indicated the rest of the soirée in the candle-lit room. Small baize-topped card tables at one side were fully occupied. In the far corner a small group sat listening to the gentle tones of a guitar played by an Italian maestro. Still others, like her own coterie, sat gossiping together on chaise longues and low padded chairs in the French style. The cold buffet supper was over, the last of the desserts now spooned up and the plates and bowls cleared away by the servants.

Ada felt her spirits lift further, having previously resigned herself to an evening of pointless small-talk.

“May I?” He sat down, and the two younger men melted away.