The Queen's Cipher (13 page)

To hone his skills Trithemius had read everything he could on cryptography: how the Elder Pliny had made an invisible ink out of the milk of the tithymalus plant and how the ancient Chinese had placed messages in balls of wax for runners to swallow and later evacuate. Rather than rely on ink or erratic bowel movements the abbot placed his faith in the cryptanalysis of the Arab mathematician Al-Kindi, who invented the first polyalphabetic substitution cipher, and of the thirteenth-century Cistercian monk John of Basingstoke who developed a Greek system of numeration. Gradually he came to realize that there was no end to cryptographic ingenuity: one letter could be substituted for another or turned into a number or a zodiacal sign; words could be written backwards; letters put into reverse order or disguised by a key cipher in which the alphabet was constantly switched. It was even possible to embed ciphers in planetary data, literary dedications or magical conjurations.

His desk was littered with pieces of paper on which he had scribbled out strange incantations, messages from angels and astrological tables as he sought to perfect a form of hidden communication that was not obvious to the naked eye. He called this invisible cipher ‘steganography’, a compound word derived from the Greek
steganos
meaning ‘covered’ and
graphein
meaning ‘to write.’

All that worried the abbot during his nightly vigils was whether his covered writing was sufficiently obscure. Only men of learning ought to be able to retrieve it. For the rest of the human race, the ‘thick-skinned turnip eaters,’ his work should remain a mystery and ‘to their dull intellects a sealed book forever.’ He would have to be careful though. A Carmelite prior had accused him of sorcery and the Catholic Inquisition was taking the allegation seriously. He was to be investigated.

Man’s stupidity knew no bounds.

23 APRIL 2014

With a cloudless sky, blue as the sea below, and a gentle breeze coming off the Mediterranean the weather was set fair for St George’s Day. Donald Strachan began his celebrations. Down came the Union Jack to be replaced by the White Ensign.

The fact that England’s patron saint was a third-century Roman soldier who never set foot in Strachan’s green and pleasant land did nothing to dampen his patriotism, for what he chose to celebrate was the idea of Englishness itself. The symbolic significance of the flag had never seemed clearer. Having given away an empire and devolved power to the Scots and Welsh, he had watched his country brought low by greedy bankers and venal politicians who saw public service as a short cut to private gain. It was time to begin a new crusade.

But the only war to be fought on the good ship
Silly Mid On
turned out to be of the domestic variety. It was a familiar enough occurrence: harsh words followed by Antonia packing her bags and going off to stay at a friend’s house in Highgate until, tired of doing his own cooking and cleaning, Donald Strachan pleaded with her to return. Re-enacting this drama worked for both of them. She got a welcome break and he loved the excitement of it all.

Like most of their disputes this one came out of the blue. A harmless remark from Antonia reminded Strachan that St George’s Day was also Shakespeare’s birthday. Then a squadron of seagulls decided to dive-bomb the houseboat.

“If I had a gun I’d shoot the buggers,” Strachan roared, shaking his fist at the gulls. “They are nothing but dirty scavengers.”

Antonia stopped scrubbing the deck, wiped her hands on her jeans, and looked at him witheringly. “At least they keep the sea clean which is more than I can say for you. When did you last do a job of work on this disgusting boat?”

Strachan glowered. He knew he didn’t pull his weight and hated to be reminded of it.

“You just don’t get it, do you,” he blustered. “This Bacon business takes up all my energy. You don’t know what it’s like to be in your sixties.”

One of the problems with being a lion in winter was that he looked fit and well. There was no flabby pallid skin or creaking bones, just a wheezing chest. Making the most of this he staged a coughing fit for Antonia’s benefit but she wasn’t falling for that trick again.

“You’re not getting any sympathy from me, old man. What I want from you is a bit of elbow grease. Here’s the bucket and scrubbing brush. Get on with it.”

This was the moment when Donald Strachan lost it. Drawing himself up to his full height he proclaimed loftily. “That’s a woman’s work.”

He could see the warning signs but pressed on regardless. “If you were in Argentina you would know your place.”

“Oh really, is that so? In Buenos Aires I had servants to do the housework and I didn’t live in a filthy old tub either. My boyfriends brought me flowers. When did you last do that?”

He couldn’t remember. “Oh, I am sure you got plenty of flowers,” he sneered. “Everyone knows those Argies are mincing, moisturising girly men.”

“At least
they
know how to be charming to a woman which is more than I can say for you Englishmen, waving your stupid flags around, when you are a nation of robbers.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? The British Empire was
not
built on robbery.”

“What about the Malvinas – stolen at gunpoint from Argentina.”

The patriotic actor rose to the bait. “I knew we’d get round to the Falklands,” he shouted. “A history lesson coming from you – it’s outrageous!”

Antonia threw her scrubbing brush at him.

The battle lines had been drawn, the blood summoned up and, once let slip, the dogs of war snarled and scratched away at one another. He was a washed up actor living on benefit – she was an ungrateful immigrant who didn’t understand the importance of his work – he was a silly old bastard with a one-track mind – she was an airhead who had socialised with war criminals in Buenos Aires – he was so xenophobic he didn’t realize the British government locked up far more people than the Junta ever had – she was a slut flaunting herself in front of lecherous yacht owners on the marina – he was a useless male who couldn’t repair the faulty plumbing in the head. Her reference to the defective lever valve was the unkindest cut of all. It undermined his masculinity as well as his ablutions.

“I can’t bear this any longer,” she wailed and went off to pack her bags.

Even then he could have retrieved the situation. An admission of guilt would have done the trick, perhaps even a silent hug. But he didn’t feel like it. Truth to tell, Strachan wasn’t entirely sad to see her go. Drs Brett and Dilworth were driving down to see him and he didn’t want his mistress fussing over them. Time had become too precious to waste on hospitality.

He had long known that emphysema was an irreversible degenerative disease and had given up smoking to delay the inevitable. But he was getting steadily worse. After his latest attack the quack had told him he’d reached Stage 4 COPD, a medical acronym for end of the line. Not that Antonia knew about this.

A door banged. With her gone he could concentrate on more important matters than the plumbing. Thanks to Dr Dilworth’s cipher key he’d been able to decode Francis Bacon’s message to the German duke in which he admitted to being a concealed dramatist but, maddeningly, hadn’t named the plays he’d written. Strachan’s cherished dream of dethroning Shakespeare had come crashing down and, to revive it, he needed the help of his university associates. That much was clear.

They made an interesting couple. Dr Brett couldn’t have had a happy childhood. There was a haunted look in his eyes. But his angry, obsessive personality was just what Strachan required. Point him in the right direction and Brett would go there, regardless of the consequences. Dr Dilworth was a different kettle of fish. Beneath all the glamour and high intelligence was an emotional void she hoped the young man could fill. For the time being at least, she would follow in his footsteps.

Strachan strode into his study with a renewed sense of purpose. What awaited him there was a large folio covered in blind-stamped vellum with sun-faded green cloth ties and a gilt edged spine. He flicked through its marbled endpapers. The book was printed in Latin but with the help of a primer he had managed to translate the title page. ‘The Cryptomenytices and Cryptography of  Gustavus Selenus in nine books, to which is added a clear explanation of the system of Steganography of John Trithemius, Abbot of Sponheim, a man of admirable genius.’ His eye moved to the four pictorial panels surrounding these words.

Each of these panels was drawn in great detail, not at the whim of the engraver but under precise instructions. They were obviously emblematic.

A noise on deck broke his concentration. Thinking Antonia might have returned, he closed his book and climbed up out of the cabin to be greeted by the curious sight of Dr Brett hopping up and down after apparently barking his shin on a metal cleat. Watching this performance with ill-disguised amusement was the attractive American girl.

“My dear chap, do come inside before you do yourself any more harm, and you too, Dr Dilworth. I’m on my own today. Antonia has been called away to nurse a sick aunt.”      

They descended into the boat’s badly lit cabin and lowered themselves gingerly onto Strachan’s sagging settee. Although still in physical discomfort, Dr Brett was the first to speak. “We’ve discovered that Francis Bacon’s Alphabet of Nature is a four-fold number alphabet and, just like Standen’s letter, it contains gematria. Dr Dilworth has identified the cipher system as one devised by a Benedictine abbot called Trithemius. But where does that get us?”

The actor beamed. “It gets you here.” He pointed to the huge book lying on the table. “This is an early edition of Gustavus Selenus’
Cryptomenytices
, printed during the Thirty Years War. Gustavus Selenus is a pseudonym. The author was a German nobleman, Duke August of Brunswick-Luneburg. ‘Gustavus’ is an anagram of Augustus while ‘Selenus’ is a punning reference to his ducal territory of Luneburg because Luna and Selene were the Latin and Greek names for the moon goddess. Anyway, this book is the earliest compendium of cryptographic techniques and, as you can see from its title page, Trithemius has pride of place. Now look closely at these pictorial panels. Many people believe they indicate that Bacon wrote Shakespeare’s plays.”

There was an awkward silence before Sam spoke up. “Surely that’s fanciful. Why would a German duke want to convey such a message?”

“The German duke, as you call him, was very like the English lord. He and Bacon were both discreet visionaries looking for a force that would drive history and they belonged to a cabalistic brotherhood based on the transmission of ancient wisdom.”

The actor was beginning to sound like a character out of a Dan Brown novel.

“And what fraternity would that be?” Freddie asked.

“It was the Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross, a shadowy secret society that practiced a kind of magical theology. They were, I suppose, the first Christian scientists and their ambition was to transform the world they lived in. Anyway, Rosicrucianism surfaced early in the seventeenth century when a couple of manifestos were published in Germany advocating religious and intellectual freedom.”

“And Duke August was a Rosicrucian? You can prove that?”

“The invisible Rose Cross Brothers eventually set up an open society, the Societas Christiana, headed by Duke August, who paid the man who wrote the Rosicrucian manifestos an annual retainer.”

“What about Bacon?” Sam asked. “How was he connected with this movement?”

“Have you ever read his
New Atlantis
? It’s a utopian novella about a country run on Rosicrucian lines. Now, let me show you these engravings.  Here, at the bottom of the page, a Duke August lookalike is placing a cap of maintenance on the head of an author writing at a portable desk.”

“Sorry, what’s a cap of maintenance?” 

“It’s a symbol of dignity, a velvet cap lined with ermine. A bit like a laurel wreath only reserved for the aristocracy. Now, look at this one!”

Strachan pointed to the left-hand side panel in which the same author was seen out of doors in the kind of high hat fashionable in Stuart England, handing papers to a spear-carrying rustic. “That’s Bacon giving some of his work to Shakespeare.”

Opposite this was an etching of a man on horseback in an actor’s costume blowing a horn.

“What about the panel at the top of the page, what does that tell you.”

“Framed by the masks of tragedy and comedy, a boat is being steered towards the beacon lights in a harbour. This symbolizes drama’s search for truth.”

“But you can’t be sure of that, can you?” Freddie said sharply. “That’s the point about allegories – you can only guess at their meaning.”

Strachan tried to keep his temper. “Not if you were a Rosicrucian. Emblems had very precise meanings for them.”

“But how do you know what they thought when they were more or less invisible? And what happened to them. Did they just disappear from history?”

It was Sam who answered him. “No, they left Europe and went to America where the sect became known as the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite which has a branch in Washington that worships in the House of the Temple.”