The Beekeeper's Apprentice (42 page)

Spring arrived, hesitant at first and then in a rush, heady, rich, long days that pushed the nighttime back into ever smaller intervals, the first spring in five free from the rumour of guns across the Channel, a spring anxious to make up for the cold winter, life bursting out from four years of death. All of England raised her face to the sun; or nearly all. I was aware of the spring, peripherally, aware that no one in the University save myself and a number of shell-shocked ex-soldiers was doing any work, and even I submitted to a picnic on Boar’s Hill and another day allowed myself to be dragged off for a punting expedition upriver to Port Meadow.

For the most part, though, I ignored the blandishments of my for-mer friends and current neighbours and kept my head down to work. That was the pattern for most of May, and it was the case on the day nearly at May’s end when the tight snarled threads of the case began to come loose in my hands.

Upon my return from Sussex I was faced with the problem of where to put the envelope Holmes had given me. I could no longer de-pend on the security of my rooms, and preferred not to carry it about on my person at every moment. In the end I decided that the safest place to hide it was behind one of the more obscure volumes around the corner from the desk where I habitually worked in the Bodleian. It was a risk, but short of buying a safe or visiting the bank vaults with suspicious regularity, either of which would have alerted our enemy that I was up to something, it was the safest risk I could come up with. After all, the general public was not allowed inside the library, so my watchers usually waited long hours outside, and both the hiding place and my worktable were in dim corners where it was easy to see people approaching. Over the weeks I retrieved it any number of times to study the mysterious series of Roman numerals. Like Holmes, I knew our opponent well enough to be positive that this was a message, and like Holmes and his brother both, I could find no key to unlock it.

However, the mind has an amazing ability to continue worrying away at a problem all on its own, so that when the “Eureka!” comes it is as mysterious as if it were God speaking. The words given voice in-side the mind are not always clear, however; they can be gentle and el-liptical, what the prophets called the
bat qol,
the daughter of the voice of God, she who speaks in whispers and half-seen images. Holmes had cultivated the ability to still the noise of the mind, by smoking his pipe or playing nontunes on the violin. He once compared this mental state with the sort of passive seeing that enables the eye, in a dim light or at a great distance, to grasp details with greater clarity by focussing slightly to one side of the object of interest. When active, strained vi-sion only obscures and frustrates, looking away often permits the eye to see and interpret the shapes of what it sees. Thus does inattention allow the mind to register the still, small whisper of the daughter of the voice.

I had been working hard, I had spent a sleepless night and rose to bird song. I had attended a lecture, finished an essay, and twice taken out the packet of photographs Holmes had given me. I held each one by its increasingly worn edges, studying the mute series of numerals until they were burnt into my brain, every wisp of horsehair that tufted from the crossed slashes, every straight edge of the twenty-five recalcitrant black Roman numerals. I even turned the photographs upside down for twenty minutes, in hopes of stirring some reaction, but there was nothing. All that happened was that I became increas-ingly irritable at having to cover them with some innocent papers every time someone walked by my worktable.

In the late afternoon the traffic past my table picked up, and after having slipped the photographs away seven times in less than an hour my temper snapped. I had no idea if those accursed slashes meant any-thing or not, and here I was wasting precious hours on a problem that quite possibly existed only in my mind. I shoved the photos back in their envelope and into their hidey-hole and stalked out of the library in a foul mood. I did not even care what my watchers would think, I was so disgusted with myself. Let them wonder. Maybe there is no god-damned enemy, I thought blackly. Maybe Holmes really has gone mad, and it’s all one of his little tricks. Another “examination.”

By the time I reached my rooms I had calmed down somewhat, but the look of my desk waiting reproachfully in the corner was more than I could bear. I heard my neighbour moving around in her room next door. I went out into the corridor.

“Hello, Dot?” I called. She appeared at her door.

“Oh, hello, Mary. Cup of tea?”

“Oh, no thanks. Are you doing anything urgent tonight?”

“Going to hell with Dante, but I’d be glad of an excuse to put it off. What’s up?”

“I’m so sick of it, I can’t face another book, and I thought—”

“You? Sick of books?” Her face would not have registered more dis-belief if I had sprouted wings. I laughed.

“Yes, even Mary Russell gets fed up occasionally. I thought I’d have dinner at the Trout and go listen to a harpsichord recital a fellow in one of my lectures is giving. Interested?”

“When do we leave?”

“Half an hour all right with you?”

“Forty-five minutes would be better.”

“Right. I’ll call for a cab.”

We had a pleasant dinner, Dorothy found a friend to flirt with, and we went to the recital. It was an informal affair, mostly Bach, which has the beauty and cadence of a well-balanced mathematical formula, particularly when played on the harpsichord. The symmetry and no-bility of the master’s music, together with a glass of the champagne served afterwards, calmed my nerves, and I found myself in bed before midnight, a rare occurrence in the past few months.

It was, I think, about three in the morning when I jerked up in my bed, my pulse thudding thickly in my ears, my breath coming as fast as if I had sprinted upstairs. I had been dreaming, not the Dream, but a confusing mixture of things real and imagined. A shadowy face had leered at me from the bookshelf in the corner, half-hidden by blonde hair, and held out a clay pipe in a twisted hand. “You know nothing!” the figure cackled in a voice both male and female, and laughed horri-bly. His/her gnarled fist tightened over the pipe, which I knew to be one of Holmes’, and then opened.

Shards bounced slowly about the floor. I stared despairingly at the shattered pipe and knelt down to retrieve the pieces, in hopes of glueing it together again. Some of the larger bits had rolled underneath the bookshelf, and I had to lie down to reach them. As I felt around, my hand was suddenly seized, and I shot upright in terror with a fading im-age of the bookshelf in my mind’s eye. It had been a section of history, the titles all on Henry VIII.

I groped for a light and my spectacles and lay back until my cold sweat dried and my heart no longer pounded in my chest. I knew that I could never get back to sleep after that, so I reached for my dressing gown and went to make myself a cup of tea.

In a few minutes I was sitting, inhaling the comforting steam, and thinking about the nightmare. It was very rare for me to be aware of dreams, other than the Dream, and I could not remember having an-other nightmare since my family had died. What was the purpose be-hind this one? Some of its elements were obvious, but some were not. Why, for example, was the hidden blonde both male and female, when I invariably thought of my adversary as female? The smashed pipe was an easily understood image of my intense, nearing frantic anxiety about Holmes, and bookshelves were such a part of my life that I could hardly imagine any part of me, even a dream, omitting them. But why were the books on history? I held no great passion for recent history, and due to my erratic schooling English history was a relative stranger. What was King Henry doing in front of my eyes? That obscene, gout-ridden old man with his numerous wives, all of them sacrificed to his desire for sons, as if it were their fault and not that of his own syphilitic self. What would Freud make of that dream, I wondered, with Holmes falling be-neath the misogynist king, to the echoes of a man/woman’s laughter? It was the sort of thing that would have made Dr. Leah Ginzberg lean for-ward in her chair with a Germanic “Ja, and then?” I sighed into the silent room and reached for my books. If I had to be up at three o’clock in the morning, I might as well make some use of it, Henry VIII or no. I settled myself to work, but all morning the dream kept intruding, and I would find myself staring blankly at the wall in front of me, seeing the spines of those books. Henry VIII. What did that mean?

I worked on, and in the afternoon I went out to take coffee in the covered market before an afternoon lecture, and I ended up ordering a large meal I had not known I wanted until I had walked into the tan-talising smell of frying bacon. Two meals, actually, and pudding— more food than I had taken at one sitting at any time since Mrs. Hudson had been feeding me.

Somewhat bloated, I left the market stalls and walked up Turl Street for the afternoon lecture, only to find my steps slowing as I ap-proached the Broad. I stopped. Henry VIII. When in ignorance, con-sult a library. With few qualms I abandoned the enquiry into Second Dynasty Burial Texts and turned right instead of left. (The familiar loi-tering and overaged undergraduate behind me emerged from a shop en-trance and followed me up Broad Street and past the Sheldonian, but not through the doors of the library.) I called up several books on the period, but they bore no resemblance to my dream image, and leafing slowly through them caused no bells to go off in my mind. Knowing it was hopeless, I retrieved the photographs, laid them out on the desk in front of me, and it was then that the voice spoke to me, and I knew.

Holmes and I had discussed the possibility that the series was based on a number/letter substitution code, in which, for example, 1 might be read as A, 2 as B, and 3-1-2 translates as CAB. Extreme complexity—basing the substitution on a key text, primarily—is com-monly used to make the translation from number to letter difficult: A long message in such a code can be broken by a bit of fiddling, but for short phrases, one must discover the key. If the key is something ex-ternal, such as the words on a page of a book, decoding a brief message such as the one we were faced with may prove virtually impossible.

In this case the numerals used were not our Arabic ones, but Ro-man ones, and as they had not been spaced or had their divisions marked, it was sheer guesswork to know whether there were twenty-five separate numbers, or only seven, or some total in between. That is where Holmes and I had left off, as we could make no sense in the number/letter result we had extracted.

I had to make a few basic assumptions in looking at the problem. First of all, I had to assume that she had left it there for us to see and, eventually, understand, that it was not just a means of maddening us with tantalising clues that led nowhere. Second, I had to believe that the key to it lay somewhere in front of me, waiting to be seen. Third, I assumed that once the key was found, it would unlock the puzzle fairly quickly. If it did not, I would undoubtedly conclude that this was not the correct key and lay it down again. To give an example, it would call for a boneheaded sort of persistence to unravel the Roman numeral series XVIIIXIIIIXXV through all its possible Arabic equiva-lents into the numbers 18-13-1-25, and then into RMAY, and then fi-nally to unscramble it to MARY, unless the person already knew what she was looking at. No, the key would not give too much difficulty once it was inserted into the lock. Of that I was certain.

If I was right, the key had been found by the still, small daughter of a voice and laid into my dream for me to find. Henry VIII meant noth-ing to me, but VIII, or base eight, meant a great deal. If human beings had been born with three fingers instead of four opposing their thumbs, we would count by units of eight instead of tens. A one plus a zero would mean eight, 11 would be how we wrote nine, and 20 would be the same as a base ten sixteen. I wrote it out on a piece of paper, the first twenty-six numbers in base eight with the alphabet underneath:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 10 11 12 13 14 15

ABCDEFGH I J K LM

16 17 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 30 31 32

NOPQRS TUVWXY Z

I was left with the problem of dividing up the twenty-five Roman numerals into numbers whose letter equivalent said something. Al-though I knew them by heart now, backwards and forwards, I wrote them out too as a visual aid:

XVXVIIXXIIXIIXXIIXXIVXXXI

Twenty-five numerals, ones, fives, and tens. Taken at its most straightforward, these yielded a series of Hs, Es, and As, which would be meaningless. My job was to divide that string up so that the letters made sense.

I began with the first ten numerals, XVXVIIXXII. That last
I
might be attached to the following
X
to make nine, but I should keep that possibility in mind. XVXVI, or 10-5-10-5-1, yielded H-E-H-E-A, which, unless she wanted to show her derisive laughter, made no sense. Taking the first XV as 15 gave me MHEA. X-V-XVII = 10, 5, 17 gave HEO, which was better than the other. Higher numbers gave the great-est variation of the alphabet. I tried using the highest possible numbers I could get from the twenty-five digits, which divided into 15, 17, 22, 12, 22, 24, 31. In base ten this had read OQVLVX. The 31 was a prob-lem because there are only twenty-six letters. However, in base eight that yielded M-O-R-J-R-T-Y. It took me a moment to realise what I was seeing. My pencil reached out by itself and slowly crossed out the figure 12, substituting 11-1, and there it was. MORIARTY.

Moriarty could not have done this. The professor-of-mathematics-turned-criminal-mastermind had died at the hands of Sherlock Holmes, hurled over a huge falls in Switzerland nearly thirty years be-fore. Why then was his name here? Was our foe telling us that the pur-pose behind our persecution was revenge for his death? After nearly three decades? Or was there meant to be a parallel between this case and that of Moriarty and Holmes? I do not know how long I sat there in the Bodleian while the light faded outside, but eventually the little daughter of a voice whispered for one last time, and I heard myself, talking to Holmes in my room on the night it all began. “My maths tu-tor and I came across some mathematical exercises developed by an old acquaintance of yours, while we were working with problems in base eight theory.” And the whispery voice of Holmes in my ears: “Professor Moriarty ...”