The Queen's Cipher (14 page)

“And you got all of this from Milton Cleaver I suppose?” Freddie snapped.

“Would you like something to eat?” Strachan inquired hastily, aware of the tension between the young couple.

“Thanks very much,” Sam replied. “We ate on the train but we brought these.”

She handed him the contents of her shopping bag, a couple of bottles of Italian wine. He went off to find a corkscrew and some glasses.

Taking advantage of Strachan’s absence Sam gave her bad-tempered colleague a radiant smile. “You know what I now think. If Shakespeare wasn’t the sole author of his plays he certainly collaborated in their production. If he had simply been a front, an actor pretending to be a playwright, he wouldn’t have got away with it. Someone would have blown the whistle on him.”

Freddie played this over in his mind, touching its smooth surfaces. Since his first visit to Shoreham he had raided the university libraries for books on Bacon, reading everything he could about the genius who was a philosopher, natural scientist, lawyer, essayist and courtier. If, as he now believed, Shakespeare’s plays served a higher purpose than simply to entertain the masses, reaching out to a new world order based on science and exploration, they must have had a sophisticated guiding hand and Bacon was an obvious suspect. He had devoted his life to creating a code of knowledge and wisdom that would enlighten mankind and, time and again, he had written about the transformational power of popular entertainment. What he seemed to be hinting at was the production of compelling dramas that examined every aspect of human nature and, to achieve this goal, he might well have turned to a writer who knew the stage and was equally at home in prose and poetry, be it rhymed or blank verse.

Sam’s idea of a writing partnership between Shakespeare and Bacon also helped to explain something he’d come across in one of the books he’d read. One hundred and fifty years ago Victorian builders found a bundle of papers while working in Northumberland House, next door to Bacon’s old home in the Strand. The so-called Northumberland Manuscript consisted of twenty two sheets laid on top of each other and folded double, so that the bottom sheet served as a cover on which an anonymous scribe had listed the folder’s contents. Bacon’s name appeared at the top of the page, above things he had recently written – speeches for a device staged by the Earl of Essex; speeches for Essex to deliver at the Tilt; a letter for the Earl of Arundel to send to Queen Elizabeth and a collection of his own essays – while, further down the page, came William Shakespeare’s name followed by a couple of his histories,
Richard the Second
and
Richard the Third
, with the Christian name ‘ffrauncis’ inserted between them. After that, the writer had begun to doodle, repeating Shakespeare’s name a dozen times or more, either in full or deconstructed form, and showing an equal fascination for Bacon’s name. Indeed, in one place on the sheet, the two names had been amalgamated. Experts believed the manuscript had come out of Bacon’s personal scriptorium in about 1596. Unfortunately, for theorists, neither of the two Shakespeare plays was recovered with the manuscript. It was a tantalizing near miss, leaving Freddie to wonder what fair copies of these plays might have been doing in Bacon’s possession. If, however, the two men had been writing together, the Northumberland Manuscript made perfect sense.

“Co-authorship was fashionable,” Sam reminded him. “Most Elizabethan and Jacobean dramatists collaborated with someone else and Shakespeare was no exception. He is believed to have written with Peele, Middleton, Wilkins and Fletcher in his later years.”

Freddie scratched a spot on his cheek. “When Bacon was too busy being a politician.”

Strachan re-entered the room with three goblets and a decanter of Italian red wine on a tray.

“A toast,” he said, raising his glass, “to a good American, Mark Twain, who said truth is stranger than fiction because fiction has to make sense.”

“Questions have to be answered in novels,” Sam said drily. “Twain didn’t like the way Shakespeare biographers fantasized, papering their books with conditional clauses and conjecture.”

“That’s right,” their host replied. “Twain said they did this because there wasn’t any history to record. Since then, thousands of scholarly books have tried to put flesh on Shakespeare’s bones but doubts about the author’s identity haven’t gone away; indeed, they’ve multiplied.”

Freddie rubbed his shin. “It’s the world we live in. We no longer believe what we’re told. We think those in power are lying to us or have something to hide.”

“That’s right, Dr Brett. Almost everything we hear is propaganda.”

“That’s a bit strong, isn’t it?” Sam flicked her hair out of her eyes.

“I don’t think so. Unlike you two, I lived through the Cold War when America’s war machine went into overdrive, exaggerating Soviet aircraft and missile capability by adding extra zeros to their numbers. And let’s not forget the lies about Iraq. We were told Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction. He hadn’t. We were told he was in alliance with al-Qaeda. He wasn’t. And we were told the war was to free Iraq. It wasn’t. It was about oil reserves and building contracts. The bigger the lie, the more likely those in power are to get away with it.”

“Does that also apply to Shakespeare?” Sam eyes were twinkling.

“Bet your life it does! There’s a massive conspiracy over Shakespeare and you know what they say, when the legend becomes fact, print the legend. If you don’t believe me, go to Stratford and study the Shakespeare sites. They’re quite fraudulent, you know.”

This reminded him of something else he had wanted to say. “Have either of you been burgled recently.”

Sam was the first to get over her surprise. “That’s a strange question to ask,” she said.

“I only mention it because I’ve had an uninvited guest. There was an intruder on the houseboat a few nights ago, going through my papers.”

“Can you be sure of that?”

“Oh, I see what you mean. How would I notice the difference when my study is like a tip with books and papers scattered all over the place. But there’s method in my madness, Dr Dilworth. I know when someone has been rummaging around.”

Judging by the worried looks he was receiving, Strachan knew he had said too much. “Of course, I could be mistaken.”

The old actor yawned as if tired by his exertions and looked at the clock on the cabin wall. “Fancy a quick Indian? There’s a pretty good restaurant on Upper Shoreham Road. And as you’ve got your car, you might as well take this with you. See what you can make of it.”

He picked up the heavy cipher manual and dropped it into Sam’s shopping bag.

24 APRIL 2014

“Incredible,” said Sam. “These are amazingly good blueberry muffins.”

They were having a late breakfast at a patisserie in Oxford’s High Street.

“Is that all you’ve got to say about last night?” a disgruntled Freddie wanted to know.

“You heard what the constable told you. There’s a gang of young thugs on the loose breaking into houses near you.”

“It didn’t seem like their handiwork though. According to the copper, these teenage thieves go in for wanton destruction - smashing doors, breaking furniture - but there was none of that in the flat. And after what Strachan said about his houseboat being searched, it makes you wonder.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty strange, isn’t it?”

Strange was hardly the word for it, he reflected. All told, yesterday had been an unnerving experience. After a disappointing lunch on the outskirts of Shoreham they had been returning to the marina when Donald Strachan had breathing difficulties and began to cough and wheeze. They had hooked him up to the oxygen concentrator in his bedroom and waited until he felt better. By the time they left the houseboat it was early evening and congestion on the northbound carriageway of the M23 reduced traffic to a crawl shortly after the Gatwick Airport turnoff. Then the weather turned against them. Heavy rain and the blinding spray thrown up by transcontinental juggernauts made driving treacherous and  Freddie was about to leave the motorway in search of safer progress on minor roads when Sam suggested stopping for something to eat. He had tried to dissuade her with tales of soulless pit stops, of bad service and stale sandwiches but he couldn’t get her to appreciate the limited ecosystem of the average British service station.

Arriving in the parking area alongside a coach-load of boozy football supporters, they were confronted by a bunker-like building with neon signs advertising a food court and an entertainment centre. Burgers and fruit machines, Freddie thought dismally before colliding with a motivational poster for the coffee franchise in which smiling baristas stood in front of a gleaming espresso machine serving lattes to grateful looking customers. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

His hopes faded when he saw how the new coffee shop had been themed. The walls were covered in coffee plantation murals and photographs of grinning fair-trade workers holding sacks of beans. The menu was written on a giant blackboard behind the counter and featured three drink sizes, Tall, Grande and Venti, and a bewildering list of bakery products including things he had never heard of like ‘duffins’ and ‘cronuts’.

“What can I do for you,” said a bored voice. Standing by the till was a hefty middle aged woman wearing a canvas apron embroidered with smiley emoticons.

“Perhaps you could tell me what a duffin is?” he asked.

She gazed at him impassively. “There’s a sign up there.”

He looked beyond her. “No there isn’t.”

“Well, there was yesterday.”

“I’ll tell you about a duffin,” said Sam, trying to be helpful. “It’s a hybrid pastry, part doughnut part muffin.”

“And I suppose a cronut is a cross between a croissant and a doughnut?”

“What do you want to buy,” said the buxom barista. “I haven’t got all day.”

Freddie clenched his teeth. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Two medium cappuccinos and two ham and cheese sandwiches please.”

The woman passed the drinks order on to the tattooed youth who operated the coffee machine.

“That’ll be £12.04,” she said in a monotone.

“I’m sorry you’ve got that wrong. Our order comes to £11.24.”

“No, it doesn’t. The coffees are £3.12 each and the sandwiches £2.90 each. Look at the board.”

He had already done so. “Cheese and ham sandwich £2.50,” he read out.

“Look above that.” There was a triumphant note in her voice. “Ham and cheese sandwich £2.90.” 

“But they’re the same thing.”

“No, they’re not. You asked for ham and cheese and that’s £2.90.”

“What’s the fucking difference?”

“Don’t swear at the staff or I’ll have to call the manager.”

The manager spoke with a Central European accent and had the resigned air of a man used to grumpy customers. He apologized for the misunderstanding. “I bring cheese and ham at lower price. Is OK?” Apparently there had been a clerical error. With that established and handshakes all round, the manager departed and the drinks arrived.

That was when Freddie’s evening spiralled out of control. He took one sip of the steaming beverage and realized he’d been charged £3.12 for a cup of hot milk. Back he went to the counter.

“There’s no coffee in here. You have to be kidding me, right?”

“Why would I do that?” She chewed pensively on whatever was in her mouth.

“I tell you what. Give me my money back and I’ll leave.”

“I can’t do that. It’s against company policy.”

He could feel the anger rising. Turning on his heel he left the shop and went back to his car.

Moments later Sam clambered in beside him.  “You’ve got quite a temper. I saw that in Verona when Milton Cleaver needled you.”

He began to mumble an apology but she put a hand over his mouth. “Forget it,” she whispered. “At least the rain has eased off. Why don’t you drive straight to Oxford? We’ll spend the night at your place.” She tilted her head to see what he was thinking.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. Was she offering him sex? There was only one way to find out.  “Right oh!” he muttered and put his foot down on the accelerator.

The rest of the journey passed in a blur with hardly a word said on either side. Although the driver’s eyes were fixed on the road, his mind was elsewhere, planning a seduction campaign. He would cook a quick fish supper, open his only bottle of champagne, dim the lights in the lounge, put a Nina Simone CD into the sound system, join her on the sofa and let nature take its course.

His best laid plans went awry the moment he put his key in the front door. It was no longer locked. He turned to Sam who was standing in the drizzle and put a finger to his lips. “Someone has been in here,” he whispered. “You stay where you are and I’ll take a look.”      

The most obvious starting point was Simon’s room. That was the name they’d given the lounge because it was full of the junk his flatmate had accumulated in pursuit of short-lived passions for jazz, wine-making, beekeeping and the novels of Dostoyevsky. It was also the room in which Freddie kept his laptop and most of his books and papers.

The lounge door was partially open. Had he left it that way? He stopped to turn on the lights, his hand trembling on the switch. But he needn’t have worried. There was no one there and no obvious sign of a burglary. The room was cluttered up with fermenting bottles, smoke guns and a beekeeper’s headgear in one corner and piles of vinyl records stacked in another but that was its normal state. A closer inspection of his own possessions suggested some of his files had been moved but nothing had been stolen. The only clear indication of the intruder’s presence came in the kitchen where an unwashed mug lay in the sink. He had made himself a cup of coffee.

“He must be a pretty cool customer,” Freddie said after the constable left. “Not your average burglar and definitely not a teenage hoodlum, whatever the police may say.  Our unwelcome guest seems to have been looking for something. I wonder whether he found it.”

Sam finished her brandy and yawned. “About the bed linen,” she asked. He rushed into Simon’s bedroom to change the sheets. And that was it. Not even a goodnight kiss. It was a disappointing end to the day and worse had followed, lying awake for most of the night, tossing and turning, acutely aware of her presence in the next bedroom.