The Queen's Cipher (9 page)

Antonia thought very little of it indeed. She was sick to death of Shakespeare. The authorship question was like a disease, eating away at her partner. She remembered Donald’s breakthrough season at Stratford with all the glowing reviews, before his disastrous Malvolio at the Old Vic meant the phone stopped ringing. There had been other plays but they did badly at the box office and the smart Maida Vale flat had had to be sold. In grappling with professional failure, he had come to feel, in some kind of obscure way, that Shakespeare was to blame for this. And he had taken it out on the Bard ever since, retiring into a self-contained solipsistic world to plot his downfall. It was, she supposed, an act of revenge on Donald’s part, a way of coping with a badly bruised ego. He saw it differently of course. His pursuit of the ‘real Shakespeare’ gave him a purpose in life, charging his waking hours with anticipation. It was, he believed, a magnificent obsession.

Strachan ripped open the letter and scrutinized its contents. “Just as I thought,” he shouted joyously. “This calls for a glass stronger than God’s urine. How about opening the red infuriator?” 

Somewhat mollified, Antonia went off to fetch a bottle of Tesco’s special offer and was welcomed back with a lecherous look. “Antonia my love,” the old actor said, as she filled his glass with wine as purple as his cheeks, before swallowing a long draught, grunting with pleasure and kissing her noisily on the lips.

Antonia glanced at her watch. “They’ll be here soon. I’d better start preparing.”

He watched the lazy sway of her hips as she disappeared into the galley before settling into his clubman’s armchair to skim through
The Times Literary Supplement
. He felt positively elated. Dame Julia had given him the thumbs up ‘You are to be congratulated,’ she had written. ‘The Bacon letter reveals a hitherto unknown relationship between the former Lord Chancellor of England and a scholarly German duke with a royal bloodline who founded the greatest library in Europe. This is an important literary find.’ Going to Verona had been a masterstroke. Dame Julia may be an awesome scholar but she was also a lonely spinster in an Italian hotel. The charming war hero, Major Duncan, had done the trick. The Oxford bluestocking would never have seen him had he used his own name. Bard-lite had also paid off. The emails he had sent that young firebrand Dr Brett had led to the cracking of Standen’s cipher. At last, fortune was smiling on him.

Antonia came back with bowls of olives and crisps. “You look pleased with yourself.”

“Couldn’t be more so, my lovely,” he replied. “I have acquired our passport to a better life. No more scrimping and saving. No more searching the highways and byways for first editions to sell on for a pittance. Goodbye also to Shoreham and a fond farewell to the Silly Mid On as we seek the warmer waters of the Aegean. Do I make myself clear?”

“Oh joy!” she said without conviction. “You expect to win little money?”

Like many Spanish speakers she confused ‘win’ and ‘earn’ in English and sometimes lost the language’s connective thread, mislaying articles and prepositions.

“Never mind
little
,” Strachan cried, “enough money for a new wardrobe and precious jewels.” With her huge green eyes and high cheekbones she was his most precious jewel. A little overweight perhaps but only in the right places and, as Edgar said in
King Lear
, ripeness is all. With that comforting thought Strachan resumed his reading.

Moments later, his eyebrows were pulsating in anger.

“Bollocks,” he roared. “Lower the bloody flag.”

Antonia groaned inwardly. “Whatever for?” she asked.

“Because I’m an impotent, senile old bugger, that’s why.”

She knew that wasn’t true. Last night, after her yoga class, he had been as ardent as ever.

“Do you know what Stratford’s high priests are up to now? Not content with studying the entrails of the sacred goose they’ve found a new graven image to worship.”

“What
are
you talking about?”

He tossed her the supplement. “Behold the cause of my discontent. There, on page three, an exhibition called ‘Shakespeare Found’ opens today in Stratford showcasing the discovery of a life portrait of the Bard. Look at it, my love, it’s no more Shakespeare than I am. Anyone can tell it’s a painting of Sir Thomas Overbury who was poisoned in the Tower in 1613.”

Antonia couldn’t tell that. She had never heard of Sir Thomas Overbury but, whoever he was, he was a handsome devil, very different from the bald-headed, weak-chinned individual in the Droeshout engraving. “It’s a splendid portrait,” she ventured, “but with his expensive lace collar and gold embroidered doublet, isn’t the subject a bit too grand to have been Shakespeare.”

“Quite so, you’ve hit the nail on the head.”

She handed the weekly review back to him. “It’s time I start to worry about lunch.”

In the cramped confines of the galley she set about chopping up chillies and onions and was so engrossed in this eye-watering exercise that she did not hear her volatile lover creeping up behind her to plant a passionate kiss on her inviting neck. Antonia jumped and swore colourfully in Spanish. “Donald,” she screamed. “Don’t do that when I have a knife in my hand. It’s not safe.”

“But darling!” he protested. “You must share my joy. For years I’ve been a lone voice in the wilderness. Now, at last, I have found a couple of open-minded academics who display the kind of erudition and balls I had despaired of ever encountering in the university world.”

As he spoke, Strachan’s heroes were sitting on either side of a swaying table in a crowded standard class railway compartment. Looking out of the window, Freddie saw little to attract him in the surrounding countryside. No sooner did the vista open out into green fields than they were replaced by an ugly suburban sprawl of industrial housing estates, new roads and factories. As he watched this dismal cavalcade sliding by, the first drops of rain began to splatter against the carriage’s laminated glass and he felt depressed. His drug was going sour on him. After Ritalin’s ecstatic rush came blurred vision and a racing heart.

To make matters worse, Simon’s parting warning kept ringing in his ears. His flatmate had left that morning for a field trip to the Congo but not before making his feelings perfectly plain. “Listen to my wise counsel,” he had said at the railway station. “Shakespeare’s plays are unspeakably tedious but those who bang the drum for him are dangerous creatures, far more deadly than my gorillas. Do not confuse a ridiculous and self-defeating hunt for the truth about the Bard with your admirable desire to screw the beauteous Samantha. You’re getting in too deep. Remember the breakdown you had after the Cartwright business. This could be worse. Listen to your Uncle Simon; forget the Bard, he’s a load of bollocks, concentrate on the babe. Take her to the seaside. My flat in Brighton is empty. Here’s the key, keep it while I’m gone.”

Simon was right about the girl at least. Sam
was
an unsettling presence. He wanted her to see him in a more positive light and in going through this existential crisis he found himself questioning his entire belief system. He was too timid, too respectful of authority, and if safety of tenure meant keeping one’s head down and accepting the closed shop of academic orthodoxy then that was not for him. Shakespeare’s character and motives should be investigated like any other major figure in history. He was a man, not a deity. And this actor chap seemed to know a thing or two.

Minutes later, their Southern line train jolted to a stop on the main platform and he was shooting off to find the taxi rank where a fleshy man in a tank top showed annoyance when told his fare was only to the marina. Outside the station a sign proclaimed ‘Welcome to Sunny Shoreham.’ Yet in the falling rain, it looked the kind of seaside town that ought to be helping the police with their inquiries.

The
Silly Mid On
turned out to be easy to find. Not only was it the scruffiest boat but the only one with an ancient mariner in a soaked blue shirt and khaki shorts waving frantically from the deck.

“Come aboard, before you catch your death,” the strange apparition said. “Glad to meet you, Dr Brett. And this must be Dr Dilworth.” Sam winced as she felt the strength of the old man’s grip.

“All hands on deck,” he yelled behind him.

A tall female in blouse and jeans emerged from below, smiling broadly. The woman in Donald Strachan’s life was spectacular with long raven hair, striking features and the sort of hour glass figure men drool over. She reminded him of an Italian film star of the sixties.

“Hello, I’m Freddie Brett,” he said with palm outstretched.

The Sophia Loren lookalike shook his hand vigorously. “Haven’t we met before?” she queried.

“No, I’m pretty sure I’d have remembered you if we had.”

“Yet I’m certain I’ve seen you somewhere.” Antonia held on to his hand. “It’s those eyes of yours. Aren’t you that poor boy who lost his parents in Northern Ireland? Your face was in all the newspapers and magazines when I first came to England.”

“I’m afraid you’re confusing me with someone else,” Freddie said hastily. Would he always be defined by that wretched photograph? He was like an insect preserved in amber.

Antonia showed her thoroughly soaked visitors into the boat’s small cheaply furnished cabin. Nothing in this room was designed for convenience. The settee was too low, the coffee table too high and any normal sized person was in danger of banging his head on an exposed overhead beam.

“Here, let me have that.” Antonia took her guest’s loose belted raincoat. Blinking through waterlogged lashes, Sam watched helplessly as water dribbled down her yellow mini-dress. The damp patch over her left breast did not pass unnoticed. Donald Strachan raised an eyebrow in silent appreciation as he ushered her towards the badly sprung sofa.

“Right, let’s get down to business,” he growled, as soon as his partner had gone off to hang up the coats and percolate coffee.

Freddie stopped him in his tracks. “Forgive me, but there’s a question I must ask before we begin, Mr Strachan. Have you mentioned our visit to anyone in the media?” He had come to hate journalists. They were like blood-sucking vampires.

Strachan frowned. “What do you take me for,” he snapped. “My days of courting publicity are over.”

“I have a question.” It was Sam’s turn to play inquisitor. “What do you expect to get out of this?”

The actor looked startled. He hadn’t expected such a direct question. Freddie could see the determination etched on her pretty face and hear it in her voice. She was seeking to impress, to make Strachan understand she was a force to be reckoned with.

“Well,” their host drawled, thinking on his feet. “I want to be remembered for something other than my chequered career on the boards and I need some help.”

“This is where we are at,” Freddie began briskly. “Acting on your instructions, Mr Strachan, we went to Lambeth Palace Library where, as I mentioned in my email, Dr Dilworth decrypted the spy’s number code which told us something about Queen Elizabeth’s sex life but nothing at all about Shakespeare. We imagine the connection between Standen and Shakespeare might be that they were both in the Earl of Essex’s employment although this is merely surmise.”

“Capital, capital.” Strachan gave Sam a roguish smile. “Honour is due, Dr Dilworth. I never thought you’d crack that number cipher. No one else has. I’d love to see the key.”

“I’ve copied it out for you. It’s quite complicated.”

She opened her handbag and handed him her notes.

“That’s awfully kind of you, my dear,” Strachan gushed. “But as Dr Brett rightly opined, this decipherment has nothing to do with Shakespeare. What you don’t seem to have realised is that Standen’s report contains more than one codename. On the third page he refers to stolen Scottish correspondence and expresses the hope that none of these ‘taken missives’ mentions ‘100.’ Don’t you see the significance of that? No matter, I will explain.”

“Not now, Donald,” Antonia said firmly. “It’s time we had something to drink.”

Irritated by the interruption, he glowered at her. Was she deliberately undermining his authority?

Antonia barely had time to pour the coffee and pass around a plate of coconut cookies before he began again. He was an old man in a hurry, wanting solutions to problems not polite small talk.

“You couldn’t have worked out Standen’s cipher without being aware of gematria. In those days numerology was held to be a science. You’ve heard of James Bond of course. Well, Ian Fleming got the idea for 007 from one of the earliest royal spies, Dr John Dee. Queen Elizabeth called him her ‘pair of eyes,’ so Dee signed his reports with two circles representing eyes, joined together by the cabalistic number seven. He did this because, phonetically and figuratively, two ‘eyes’ add up to two and two times seven equals fourteen, the count of his surname Dee. You’ve got to get inside the Elizabethan mind, Dr Brett. Number counts were like star signs are today. This brings me to Dee’s protégé Francis Bacon ...”

“A Cabalist like Dee,” Sam interrupted.

Strachan blinked in surprise. “How do you know about Cabalism?”

“I had a Jewish girlfriend at Yale who was writing a dissertation on how the Hebrew Cabala affected Christian humanists in the Renaissance. Rebecca got me started. That was before Cabalism became punk rock when Madonna claimed to be a convert.”

“Forget the celebrities,” Strachan retorted waspishly. “What did you actually learn?”

Sam spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as if to apologise for stealing her host’s thunder. The Cabala was supposed to be divine wisdom, the secret teachings of the prophet Moses expressed in Hebrew. Language was vitally important because Cabalists believed the secrets of nature were encoded within it. By converting letters into numbers they hoped to extract the hidden meaning of words.

Strachan had been nodding throughout her exposition. It was clear, he said, that a brilliant mathematician like Dr Dee was fascinated with the subject and he, in turn, influenced Francis Bacon who not only based his great instauration of learning on the Cabala but incorporated it into his novella,
New Atlantis
. The inhabitants of Bacon’s scientific utopia called their college after Solomon, respected Jews, and sought God in nature.