Dark Matter

lovingly.

“Then I will tell you, Doctor. I bought another copy of Polygraphia for my grandson William. I have been teaching him the craft in the hope that he will follow in my footsteps, for he demonstrates an early aptitude.”

An early aptitude in what? I wondered. For writing? Neither Newton nor I yet had any real idea what this book by Trithemius was about.

“Trithemius is a useful primer in the subject, sir,” continued Wallis, handing the book to Newton. “Although I do not think his book could long detain a man such as you. Porta’s book, De Furtivis Literarum Notis, is more suited to your intellectual parts. Perhaps also John Wilkins’s Mercury, or The Swift and Secret Messenger. You may also prefer to read John Falconer’s Cryptomenytices Patefacta, which is most recent.”

“Cryptomeneses,” Newton murmured to me as Wallis took down two more books from his shelves. “Of course. Secret intimations. I did not understand until now.” And seeing me remain still puzzled, he added, with greater vehemence, “Cryptographia, Mister Ellis. Secrecy in writing.”

“What’s that you say?” asked Wallis.

“I said I should like to read this one, too.”

Wallis nodded. “Wilkins teaches only how to construct a cipher, not how to unravel one. Only Falconer is practical, for he suggests methods of how ciphers may be understood. And yet I think that a man who wishes to solve a cryptogram is always best advised to trust to his own industry and observation. Do you not agree, Doctor?”

“Yes sir, I have always found that to be my own best method.”

“And yet it is hard service for a man of my years. Sometimes I have spent as long as a year on a particular decipherment. Milord Nottingham did not understand how long these things can take. He was always pressing me for quick solutions. But I must stand the course, at least until William is ready to take over the work. Although there is very little reward in it.”

“It is the curse of all learned men to be neglected,” offered Newton.

Wallis was silent for a moment, as if much pondering what Newton had said.

“Well, that is odd,” he said finally. “For now I remember that someone else from the Mint came to see me about a year ago. Your pardon, Doctor Newton. I had quite forgotten. Now, what was his name?”

“George Macey,” said Newton.

“The very same. He brought with him a small sample of a code I had never before encountered, and expected me to work a miracle with it. Naturally. They all do. I told him to bring me some more letters and then I would stand a chance of overcoming the difficulty of it. He left the letter with me, but I had no luck, for it was the hardest I ever met with, though as I said, I had not enough material to be assured of any success. And I put it aside. I had not thought of it again until now, but I never heard from Mister Macey again.”

Upon hearing Wallis mention a letter, I almost saw Newton’s cold heart miss a beat. He sat forward on his chair, chewed the knuckle of his forefinger for a moment, and then asked if he might see the letter Macey had left behind.

“I am beginning to understand what this is all about,” said Wallis, and fetched the letter from a pile of papers that lay upon the floor. He seemed to know where everything was, although I could see no great evidence of order; and handing my master the letter, he offered him some advice also.

“If you do attempt this decipherment, then let me know how you fare. But always remember not to rack your mind over-anxiously, for too much brain work with these devices is enervating, so that the mind is fit for nothing afterwards. Also be mindful of what Signor Porta says, that when the subject is known, the interpreter can make a shrewd guess at the common words that concern the matter in hand, and in this way a hundred hours of labour may be saved.”

“Thank you, Doctor Wallis. You have been most helpful to me.”

“Then reconsider your decision about your Opticks, sir.”

Newton nodded. “I will think about it, Doctor,” he said.

But he did not.

After this, we took our leave of Doctor Wallis with Newton in possession of the new sample of enciphered material as well as several useful books; so that he was hardly able to contain his excitement, although he was very swiftly angry with himself that he had not thought to bring with him the other enciphered material that was already held by us.

“Now I shall not be able to work on the problem while we are in that damned coach,” he grumbled.

“May I see the message?” I asked.

“But of course,” said Newton, and showed me the letter that Wallis had given to him. I looked at it for a while, but it was no more clear to me now than it had ever been.tqbtqeqhhflzkrfugzeqsawnxrxdgxjpoxznpeeqjtgmqlnliug dxvcnfgdmysnroywpdonjbjmpardemgmqdnlnkfpztzkzjm kgjhtnxqwxearowsualquwojfuidgrhjsyzzvccteuqzggfzqce tydcjgessicisemvttajmwgciurgopmdcuydtgafyudnrdivux gvhqtvgeoudkwvahhvxkjusukpwnvwcvedtqnljvhinmszpz blkiabzvrbqtepovxlsrzeenongsppyoujyhwexpnakqlotvsm curzybcstqqxfsxdihhbdlxfbtjymfvtubspvbxgftesuu

I shook my head. Merely to look at the jumble of letters dispirited me, and I could not see how anyone could enjoy cudgelling his brains with its solution.

“Perhaps you can read one of these books that Doctor Wallis has lent to you,” I offered, which partly placated him, for he liked nothing better than a longish journey with a good book.

We were two or three hours on the road to London when Newton put aside the book for a moment and remarked most casually that it was now plain to him how Mister St. Leger Scroope had proved himself to be a liar.

“Do you mean the gentleman that presented your school with those very fine silver cups?” I enquired.

“I never liked the man,” admitted Newton. “I trust him not. He is like a dog without a tail. Most unpredictable.”

“But why do you say that he is a liar?”

“Sometimes,” sighed Newton, “you are a most obstinately obtuse fellow. Do you not remember how he told us that Macey brought him a letter written in French, for translation? Why, it’s as plain as the nose on your face that the letter must have been a cipher, just like the one he showed Doctor Wallis. Perhaps it was even the same letter. There never was any letter in French.”

“But why should Scroope lie about such a thing?”

“Why indeed, Mister Ellis? That is what we shall find out.”

“But how?”

Newton pondered the matter for a moment.

“I have an idea how we might do it,” he said at last. “Macey had no Latin. And yet by the account of Mister Lowndes, the bookseller, he bought a Latin book about secret writing that was a gift for someone. It cannot have been Doctor Wallis, who already possessed two such books. And Mister Lowndes’s shop is but a short distance from the premises of Mister Scroope. Therefore I think that we shall visit Scroope again. And while I hold him in conversation, you shall find occasion to slip away and examine his bookcase.”

“In search of the book by Trithemius?”

“Exactly so.”

“An old book,” I said. “It’s not much evidence of a crime.”

“No,” agreed Newton. “That will come later. First we must prove things to our own satisfaction.”

When the coach reached London, before night, we climbed down and found ourselves lousy, which only irritated my master a little, for he was in a mighty good humour at the prospect of solving the cipher. And straightaway he accompanied me to the Tower so that he might collect all his coded material and begin work all the sooner. Finding all well at the Tower and in the Mint, we went to the office, which had been newly painted and the windows cleaned in our absence, which helped to explain how it was that Mister Defoe had facilitated his entry and that we discovered him with the guilt of his intrusion still upon him.