Newton nodded firmly. “Then I believe that you have solved this case. Half of it anyway.”
“Me?” I said.
“Certainly. For that was not dust you saw, but Fuller’s earth, a most absorptive and fine-grained substance and perfect for a
“I understand,” said I. “Scroope would not keep a coining press, for the Plate Act compelled anyone to surrender such a thing to the Mint.”
“Just as you say,” said Newton. “I have before heard of these rogues using a cider press to make coin; but a binding press would turn out guineas just as well.”
Too excited to even drink his coffee, Newton’s eyes were ablaze as he made his thoughts in the matter plain to me.
“Much is clear to me now,” he declared. “Scroope is a most ingenious forger and smuggler and kept poor George Macey close to him, so that he might know who was being investigated by the Mint. Macey thought Scroope a good friend and an educated one, too, so that he confided in him. And Macey must have brought Scroope the ciphered letter and the book by Trithemius in the hope that Scroope might help him to understand it. And yet Scroope did not, or could not, devise the solution—it matters little, for it was certainly clear to Scroope that the cipher which had occasioned Macey’s interest had no bearing on his own wrongdoings. Subsequent to this, Macey disappeared and Scroope continued to think himself safe. At least until I appeared in his life again. And grew close to uncovering Mister and Mrs. Berningham, and Daniel Mercer, whom I will hazard were Scroope’s confederates in this crime.
“So Scroope, who knew my own rigorous reputation from Trinity, sought to be rid of those as might be able to testify against him. Doubtless Mrs. Berningham was ordered to take her own husband’s life or to forfeit her own. For all I know, she may be dead, too. Killed by Scroope. Like Mercer and anyone else who stood in his way, such as Mister Kennedy. And by the manner of their deaths—the hermetic clues he fabricated and the enciphered message of which he had no understanding—he intended to divert me from my proper course of action. Until now.”
“So Scroope killed Mercer and Kennedy,” I repeated, so that it was clear in my own mind. “To cover his own tracks and to put you off the scent. But did Scroope kill Macey, too? And what of Major Mornay?”
“No, for it was not in his interest so to do. He enjoyed Macey’s complete confidence, being sometimes an informer for him.”
“Then only the murders of Kennedy and Mercer are solved,” said I. “Who killed Macey and Major Mornay?”
“I think I will have to solve the code to know that,” said Newton. “But before then we must decide what to do about Mister Scroope.”
“Surely we must obtain a warrant for his arrest,” I said. “The Navy Office will confirm the export licences for pewter tableware; and we shall arrest him in possession of illegal bullion for export to an enemy power. For all that we know, he is a French spy besides. In which case he may have intended to subvert the recoinage as well.”
“You may be right,” said Newton, in a voice that demonstrated some continuing source of concern in the matter of St. Leger Scroope. Usually he was most keen to see a man arrested as soon as he had sufficient evidence to obtain the warrant against him. But now he sounded strangely reluctant to proceed. And seeing my puzzlement moved him to explain himself to me:
“I hold myself partly responsible for Scroope’s fall from grace. I paid him very little heed while he was at Cambridge. I failed him, Ellis, and I can see no excuse for it.”
“No sir, not failed. From what you have told me earlier, Scroope failed himself. Even then he had perhaps the want of character that made him choose the wide and not the strait gate.”
I also spoke some other things to assuage my master’s sense of guilt; but it was to little or no avail, and while he sat in The Grecian, he drew up and signed a warrant for Scroope’s arrest—which power he had as Justice of the Peace—with a heavy heart.
“Did we have but time,” said he, “I would go to the Sessions House in Old Bailey to do this, for the history that lies between myself and Scroope persuades me that it would have been better if the warrant was obtained from a judge in the Middlesex court of quarter sessions. But there is no time. No, not even to fetch some sergeants and bailiffs to assist us, for this bird might fly the coop at any time; and needs must that we go and arrest him ourselves. Have you got your pistols, Ellis?”
I said I had, and within the quarter hour we were on our way back to Scroope’s place of business at the sign of the Bell to arrest him.
Upon seeing our warrant, Scroope’s Marrano servant, Robles, who had returned, let us in. A strange sight met our eyes: the furniture had been piled in front of the hearth, as if someone might have wished it to catch fire; but we hardly had time to pay this much heed, for Scroope met us from behind the door, with a pistol in his hand, which was levelled at us.
“St. Leger Scroope,” said Newton, ignoring the pistol and more in hope than expectation, “I have a warrant for your arrest.”
“Have you indeed?” said Scroope, smiling.
Seeing our situation, Newton sought to trick Scroope, promising that much could still be done for him, as if he still held all the best cards:
“I have men outside who are well armed and there is no way out of here. But it is in my power to plead for your life before the Lords Justices themselves,” he explained. “There is every reason to suppose that you may not be hanged and that you may be transported instead. With a proper sense of remorse, some diligence, and the grace of Almighty God, a man might rebuild his life in the Americas. Therefore I entreat you to give yourself up, Mister Scroope.”
Robles stared desperately out the window.
“I’ll not go to Tyburn on a hurdle, sir,” said Scroope. “To be untrussed like some spavined mare, and given my last suit of tar, and that’s a fact. I don’t fear death, only the manner of my dying. A musket ball has more attraction than putting myself in your bloody hands.”
“I’ve not done murder,” said Newton. “The Law is behind me, sir.”
“The Law murders many more innocent than I am, Doctor. But I have no complaint against the Law. Only your religion.”
“My religion? What, sir, are you Roman Catholic?”
“Aye, unto death.” He glanced anxiously at Robles. “Well? What can you see?”
“Nothing. There’s no one there,” said Robles at last.
“What” said Scroope. “You think you can cozen me, Doctor? You promise much more than you can deliver. Well, it was always thus. Despite your solemn oath at Trinity, it was well known you never performed a single act of divinity. You were always more interested in alchemy than you were in the affairs of the school. You were no pupil monger, I will grant you that, Doctor, but your own affairs did always tread closely upon the heels of your duty. Even so, I will regret having to kill one such as you, Doctor, for I believe you to be a great man. But you leave me with no choice. And it is very convenient that you have come by yourselves. Mister Robles and I were just about to set this house afire, in order to conceal our disappearance. But of course you would hardly have been satisfied, Doctor, without the presence of two charred corpses. But now you have solved all our problems. By killing the two of you, we can also furnish the bodies that will doubtless be taken for our own.”
“Be assured that your position is hopeless,” declared Newton. “The house is surrounded by my men. In our zeal to arrest you, we came but a moment or two before our men. Where can you go?”
Scroope glanced uncertainly at Robles. “Are you sure there is no one out there?” he asked. “For the Doctor’s manner persuades me that there might be.”
“There is no one,” insisted Robles. “Look for yourself, sir.”
“And take my eye off these two gentlemen? I think not. Light the fire.”
Robles nodded and went over to the hearth where he produced brimstone matches from a tinderbox, and put a flame to some dry kindling.
It was at this point I did think Newton had suffered some kind of stroke, for he groaned and sank down to the floor on one knee, clutching his side.
“What ails you, Doctor?” enquired Scroope. “The thought of death? It will be quick, I promise you. A bullet in the head is better than what your justice would have offered me. Come, sir, can you stand?”
