Dark Matter

Chapter Four

Barent Coenders van Helpen, Escalier des sages, 1689

I was too upset about what had passed between myself and Miss Barton to be much interested in Newton’s solution to the cipher; and yet I feigned some attention while, with much animation, he spoke of it; so that if there was one thing I understood most clearly, it was that Miss Barton had not spoken to her uncle of our disagreement; and since she had avoided mentioning it, quickly I resolved to do the same, although it had occasioned the greatest sorrow to me that I ever knew in this world.

“My hypothesis upon this cipher has been pressed with many difficulties,” explained Newton. He sat by the table with his papers spread out, and Melchior the cat upon his lap. “As a blind man has no idea of colours, so had I no idea of the manner by which this cipher worked. I still do not. I confess the key eludes me even yet. But what I think I understand now is how the cipher is related to the murders that were done. That I did not perceive this earlier now seems to me so great an absurdity that I begin to wonder what this employment within the Mint has done to my mind. For I believe no man who has any competent faculty of thinking about philosophical matters should ever fall into such an error.

“Because you, my dear fellow, always desire simplicity in things, I’ll explain myself with what brevity I can. Three murders have been accompanied by written ciphers. I have worked upon these with such diligence, you would have thought I did this labour like Heracles. And yet in spite of all my efforts, for all my weapons of divine origin, I am left with only mathematical contradictions. And a contradiction in terminis argues nothing more than an impropriety of speech. In other words, the logic in the code is at fault because I suspect that the code has been sometimes used ignorantly, by someone who did not know how the cipher operated.

“It was you, my young friend, who put this in my mind. It was you who mentioned that one might think these murders were done by different people. And so I do believe, but not until last night.

“Now, the murder of George Macey was clear enough in the sense that there was no distinguishing feature save the awful brutality with which it was committed. There were no ciphers, nor any signs of hermetic significance.

“Then things started to become interesting. The murders of Mister Kennedy and Mister Mercer both showed us hermetic signs and written ciphers; and for a long time I also thought that Macey’s murder might even have presented some similar features that time and the actions of putrefaction prevented us from observing.

“But with the murder of Major Mornay, our picture changed once more. This time we found a written cipher, but nothing to indicate there was anything remotely hermetic about it. Now here is a curious thing, Ellis: only the second and third murders show any visible consistency; however, it is only the second and fourth murders in which may be demonstrated some mathematical consistency. Because with the third murder, that of Major Mercer, which gave us the shortest message of all — that which was chalked upon the wall of the Sally Port stairs — the cipher was used without any discernible logic, which leads me to suppose that the author of the third murder could not be the author of the fourth. And the cipher that was chalked upon the wall beside Mister Mercer’s body was wrong. Or, to put the case another way, that it was used ignorantly, as I have said.”

“What about the cipher that Mister Twistleton gave us?” I asked. “Was that used ignorantly too?”

“No, no,” said Newton. “That demonstrates the same logic as those other messages that were letters also. It is only the message chalked upon the stairs that is wrong. Therefore I have discounted it altogether.” He shook his head wearily. “It has cost me much time. But for that, I might have understood this whole case by now.”

Newton pounded the table in the Mint office with his fist, which made Melchior leap off his lap with fright. “If only I had another sample of this cipher,” he said, pounding the table again, which shook me out of my silence. “For I am certain I could solve it now.”

To his credit, Newton had not accused me of copying the cipher on the wall near Mercer’s body incorrectly, for which I was grateful; but nevertheless I was somewhat taken aback at what he seemed to be suggesting.

“But that is almost the same as saying you would wish a fifth murder to be done,” I said with some incredulity. “Are not four murders enough?” I shook my head. “Or do you intend to provoke that one, too?”

Newton stayed silent, avoiding my eyes, mistaking all that was welling there for disapproval of him.

“You are taking this too lightly, Doctor,” I said, admonishing him. “As if it were a mere mathematical exercise such as that problem Mister Bernoulli and Mister Leibniz challenged you with.”

“The brachistochrone?” Newton frowned: this was the name of the mathematical conundrum set by Leibniz and Bernoulli with which they hoped to defeat Newton. “I can assure you, Ellis, that was no mere exercise, as you describe it. When no man in all of Europe could provide a solution, I solved it.”

“But this is murder, Doctor. And yet it seems to me that you are treating it as an intellectual diversion.”

“It would take a considerable intellect to divert me,” insisted Newton, who coloured a little as he spoke.

“Nevertheless, you are diverted,” said I.

“What’s that?”

“What could be more diverting for a mathematician than a code? What could be more intriguing for one who is philosophically adept than those hermetic signs of alchemy that accompanied the murders of Mister Kennedy and Mister Mercer?”

“True,” admitted Newton. “If only I had more data, I tell you I could solve this problem overnight. Just as I did the brachistochrone.”

“Perhaps that is the point, Doctor,” said I. “Perhaps you are not meant to solve the code. Perhaps it means nothing at all. Or perhaps God does not mean you to unravel it.” I was merely using God’s name to discover if it still sounded convincing on my own tongue; but also to provoke him, for I was become increasingly ill-tempered in this conversation, which was a combination of a broken heart and no sleep.

Newton stood up suddenly, as if he had received the effect of a clyster.

“God does not mean me to unravel it,” he breathed excitedly. “Or someone else that does play at being God who is the architect of this design.” And snatching off his wig he walked about the office muttering to himself: “This will make the pot boil, Mister Ellis. This will make the pot boil.”

“What pot is that, sir?”

Newton tapped his forefinger against his temples. “Why,this pot, of course. Oh, what a fool I have been. Too much conceit, that’s what does it. That this should happen to me. Me. I should have been more mindful of Occam’s razor.”

“No more things should be presumed to exist than are absolutely necessary,” I construed.

“Exactly so. It is the principle of William of Occam, our brilliant and rebellious countryman who wrote vigorously against the Pope, as well as much idle metaphysics. He was a great freethinker, Ellis, who helped to separate questions of reason from questions of faith, and thus laid the foundations for our modern scientific method. Upon his razorlike maxim we shall cut this case into exactly two halves. Fetch me some cider. My head has a sudden need for apples.”

I poured some cider for my master, which he drank as if he really did seek to stimulate his brain. Then, seating himself again, and taking up pen and paper, he wrote down what he called the bare bones of the case. After which he put more metaphorical ashes upon his head and declared himself properly penitent for his earlier lack of apprehension. And yet I thought that his avowed lack of earlier understanding could hardly compare with my own that still continued unabated; at least until he spoke again.

“This is the second time today I have found myself at fault,” he reported. “And I am right glad that only you are here to witness it, Ellis, and not that damned German or that awful dwarf, Hooke. They would be delighted to see me so easily tricked.”

“Tricked? How so?”

“Why, it’s just as you said yourself. I have been diverted, have I not? Cast your mind back a few months, Ellis. What case were we investigating when Mister Kennedy was killed?”

“Those golden guineas,” said I. “The ones that were done with the d’orure moulu process. A case that remains unsolved.”

“You see, you were quite right. I was diverted. As someone meant me to be diverted. Someone who knew me well, I think. For those hermetick clues were for my benefit. And I now believe that those other messages — the ones that were enciphered — were for someone else.”

“Then why did we first find the cipher when Mister Kennedy was murdered?” I asked. “Alongside other hermetic clues?”

“Because I believe that whoever killed Kennedy had no understanding of the code,” explained Newton. “For there is much that is contradictious between our first enciphered message and the second; and yet the underlying elements are the same.”

“Are you suggesting that Major Mornay’s murderer did not kill the other three?”

“Merely that he did not kill Kennedy and Mercer. For only those two murders have the peculiar alchemical flourishes that were designed to intrigue me. Whoever killed Major Mornay only wanted him dead and out of my sight.”

“But why?”

“We should need to solve the cipher to know that,” said Newton.

“So you believe that whoever killed Kennedy and Mercer merely wanted to lead you away from those golden guineas.”

“Kennedy was killed because he was set to watch Mercer. Mercer was killed because he was being watched. Because he might have given away the names of his fellow coiners.”

“This is most confusing,” said I.

“On the contrary,” said Newton. “My hypothesis agrees with the phenomena very well, and I confess I begin to see the light.” He nodded firmly. “Yes, I think it very probable because a great part of what we have seen easily flows from that which would otherwise seem inexplicable.”

“If you do not think that Major Mornay’s killer is responsible for the deaths of Kennedy and Mercer,” said I, “what do you think of him for George Macey’s murder?”

“I like him very well for it. But there is no evidence. Therefore I can frame no hypothesis. In truth I have much neglected what I do know about George Macey.”

Newton got up from his chair and walked over to the bookshelf where the Mint records were kept, as well as several numismatic histories, account books, law reports, Mister Violet’s Commons Report of 1651, and the small library that George Macey had owned, being a Latin primer, a book on mathematics, a book on the French language, and a book of shorthand.

“It is not possible to know much about him now,” said I.

“Except that his reading showed a commendable desire for self-improvement,” said Newton. “It is always best that a man educate himself. The superior education is the one wrought from private study. Even I taught myself mathematics. And yet I wonder that Mister Macey wished to learn French. My own French is less than perfect. For I like the French not at all.”

“Since we are still at war with them,” I said, “I cannot fault you for that, Doctor.”

Ignoring Melchior, who wrapped his tail around Newton’s hand like a whore’s shawl, Newton picked up Mister Macey’s French grammar, blew the dust off the cover — which was always considerable in the Mint office, from the constant vibration of the coining presses, not to mention the cannon — and turned the pages of the book. To my surprise, for I knew Newton had already examined the book once before, he found a paper that was pressed between the leaves.

“It’s a bookseller’s account,” said Newton. “Samuel Lowndes, by the Savoy.”

The Savoy was a great town house on the south side of the Strand, with grounds stretching down to the river. Most of it was given over to a hospital for sick and wounded seamen and soldiers, so that the whole area teemed with men recently returned from the war in Flanders — some of them terribly mutilated by grapeshot or bursting charge; and there were several poor wretches that I saw who were missing limbs or parts of their faces.

The remainder of the building was leased out to a French church, the King’s Printing Press, two gaols — both full — some private lodgings, and a number of shops that included Samuel Lowndes, the bookseller.

Mister Lowndes was a slight figure of a man, with an urchin’s face and a most obsequious manner so that the minute Newton and I came through his door, he pulled off his apron, put on his wig and coat, and, with wringing hands, waited upon the Doctor in a most servile, cringing way.

“I want a bookseller,” muttered Newton. “Not a Lord Chamberlain.”

“Doctor Newton,” exclaimed Mister Lowndes. “Why, sir, what a very great honour you do my shop by coming into it. Do you search for something in particular, sir?”

“I search for information about a customer you had last year, Mister Lowndes. A Mister George Macey, who worked for His Majesty’s Mint in the Tower. As I do myself.”

“Yes, I recall Mister Macey. Indeed, now I come to think more upon it, it’s almost a year since I have seen him. How is Mister Macey?”

“Deceased,” Newton replied bluntly.

“I am right sorry to hear it.”

“There were certain circumstances about Mister Macey’s death which show the grim character of homicide,” explained Newton. “And it touching upon the business of the Mint, we consider it a matter imperative to speak to all who can shed some light as to what his habits were. We have recently discovered that he was customer of yours, Mister Lowndes. Therefore I would be grateful if you could assist me by bending your recollection to other people you might have seen him with; some names he may have mentioned to you; or perhaps even the books he bought.”

Mister Lowndes looked most discomfited by the news of Macey’s murder; and yet he quickly did as Newton had asked and straightaway consulted a ledger book that contained a record of all his customer accounts.

“He was a pleasant man,” said Mister Lowndes, turning the ledger’s thick pages. “Not an educated one like yourself, Doctor. But a conscientious one; and governed by a Christian sense of duty.”

“Very commendable, I’m sure,” murmured Newton.

Mister Lowndes found the page he had been searching for. “Here we are, sir,” he said. “Yes, he purchased several books of a didactic nature, as you can see for yourself. And one that surprised me very much, being so unlike the others. Also, it was expensive. Very expensive for a man of his means.”

Following Mister Lowndes’s forefinger upon the ledger, Newton observed the written entry for a moment and then read aloud the title and author to which the bookseller did refer. “Polygraphia, by Trithemius. I know your Latin is good, Mister Ellis. But how is your Greek, sir?”

“Polygraphia? I think that would mean ‘much writing,’” said I, whose Greek was never much good at all.

“Quite so,” agreed Mister Lowndes. “Although the book itself was written in Latin.”

“And yet Macey had no Latin,” objected Newton. “The elementary character of the Latin primer he bought from Mister Lowndes would seem to confirm as much.” Newton paused and tapped his bony finger upon the page of the ledger. “Did he explain why he wanted this particular book?”

“I seem to recall that he intended it to be a gift for someone. But who I cannot say.”

“Could you perhaps find me another copy of this book, Mister Lowndes?”

“Not for several weeks,” admitted Mister Lowndes. “I had to send off to Germany to obtain the copy that Mister Macey ordered. You might, of course, search around St. Paul’s. The Latin coffee house near there often holds auctions of rare and expensive books such as the one for which you search.”

Newton grunted without much enthusiasm at such a laborious prospect.

“But I believe I know where you might have sight of a copy, at least, for I ordered a copy of this same book once before.”

Mister Lowndes turned back the pages of his ledger until he found what he was looking for.

“Here we are, Doctor. That other customer was Doctor Wallis. I ordered the same book for him.”

“Doctor John Wallis?” repeated Newton. “Do you mean he that is the Savilian Professor of Geometry at Oxford University, sir?”

“Aye sir, the very same. I believe I said as much myself to Mister Macey. He seemed most interested by the news.”

“So am I, sir,” admitted Newton. “So am I.”

Early the next morning we took the flying coach to Oxford, which was a most vexatious journey, with much dangerous water on the road because of recent heavy rain, and there was almost some mischance to the coach, but no time lost, so that we arrived at our destination about thirteen hours after leaving London.

Newton had many friends at Oxford. Chief among these was David Gregory, a young Scotsman who held the Savilian Chair of Astronomy and who, at very short notice, dined us very well at Merton, which is a very pretty place, and was my own college, which made me feel mighty peculiar, my being back there.

I believe Gregory must have been about thirty-eight years of age when first I met him. He was a typical Scot, being small and whey-faced, and very fond of his bottle and his pipe, so that his rooms stank of tobacco like the most fumigated London coffee house; indeed his body seemed incapable of supporting life by any other breath than the smoke of some sweet-scented Virginia. It was to Newton’s influence that the younger Gregory owed his current eminence at Oxford. Over dinner they began to talk of Doctor Wallis.

“But you have not met Wallis before?” asked Gregory. “He was at Cambridge, was he not?”

“We have met, yes. More often we have corresponded. He has been most persistent that I should publish something — nay, anything — in his Opera Mathematica. No doubt he is currently reading the letter I wrote to him yesterday, and my arrival here in Oxford, as a sign that I have changed my mind upon the matter.”

“So why do you wish to see him?”

“It is the business of the Mint that brings me to Oxford. I was hoping that Wallis might help me with some enquiries. Yet more I cannot say, for it is a delicate matter and most secret.”

“Of course,” said Gregory, puffing away like a Dutch boatswain. “But I don’t think that Doctor Wallis is any stranger to secrecy himself. I have heard it said that he does confidential work for milord Sunderland. I think it is something to do with the war, although I wonder how an eighty-year-old man can help to defeat the French. Perhaps he sets them calculations and bids to bore them into submission.”

“Is he still so fond of mathematics?” exclaimed Newton.

“Indeed he is, sir. He is a scholar of real worth, for I have seen him extracting square roots without pen or paper, to seven places.”

“I have seen a horse clap its hoof upon the ground seven times,” Newton remarked. “But I do not think it was a mathematician.”

“He is not your peer,” said Gregory. “You have developed mathematics quite astonishingly.”

“For my own part,” answered Newton, “I think I have barely skimmed the surface of the great ocean of knowledge. Marvellous secrets still remain to be uncovered. It is the challenge of our age to demonstrate the frame of the system of the world. And so long as we continue to distinguish between the formal reason of nature and the act of divine will, I do not see why we should not believe that God himself does not directly inform nature so that the world necessarily emanates from it.”

Here Newton did look at me most directly, so that when he spoke again I formed the impression that perhaps Miss Barton had reported our conversation after all.

After breakfast the next day, we received a note from Wallis inviting us to call on him at eleven of the clock, and at the appointed hour we did go to Exeter College to see him. I did not like Exeter as much as Merton, Magdalen, or Christchurch, it being disfigured by large and unsightly chimneys, not to mention much building work being done in the front quadrangle, so that I wondered how Wallis could study there. But this was soon explained when we entered the Professor’s rooms and met Wallis himself, since it was quickly evident that Doctor Wallis was a little deaf, which was no great wonder in a man of his age. He was of medium height, with a small head and slightly infirm of gait, and leaned upon a stick and a boy of about fourteen years old, whom he introduced to us as his grandson William.

“There, William,” said his doting grandfather. “One day you will be able to say that you once met the great Isaac Newton, whose notions of mathematics are received with great applause.”

Newton bowed deeply. “Doctor Wallis,” he said, “I was not able to find anything general in quadratures, until I had understood your own work on infinitesimals.”

Wallis acknowledged the compliment with a nod, and then told the boy to run along before inviting us to sit and declaring himself mighty honoured that Newton should think fit to visit an old scholar like himself.

“Pray tell me, sir,” he asked. “Does this mean that you have reconsidered your decision not to publish your Opticks in my book? Is that why you have come?”

“No sir,” Newton said firmly. “I have not changed my mind. I am here on the business of His Majesty’s Mint.”

“It’s not too late, you know. Even now Mister Flamsteed sends me an account of his observations, which shall be included. Will you not reconsider, Doctor Newton?”

“No sir, for I fear that disputes and controversies may be raised against me by some confounded ignoramus.”

“But perhaps some other may get scraps of your notion and publish it as his own,” said Wallis. “Then it will be his, not yours, though he may perhaps never attain a tenth part of what you are already the master of. Consider that it is now almost thirty years since you were master of those notions about fluxions—”

“I think,” said Newton, interrupting, “that you have already written me a letter to this same effect.”

Wallis grunted loudly. “I own that modesty is a virtue,” he said. “I merely wished to point out that too much diffidence is a fault. How should this, or the next age, know of your discoveries if you do not publish, sir?”

“I shall publish, sir, when I am minded so to do.”

Wallis tried to conceal his show of exasperation, with little success.

“The business of the Mint, you say?” he said, changing the subject. “I had heard you were Master of the Mint. From Mister Hooke.”

“For the present I am merely the Warden. The Master is Mister Neale.”

“The Lottery man?”

Smiling thinly, Newton nodded.

“But is the work so very challenging?”

“It is a living, that is all.”

“I wonder that you do not have a church living. I myself have the living of St. Gabriel’s in London.”

“I have not the aptitude for the Church,” replied Newton. “Only for inquiry.”

“Well then, sir, I am at the Mint’s service, although if we are to talk of money, I can tell you there’s none in the whole of Oxford.” Wallis gestured at his own surroundings. “And I cannot counterfeit anything save this show of worldly comfort. The only silver hereabouts is the college plate, and all sober men of the University are fearful of ruin. This Great Recoinage has been badly handled, sir.”

“Not by me,” insisted Newton. “But I have come about a book, sir, not the scarcity of good coin in Oxford.”

“We have plenty of those, sir,” said Wallis. “Sometimes I would we had fewer books and more money.”

“I seek a particular book — Polygraphia, by Trithemius — which I would desire to have sight of.”

“You have come a long way to read one ancient book.” The old man got up from his chair and fetched a handsomely bound volume from his bookcase.

“Polygraphia, eh? That is an ancient book indeed. It was first published in 1517. This is an original copy which I have owned these past fifty years.”

“But did you not order another from Mister Lowndes of the Savoy?” asked Newton.

“Who told you that, sir?”

“Why, Mister Lowndes, of course.”

“I like this discovery not, sir,” said Wallis, frowning. “A man’s bookseller should keep his confidence, like his physician. What can become of a world where every man knows what another man reads? Why, sir, books would become like quacks’ potions, with every mountebank in the newspapers claiming one volume’s superiority over another.”

“I regret the intrusion, sir. But as I said, this is official business.”

“Official business, is it?” Wallis turned the book over in his hands and then stroked the cover most 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.

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.

“Why, Mister Defoe,” said Newton. “Do you attend us?”

Mister Defoe laid down some Mint papers he had been examining and, stepping side to side like a dancing master, stuttered and stammered his crippled explanation. “Yes,” he said, blushing like a virgin. “I only thought to await your return. To bring you information.”

“Information? About what, pray?” Newton collected the papers Mister Defoe had been reading and perused their contents while our interloper tried to untie his tongue.

“About certain coiners,” declared Mister Defoe. “I know not their names, but they operate out of a tavern in Fleet Street.”

“Do you refer to The Goat?”

“Yes, The Goat,” replied Mister Defoe.

Newton winced, as if he felt the pain of Mister Defoe’s words. “Oh, you disappoint me. The Goat is in Charing Cross, between the Chequer Inn at the southwest corner of St. Martin’s Lane, and the Royal Mews, farther west. Now if you had said The George—”

“I did mean The George.”

“You would also be mistaken, for The George is in Holborn, north of Snow Hill. What bad luck for you. There are so many taverns in Fleet Street you might have chosen to mention: The Globe, Hercules’ Pillars, The Horn, The Mitre, and Penell’s. We know them all, don’t we, Mister Ellis?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Perhaps you meant The Greyhound? On the south side, close to Salisbury Court? Now that’s a tavern that was always said to be full of coiners.”

“It must have been that one.”

“Until it burned down during the Great Fire. You did say you had some information for us?”

“I may have made a mistake,” said Mister Defoe.

“You most certainly have,” said Newton. “Mister Defoe, I seize you as my prisoner. Mister Ellis? Draw your sword and command this rogue’s obedience while I fetch a sentinel.”

I drew my sword as Newton had ordered, and extended the point toward Mister Defoe.

“Upon what charge do you detain me?”

“Spying,” said Newton.

“Nonsense.”

Newton brandished the papers Defoe had been reading.

“These are confidential documents in this office relating to the security of the coin of this realm. I cannot think what else I might call it, sir.”

“Is he serious?” asked Defoe when Newton had gone out of the office.

“He is so seldom anything else that I wonder if he knows one simple joke,” said I. “But you will find out if this is raillery or not, soon enough, I’ll warrant.”

As good as his word, Newton returned in the company of two sentries and quickly wrote out a warrant in his capacity as a Justice.

“Mister Neale will not tolerate this,” said Mister Defoe. “He’ll have me out of here in no time.”

Newton handed one of the sentries the warrant and commanded him to take the prisoner not to the Tower prison, as all of us had expected, but to Newgate.

“Newgate?” exclaimed Mister Defoe upon learning his fate.

“I believe you know it well enough,” said Newton. “We will see what your friends can do for you when you are in there.” And with that, poor Daniel Defoe was led out of the office, still protesting loudly.

“And now,” said Newton, when we were alone again. “Let’s have a fire and some supper.”

After supper Newton commanded me to go to bed, which I was glad to do, although I felt a little guilty leaving him at work; and so the next morning I rose early to do some paperwork of my own and found that he had not been home at all, and him being most sullen, it was evident how he had not yet made the progress he had earlier anticipated. His mood was not improved by the arrival in the office of milord Lucas, who loudly complained about my own conduct toward the late Major Mornay, and who proceeded to describe what had passed between us in a way that was quite contrary to the facts, so that I believed he had some ill will to me, or at least an opinion that I was guilty of provoking the Major to kill himself. But I cared not a turd — the more so when Newton defended me and took all the blame upon himself and said that Mornay had been murdered.

“Murdered?” Lord Lucas, who sat most stiffly as if he feared to ruffle his cravat or incommode his wig, and turned one way in his chair and then the other as if he did not believe what he had heard. “Did you say murdered, sir?”

“I did, milord.”

“What nonsense, Doctor. The fellow hanged himself.”

“No, milord, he was murdered,” repeated my master.

“What, sir, do you contradict me?”

“It was made to look as though he had hanged himself, by them as I hope soon to arrest.”

“I know your game, sir,” sneered Lord Lucas. “It’s your conceit to make men believe the very opposite of what their eyes and ears tell them to be true. Like your damned theory of gravity. I can’t see that either, sir. And I tell you plain, I don’t believe in it, sir.”

“I wonder, then, that you do not fly off this earth, and into the heavens,” observed Newton. “For I cannot think what else might detain you here, milord.”

“I have not the time nor the patience for your blasted Royal Society sophistry.”

“That much is obvious, in any case.”

“Well, you may think what you like, Newton. If he’s buried in this Tower — and it seems he will have to be, for his family don’t want the disgrace — it’ll be face down, north to south.” Lord Lucas opened his snuff-box and smeared his lofty nose with a generous pinch which did nothing to lessen his obvious distaste for our company.

“Then for the Major’s sake, I shall make a point of proving you wrong, milord.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” said Lucas. “Neither of you has.” And with a loud sneeze and a string of oaths he kicked the door open and marched out of our office.

Newton yawned and stretched himself like a cat. “I believe I shall take some air,” he said. “Whenever I am in His Lordship’s company I feel like I am a candle burning in Mister Boyle’s bell-jar, which soon goes out for lack of atmosphere. Besides, I have not moved from this chair all night. What say you that we venture out to the Strand and call upon Mister Scroope?”

“I think that it would benefit you, sir,” I replied. “For you are too much indoors.”

Newton left off scratching Melchior under the chin and, glancing out of the window, nodded. “Yes. You are right. I am too much indoors. I should dwell more in the light. For although I have not yet much understood the Sun, I sometimes think its rays nourish all living things with an invisible light. I do not doubt how one day that secret light will be revealed as I have revealed the spectrum of colours; and when it is, we shall begin to know everything. Why, perhaps we shall even understand the immanent nature of God.”

Newton stood up and put on his coat and hat.

“But for the moment let us merely hope that we may understand the mind of Mister Scroope.”

We walked to the Strand, and along the way Newton outlined his plan in greater detail:

“Being a gold- and silversmith, Mister Scroope is obliged by law to keep a record of his stock of precious metals,” he explained. “For it is of great importance that the Treasury knows how much gold and silver there is in the country. I shall say that the Mint has the power to inspect Mister Scroope’s books. I shall inform him that I am handling the matter personally, in order that the inconvenience to his business shall be minimised. When I explain that such inspections often take a whole day but that I expect to complete my own within the hour, I believe that he will be more than pleased to co-operate with us. And while he is so diverted with appeasing me, you shall find an opportunity to slip away, perhaps to use the close-stool, and then to examine his library in search of the book by Trithemius.”

“Is any of that true?” I asked.

“About the Mint? Sadly, no. But it ought to be. For much of the time we are making up our powers as we go along. Of course, as a justice of the peace I could easily obtain a specific warrant to inspect his books. But that would look wrong, for we must counterfeit the appearance that our actions are in Scroope’s best interest, and he must apprehend that we are his friends.”

Our walk took us along Thames Street and across the stinking Fleet Bridge with its many fishwives — where I bought threepence worth of oysters for my stand-up breakfast — onto Fleet Street and the Strand. I tried to raise the subject of Miss Barton, but when I mentioned her, Newton swiftly changed the subject and I was left with the feeling that I had done her greater injury than any that was ever done unto my master. That was what I thought. Later on, I formed a different impression of why he was reluctant to discuss his niece with me.

Near enough an hour’s walking brought us unto Mister Scroope’s place of business, close by the Maypole at the junction of Drury Lane. Scroope seemed most discomfited by our arrival on his doorstep, which Newton I think enjoyed, being now most convinced that a man who did not graduate from his university was likely a bad lot; and that this vindicated his own neglect of Mister Scroope when he had been his tutor.

Having heard Newton’s most plausible explanation for our returning to see him again, Scroope ushered us into his office while all the while he grumbled that there was so much regulation for a man of business to take account of these days that he could wish all men who made laws might be ducked in Bedlam’s night soil.

“Everything is regulation and tax. If it’s not windows the Government wants money for, it’s burial or marriage. It’s bad enough that the closing date for the receipt of the old coin at full value is swift to be upon us. But so little new coin is produced.”

“There’s enough being produced,” said Newton. “It’s expected this month will see more than three hundred and thirty thousand pounds’ worth of silver coin newly minted. No sir, the problem is that men hoard the new coin in expectation that its value will rise.”

“That’s an accusation I know well,” lamented Mister Scroope. “I think I understand what it is to be a Jew, for the gold- and silversmiths of this city are most often thought guilty of hoarding. But I ask you, Doctor, how is a man expected to run this kind of business without keeping a certain quantity of gold and silver to smith that which a customer would desire? A man must have findings in this trade, or he has no trade at all.”

Findings were what these goldsmiths called their stock of precious metals.

“Well, sir,” said Newton, “shall we see what findings you do have? And then I promise to leave you in peace, for I like this task no better than you. When I left Cambridge for the Mint, I little thought I should become the money police.”

“This is most inconvenient and aggravating.”

“I came myself, sir,” Newton said stiffly, “because I wished to spare you the trial of being examined by one of these other rascals. But it might be better if you spent a day or two with one of the inspection bailiffs, after all. I daresay you would prefer their careful scrutiny to the blind eye of an old friend and fellow Trinity man.” And so saying, Newton made as if to leave.

“Please, sir, wait a moment,” said Scroope, unctuous again. “You are right. I am most ungrateful for the service you do me. Forgive me, sir. It is merely that I was most occupied with something, and I am without a servant for an hour. But now I think that it can wait a while. And I should count it an honour to have my books inspected by you, Doctor Newton.”

Scroope ushered Newton through to an even smaller office where, there being very little room, it was not possible for me to follow, so that I was obliged to remain behind; and as soon as I heard Scroope begin to explain his book-keeping to Newton, I excused myself and went to look about the house.

It was plain to me that St. Leger Scroope was a man of very evident wealth. On the walls were many fine tapestries and pictures while the furniture reflected the taste of a man who had travelled a great deal abroad. There was a library of sorts, with several handsome bookcases and dominated by the largest and dustiest binding press I had seen outside of a bookshop; but there was no time to wonder at it, for I was quickly in front of the cases and examining the spines of Mister Scroope’s books; and finding these ordered according to the letters of the alphabet, I quickly found a copy of the Polygraphia by Trithemius. This book I removed from the bookcase and opened in the hope that Mister Macey might even have inscribed it, but there was nothing, and I was about to replace the volume when it occurred to me to look at some of the other books also; and finding many of these were on the subject of alchemy, I came away from that room with the strong notion that Newton’s suspicions were correct: that Scroope did indeed have some involvement in the terrible murders at the Tower.

It was now that I made a most fortuitous discovery. Upon leaving the library, I took a wrong turn so that I found myself standing on the threshold of a courtyard that was enclosed on three sides by single-storey wooden workshops, each of which was topped by a tall chimney not visible from the street.

I crossed the open courtyard and stepped inside one of these workshops, which was arranged very like the melting-house at the Tower, with an open furnace and various forging tools. Not that there was anything very strange about any of this Mister Scroope was a goldsmith, after all. Rather it was what Mister Scroope chose to smith that interested me, for all about the place were pewter plates, jugs and tankards, as well as the moulds from which these had been newly cast, since some were still warm. Others were already in packing cases that bore the official licence of the Navy Office.

First it struck me as strange that Scroope should be supplying tableware for the Navy Office, until I remembered that many smiths loyally manufactured all kinds of things for our army in Flanders, and that doubtless they had as much need of plates and tankards with which to carry their victuals as they had need of cannon and shot.

I was starting to leave the workshop when my eye caught sight of some empty Mint money bags lying on the cobbled ground. When full of silver coin, these bags were sold at the Mint and their dissemination among the people at large left to chance, for there was no public expenditure available for the money’s distribution — which was, as every Englishman knew, a great fault of the recoinage. Rather it was the contiguity of these various items at the forge — the empty money bags and the pewter — that caused me to suspect that there was some bad business here; and examining one of the pewter plates more closely, I scratched the surface with the point of my sword, which prompted the discovery that the pewter was only a patina. For this tableware was not pewter at all, but solid silver, made of the melted coin that all those in the Mint laboured so hard to produce. What Scroope was evidently doing did not only undermine that recoinage, to the great disadvantage of the realm — to say nothing of King William’s campaign in Flanders, for if there was no good coin, his troops could not be paid — but he was also making a profit by melting the coin and smuggling it across the Channel to France, where silver fetched a higher price than in England. What was more, the face value of the new coins was less than the value of the silver they contained. So that the mathematics of Scroope’s scheme were obvious: Scroope bought a pound’s weight of silve for sixty shillings to sell it in France for seventy-five.

It was a profit of twenty-five per cent. Not a great sum, perhaps, but if the main purpose of the scheme were not the profit but the advantage of the King of France, then it was clear to me how this treasonous act of economic impedition could easily pay for itself.

I returned to the clerk’s office and found Newton still questioning Scroope most attentively, so that my brief absence had not, it seemed, been noticed; and after a while I was able to indicate to my master with a nod of my head that my task was accomplished. Upon which Newton pronounced himself easily satisfied with Scroope’s books and, with a great effusion of continuing gratitude for Scroope’s gift of silver for their old school, he bade him farewell; and eventually we took our leave.

As soon as we were gone, we went to The Grecian in nearby Devereux Court, where, over a dish of coffee, Newton made some enquiry as to what I had discovered; and I told him everything I had seen, which left him mighty pleased.

“Well done, Ellis,” he declared handsomely. “You have excelled yourself. But did you see no signs of coining? No press? No guinea dies?”

“No,” I said. “Although the book-binding press in the library was the largest I have seen outside a bookshop.”

“A binding press, eh?” remarked Newton. “Can you describe it?”

“It was mounted on some small wheels so that it might be moved easily without lifting. Only I do not think it was used very much. I saw no loose quires of pages about. Nor any books that were new-bound. And the press itself was covered in dust.”

Newton considered what I had said, and then asked me if the books in Scroope’s library had been dusty, too.

“Not at all,” I said.

“And this dust? What colour was it?”

“Now that I come to think of it,” said I, “the dust was a strange colour, being dark green.”

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 d’orure moulu process of manufacturing false golden guineas. Which means there can be no doubt as to the true nature of that binding press.”

“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?”

“An old ailment,” whispered Newton, struggling painfully to his feet. “The rheumatism, I think. If I could have a chair.”

“As you can see,” said Scroope, “all our chairs are piled up for our conflagration.”

“A stick, then. There is one.” Newton pointed to a walking stick that lay against the wall. “Besides, if I am to be shot, I should like to meet death on my feet.”

“Why, Doctor, you sound quite the bravo,” said Scroope, and, backing up to the wall, took hold of the stick and handed it to Newton, handle first.

“Thank you, sir,” said Newton, taking hold of the stick. “You are most kind.”

But no sooner did he grasp the handle than he was flourishing a blade, and it was only now that I remembered, even as Newton did prick Scroope’s ribs with it, that the ingenious walking stick concealed a sword. In truth, my master pricked him but lightly, although Scroope did let out such a shriek that you would have thought he had been killed. And the surprise of it made him let off his pistol, which passed harmlessly into the ceiling.

At this, Robles drew his own sword, and I drew mine, for there was not time to find and cock my pistol; and he and I set to it for a minute or so, while Scroope flung his own empty pistol at my master’s head, which knocked him out, I think, and fled into the back of the house. By now the furniture was alight, and part of the house with it, so that Robles and I were obliged to conduct our swordfight against the flames, which were more of a distraction to my opponent, being at his back rather than mine. Newton lay still upon the floor, which was sufficient distraction unto myself; but finally I lunged at Robles, and pushed my blade straight through his side, so that he did let go of his blade and cry quarter. Forcing Robles through the door, I grabbed hold of my master’s coat collar and dragged him into the street, for the house was now well ablaze.

Outside, I sheathed my sword and drew my pistols, in expectation that Scroope might yet make his escape. But it was not Scroope who soon came coughing out of the house, but the woman who had poisoned her husband and who had escaped us before. It was Mrs. Berningham, who would have run away, only I took hold of her, and held her until someone summoned a bailiff.

A fire-engine was fetched. And yet with an armed man still apparently on the premises, there were none of the fire-fighters who dared go inside; but by then the fire was out of control so that it began to threaten some of the other buildings; and it was only when I assured the fire-fighters that Scroope, who owned his building, was a felon and therefore hardly likely to hold the firemen liable for the demolition, that they fetched hooks and ropes to pull down the blazing edifice. By which time Newton was recovered from his blow on the head.

For a while I was uncertain whether the fire killed St. Leger Scroope, or if he had escaped; but Newton was in no doubt about the matter. For as we investigated the back of the house, he spied some blood upon the cobbles, which seemed to put the matter beyond all dispute.

After seeing a physician, Scroope’s servant, Robles, was conveyed to the infirmary at Newgate with Mrs. Berningham, where, thinking himself close to death from the wound I had given him, although I had seen men recover from worse wounds than his, he confessed his own part in the murders of Mister Kennedy and Mister Mercer, and which had been done, as Newton supposed, in the manner being most provocative to the Warden’s intellect:

“It is well known at the Whit, the pressure you’re liable to put a man under, to peach. Mister Scroope feared you very much, Doctor Newton, especially after you got on the trail of Daniel Mercer, and John Berningham, for they could have told you everything about our operation that you would have wished to know. In short, that we were forging golden guineas and exporting silver bullion to advantage the cause of King Lewis of France in particular, and Roman Catholicism in general. It was certain that Mercer and Berningham had to be silenced, which meant that your own spy had to die as well, for he was watching Mercer. I just hit him over the head, trussed him up, and then introduced him to the lions, so to speak.

“That part was all Mister Scroope’s idea. For he wished to divert you with a matter most intriguing to your fancy, sir. He said you were most interested in alchemy and that we would make it look as though it had been certain philosophers that had done the killing. But also that we should use a most secret cipher he knew with which to tickle you even more.”

“But how did you come and go in the Tower with such facility?” asked Newton.

“That was easy. The first time we entered the Tower as two night-soil collectors. The sentry gave us a wide berth, for no one likes to get too close to the shite men. And while Mister Scroope distracted him with an enquiry, I lifted the key to the Lion Tower with a filch. We knew where it was because I drank with the keeper, and he told me. Your spy was already trussed up and waiting most patiently in Mister Scroope’s carriage out on Tower Hill.

“The second time, we was delivering a cartload of hay. I killed Mercer in our own workshop and then put him in the cart while Mister Scroope went to Mercer’s lodgings to leave some other diversions there for you. Then we drove to the Tower, put down the body, ordered the scene as you found it, left the hay, and then drove away.”

“What about the book in the Tower library?” asked Newton. “Did Mister Scroope leave that there for me too?”

“Yes sir, that he did.”

“I should like to know more about Mrs. Berningham,” I asked Robles.

“She and Scroope were lovers, sir,” said Robles. “She was a ruthless one, though. Poisoned her husband at Scroope’s prompting her to do it, without a second thought.”

Robles paused for a moment as he coughed a great deal; and still thinking himself dying, he said, “And there’s a clean breast of it, sir. I ain’t sorry to have it off my conscience.”

For myself, I was sorry the poor wretch did not die then and there, as three months later Robles was dragged to Tyburn on a hurdle, where he met his death on his way to becoming one of London’s grisly overseers, for his head was displayed in a place where he could see all of London.

Robles’s death was cruel enough; but it did not compare to the fate that awaited Mrs. Berningham the following day.

She was conducted from the door of Newgate and, after a cup of brandy from the bellman at St. Sepulchre’s, was led through an enormous crowd that had gathered, to a stake in the middle of the street. There she was made to stand upon a stool while a noose was placed about her neck and attached to an iron ring at the top of the stake. The stool was then kicked away, and while she was still alive, two cartloads of faggots were heaped around her and set alight. And after the fire had consumed her body, the mob amused itself with kicking through her ashes. Both Newton and I attended her execution, although I think there is something inhuman in burning to death a woman who, by being the weaker body, is more liable to error and therefore more entitled to leniency. A woman is still a woman however she may have debased herself.