The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fiction

Coffee cups drained and pushed aside, they worked on the lower left quadrant. Having exhausted the possibilities of the frequency method, Charles suggested they now move on to transposition. “As you know, Ada, this is how science works. We work our way through each of the postulations till, at last, one of them matches all the parameters and we can fit the key. Although,” he added, with the twinkle returning to his eye, “A leap of the imagination often helps too.”

Ada gave an internal shudder. Imagination. That’s what her father had had, in abundance. It had led to terrible things. What exactly they were, she had not been told. Sometimes, when she languished in her room in one of her ill periods, all sorts of weird images came into her mind and made her feel worse. They were not to be spoken about, her mother had made plain. He was not to be spoken about, but she must never forget that he was a ruiner of lives — his own as well as others’.

The letters swam before her eyes and she did her best to focus, and to banish these thoughts before they dragged her down again. Apply the method, following Charles’s instructions, and she would be in control again.

After a while she became aware that Charles had put down his pen and was staring into the distance. She became as still and quiet as possible. This was what he was like when new ideas were coming to him. He got up and went to the window, staring up at the cloudy sky then down at the autumnal leaves that had collected on the pavement. He turned back.

“That’s it,” he said. “While we are still working on the cipher to uncover what message our man is sending, I will send him one of my own. You said that Constable Duckett was ordered to that public house in the hope of drawing out — what did you call him? — the Prankster. It may not work, but my guess is that this man will also enjoy the challenge of The Times Personals. I shall place a message for him.”

“What will you say?”

“That’s what concerns me. How about something like ‘The net is getting tighter. You cannot succeed. We are very close.’ Or something like that,” he waved a hand airily, seeing Ada’s frown.

“But how will he know it’s for him, that could be for anyone.”

“True, and that’s why, Ada, I have a special request.” He sat down again beside her and took her hands in his. “I would like to use the symbols that you interpreted as Wanstead Abbey, along with the name of Byron, perhaps a line from Childe Harold

. Would you allow that? It’s all I can think of using — we could mention bright lights, being ignored — but again that’s open to interpretation.”

Ada lifted her chin. Robert had not been afraid, neither would she. And she knew none of her father’s poetry, so it would not matter to her. “You must use it. Why not ask him to meet you? Or ask what it is he wants!”

“I’ll work on it. Thank you, Ada.”

“But — don’t you think we should ask Mr Clark first?”

“Hah — if we wait for government departments to make up their minds, we’ll still be waiting for an answer at the next Millennium!”

* * *

“Is the syllabub to your liking, Ada?”

“May I fetch you some wine, Miss Byron?”

“You are looking a little pale, are you chilled? Shall I fetch your shawl?”

Ada smiled. It was certainly flattering to have the attention of these young men, to be surrounded, when other young women looked on in envy. And she never lacked for partners when the dancing started, which was good because she enjoyed it so much. Yes, it might be because of her name and her fame but, if they didn’t like her, surely they wouldn’t stay?

“Yes, and yes please, and no thank you, I’m not cold,” she answered. As one swain went to fetch her some wine she said to the other two, “Have you seen Mr Babbage’s Difference Engine? I’ve had the pleasure of working with him on — ”

“A most fantastical machine, I’ve heard,” interrupted the first young man hastily. “But I wanted to ask you, Ada, if there was perhaps something fantastical at the theatre you would like to see? Perhaps your Mama would allow — ”

“Nonsense, not the theatre. Miss Byron, I could arrange a day at the races, would that be more to your liking?”

“It would indeed. I was at Doncaster not long ago, and the thrill of it! I want to learn about horses, and, of course, the arithmetical calculations on the betting odds are intriguing — oh!”

Her wine was being handed to her, but not by one of her swains. Instead, it was Mr Clark.