The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,131

be any ecclesiastical building,” Charles said gently. “And those three symbols may be related to the context of the other codes—”

But Clark had seized on her words. “Wanstead Abbey? But that’s where—”

“I know, my … Lord Byron lived there.” She sounded as indifferent as she could. “It’s all I know about him.” She turned away and drank some more of the rich wine. It was William who’d described to her – in the most romantic terms – the now ruined Abbey where her father had once lived, and near which he was buried.

“It all falls into place!” Clark was saying. “This must be the focus for Republicanism, the hidden face behind the philosophical unionists and their talk of Charters and Rights. Is it Irish Home Rule, or some more sinister form of Radicalism? We must find out. I was right to take this seriously. It is either a warning to us, or we’ve intercepted a message destined for another conspirator. Mr Babbage, will you bend all your powers to unravelling these codes, and put everything else aside? We must know what it says. For the safety of the realm.”

On the carriage ride back home to Fordhook, Ada studied the copy she’d made of the coded message, with the Under Secretary’s permission. She knew Charles was right. They should not necessarily interpret those three symbols as meaning Wanstead Abbey. There had been no rumours, no whispers, of a movement using that name as their rallying cry. And the composer of the message could not have known that she, or anyone of her family, would see it. Until the answer was found, they must be open-minded. At home she had her own pamphlets and notes on hieroglyphs – it would be a race between her and Charles how quickly these could be translated. But she did not have the key to the rest. She hoped to learn from Charles.

Was Under Secretary Clark over-reacting when he feared a threatening conspiracy to overthrow the government and establish a republic? She sighed. Her mother was not the only one to worry about such things. Would a republic be such a bad thing, she brooded? No Englishman could feel proud of their recent monarchs, though William IV was not as embarrassing in his excesses as George IV. Lady Byron often remarked that the Court set a terrible example and did not command respect. But then she said the same thing about Members of Parliament too. Only the Duke of Wellington, now their Prime Minister, escaped her criticism, but those who hated the way he’d let the Reform Act go through were not republicans!

I must listen carefully at Lady Conway’s Ball tonight, she thought, and pay attention to what is being said about politics and the matters of the day, instead of just enjoying myself showing off my costume and dancing. At least I have the advantage in that my mind is trained to notice such things.

She put the paper away in her purse – made of matching red silk and decorated with a black transfer-printed motif of the Tower of London – and found herself thinking of Constable Robert Duckett. There had been an honesty about him, and his manner was neither subservient nor insolent. Why did he make her think of William? She managed to hide it from her mother and the Furies, but she still felt pain at the thought of the young man who would have been her husband for the past eighteen months, if their elopement had not been thwarted. They’d barely managed to make it down the driveway that night. Where was he now? She hoped he’d managed to obtain another post as tutor, and was comfortable somewhere. But, a tiny part of her acknowledged, it had been a lucky escape. His energy and ardour had not matched her own.

Not that she thought of Robert in the same way. He was only a constable, albeit good-looking and someone with initiative. A girl would be happy to be seen on his arm.

*

Robert pulled his coat closer around him against a squally burst of rain. What a dreary night to be out without my snug uniform, he thought. It was strange to be out without it. When he’d first joined the Metropolitan Police, freshly recruited from Bristol, he’d felt very conspicuous wearing it at all times, as he was pledged to do. Now he felt vulnerable without it.

He paused. Looking up and to his right he could make out, through the foggy gloom,