numbers between one and fifty, so this isn't some sort of
Grand Chiffre
, where we'd need multiple messages before we had a prayer of breaking it. Assuming the original message was written in English or French, the most commonly occurring number should translate to 'e.' Which looks to be forty-two. Mel?"
"Right." His wife had already drawn up a chair beside him and was sketching out the beginnings of a table.
It took a little over an hour—during which time Charles wondered more than once that the cipher was not more complex—to decode the two papers Francisco had given them. In the end, the plain text lay before them, in Mélanie's swift, slanted hand.
The first message read:
Remember the past is never dead, only temporarily buried. And I can resurrect it whenever I wish.
And the second, which had been written in a different hand:
We have no choice but to eliminate the evidence.
"The first sounds like a blackmail threat," Simon said. "And the second could be an order to kill the blackmailer."
"Francisco told us they had to be stopped before they killed again," Mélanie said. She was perched on the edge of the Pembroke table, her fingers smeared with ink. "The question is, what on earth is this past that the Elsinore League fear could be resurrected?"
Charles smoothed the edges of the papers. "We can only hope Francisco shared some of the secrets with Manon. In any case, we have to find her at Le Lion d'Or at seven and warn her. She's in danger herself."
"And you?" David asked.
"We weren't followed from Somerset Place, but if the assassin knows who we are, someone might be watching our house."
"I don't suppose there's a chance you'll let mere civilians help you," Simon said.
Charles and Mélanie exchanged glances. "As a matter of fact," Charles said, "we can't make our plan work without you."
The rhythm of French assailed Charles's ears as he and Mélanie stepped into the smoky, dimly lit interior of Le Lion d'Or. For a moment the swift, musical pattern of speech swept him back to their days in Paris. Mélanie's gaze darted about the crowd, but he felt her almost palpably relax, as though the sounds took her home.
He caught a phrase or two in Spanish, one in Viennese German, and finally an English-speaking voice, from a corpulent man at a table by the fire giving his order in a voice three times louder than necessary, as though that would make the waiter—who very likely spoke fluent English—understand better.
Even the smells were different. Coffee that was strong but not bitter. Creamy cheese. Meat and vegetables soaked in butter rather than lard.
The coffeehouse was crowded with an assortment of emigres. Actors and musicians who earned their keep at the nearby theaters, no doubt, writers and journalists scribbling in notebooks, and some men in leather aprons who were probably taking a quick break from the bustle of the market.
Fewer women were present, but there was a mix of actresses and shapely ankled opera dancers, flower sellers with baskets on the floor beside them, and some women who probably sold not flowers or fruit but their own bodies.
"Charles." Mélanie tugged at his sleeve and nodded toward the far corner, away from the light of the fire. Even in the shadows, the woman's hair gleamed guinea bright.
They started forward. When they were a half dozen steps away, Manon's head jerked up. For a moment she stared at them. Then she sprang to her feet, tipped over her chair, and bolted across the room.
She was fast, but Charles had glimpsed her intention in the flicker of her gaze. He sprang forward and caught her by the back of her cloak. "It's all right, Manon. We're here to help you."
"
Help
." She gave an incredulous laugh. With a wrench of torn wool, she pulled out of his grasp.
She didn't so much as look at the door. She made straight for the windows. Charles ran after her, skidded on the floorboards, and nearly fell.
Manon knocked over a bench, pushed aside a man
Grand Chiffre
, where we'd need multiple messages before we had a prayer of breaking it. Assuming the original message was written in English or French, the most commonly occurring number should translate to 'e.' Which looks to be forty-two. Mel?"
"Right." His wife had already drawn up a chair beside him and was sketching out the beginnings of a table.
It took a little over an hour—during which time Charles wondered more than once that the cipher was not more complex—to decode the two papers Francisco had given them. In the end, the plain text lay before them, in Mélanie's swift, slanted hand.
The first message read:
Remember the past is never dead, only temporarily buried. And I can resurrect it whenever I wish.
And the second, which had been written in a different hand:
We have no choice but to eliminate the evidence.
"The first sounds like a blackmail threat," Simon said. "And the second could be an order to kill the blackmailer."
"Francisco told us they had to be stopped before they killed again," Mélanie said. She was perched on the edge of the Pembroke table, her fingers smeared with ink. "The question is, what on earth is this past that the Elsinore League fear could be resurrected?"
Charles smoothed the edges of the papers. "We can only hope Francisco shared some of the secrets with Manon. In any case, we have to find her at Le Lion d'Or at seven and warn her. She's in danger herself."
"And you?" David asked.
"We weren't followed from Somerset Place, but if the assassin knows who we are, someone might be watching our house."
"I don't suppose there's a chance you'll let mere civilians help you," Simon said.
Charles and Mélanie exchanged glances. "As a matter of fact," Charles said, "we can't make our plan work without you."
The rhythm of French assailed Charles's ears as he and Mélanie stepped into the smoky, dimly lit interior of Le Lion d'Or. For a moment the swift, musical pattern of speech swept him back to their days in Paris. Mélanie's gaze darted about the crowd, but he felt her almost palpably relax, as though the sounds took her home.
He caught a phrase or two in Spanish, one in Viennese German, and finally an English-speaking voice, from a corpulent man at a table by the fire giving his order in a voice three times louder than necessary, as though that would make the waiter—who very likely spoke fluent English—understand better.
Even the smells were different. Coffee that was strong but not bitter. Creamy cheese. Meat and vegetables soaked in butter rather than lard.
The coffeehouse was crowded with an assortment of emigres. Actors and musicians who earned their keep at the nearby theaters, no doubt, writers and journalists scribbling in notebooks, and some men in leather aprons who were probably taking a quick break from the bustle of the market.
Fewer women were present, but there was a mix of actresses and shapely ankled opera dancers, flower sellers with baskets on the floor beside them, and some women who probably sold not flowers or fruit but their own bodies.
"Charles." Mélanie tugged at his sleeve and nodded toward the far corner, away from the light of the fire. Even in the shadows, the woman's hair gleamed guinea bright.
They started forward. When they were a half dozen steps away, Manon's head jerked up. For a moment she stared at them. Then she sprang to her feet, tipped over her chair, and bolted across the room.
She was fast, but Charles had glimpsed her intention in the flicker of her gaze. He sprang forward and caught her by the back of her cloak. "It's all right, Manon. We're here to help you."
"
Help
." She gave an incredulous laugh. With a wrench of torn wool, she pulled out of his grasp.
She didn't so much as look at the door. She made straight for the windows. Charles ran after her, skidded on the floorboards, and nearly fell.
Manon knocked over a bench, pushed aside a man
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