Free Cries of the Lost by Chris Knopf Page A

which we spent casing the Spottsworthy Mews. This was difficult, since by definition, the flats and townhouses of a mews were off the main road, and grouped around an open, paved courtyard. There was no way to approach any of the dwellings without being exposed to all. And it would be no surprise if the area were well covered by security cameras. So my cleverest idea was to walk arm in arm with Natsumi right into the mews and look around like dumb tourists.
    So we did, which turned out well, because in the window of one of the homes was a prominent sign that read TO LET . I pointed to the sign and we walked over to it. I pulled out my pocket notebook and wrote down the contact information. We were now dumb tourists hoping to spend an extended time in London.
    The estate agent was a one-office firm a quick bus ride from the mews. I expected a quaint little Dickensian hole in the wall, but we got a modern office building with three floors and hundreds of agents manning phones and clattering away at computers.
    “That would be Hunley’s property,” said the receptionist, dialing him up from her switchboard.
    Hunley was a tall, sallow young man with sparse reddish hair, inadequate shoulders and a weak chin. Though his ready smile was sturdy enough.
    “Well then, we’ve been to Spottsworthy, have we?” he asked, shaking our hands.
    “Just now. It’s sort of exactly what we’ve been looking for,” I said.
    “I can understand that,” he said. “It’s one of my favorites. It’s a year’s lease, of course.”
    “That’s fine,” I said.
    “Could we have a look?” said Natsumi.
    Hunley acted as if she’d snapped him out of a reverie.
    “Of course, yes. Let me get my jacket and the key.”
    A cab was waiting for us in front of the building. The cabbie nodded to Hunley like they knew each other. Hunley said “Spottsworthy” and we were off.
    “So, have business in London?” Hunley asked.
    “On sabbatical,” I said. “Writing a book.”
    “What can you tell us about the neighborhood?” Natsumi asked. “How’re the neighbors? We’re looking for quiet.”
    “Then you’re looking well. A mews is the favored place for people wanting quiet. All tidily tucked away and all.”
    “And all the flats are let but this one?” I asked.
    “No flats. They’re all proper houses,” he said, “and mostly lived in by their owners. This one is owned by a couple on assignment in America, as it turns out. They rarely sell. Too desirable. Can’t say I know if they’re all fully occupied at the moment.”
    “Security?” she asked.
    “Of course.”
    It took him a few tries before getting the door unlocked, an awkwardness he covered with increased chatter and feigned amusement. The door opened into the sitting room, which was dark, full of overstuffed furniture and lined with bookcases crammed with books and a variety of pottery, pictures, clocks and other knickknacks. The space opened up to a dining area, beyond which was a set of French doors leading to a tiny garden. It smelled freshly cleaned, in a pleasant way. The street noise was a distant swish and hum. I pulled aside the drapes and saw a clear view of the twelve other units.
    “We’ll take it,” I said.
    “You haven’t seen the rest,” said Hunley.
    “No need.”
    “I’m seeing the rest,” said Natsumi.
    Hunley followed her up the stairs.

    I WENT to my email immediately after getting settled into the mews. Edwina Firth had written back.
    Dear Mr. Freeman:
    I would be pleased to look at your code (no compensation necessary), though I can offer no assurances that the puzzle will be solved. I’m sure you are aware that unbreakable ciphers do exist.
    My office hours are nine to eleven A.M . Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Pick your day and I’ll see you then.
    She included the address and her phone number.
    After setting up the appointment, I started browsing sites in the UK where I could source gear. An easy enough task—in less than an hour, I’d