The Baroque Cycle - The System Of The World Part 44

Threader 20 JULY VERY EARLY A.M.

Lights have been burning behind the rude Veil of the Window in Question for better than an hour, which would seem to confirm Mr. Threader's fears. I can allay these with a few particulars as to the Chest. As shall be obvious to anyone who gives it more than a few moments' inspection, it has a false bottom. There is a locked compartment beneath. This can only be opened with a key, which we have not offered yet. If the buyer reads all the way to the end of Page 4 he shall reach a Notation to the effect that an Ingredient, essential to the Receipt, is concealed in the bottom of the Chest. Merely to copy out all four pages shall avail him nothing, save writer's cramp. He must have the Chest and Key, and these he shall not get until he pays for them.

I also remind Mr. Threader that the purpose of the exercise is not to get paid, but to ensnare the Buyer.

Peter Hoxton, Esq.

20 JULY MIDDAY.

Nothing.

Orney 20 JULY EVENING.

Mr. Orney would have won his wager had anyone been foolhardy enough to accept it, for Partry reports a second five-guinea piece has been laid on top of the first. I have taken the liberty of sending down Page 3.

Kikin 21 JULY EARLY A.M.

Further Lucubrations obsvd. I suspect the Buyer is copying or translating the Receipt.

Peter Hoxton, Esq.

21 JULY MIDDAY.

The point is conceded, that our Undertaking is a snare snare and not a legitimate commercial Transaction. But as this pile of five-guinea pieces ascends toward the sky I find myself sorely tempted to enter into the business of selling and not a legitimate commercial Transaction. But as this pile of five-guinea pieces ascends toward the sky I find myself sorely tempted to enter into the business of selling philosophical philosophical Arcana. Partry reports that the price offered is now fifteen ( Arcana. Partry reports that the price offered is now fifteen (sic) guineas. I sent him back with the fourth and final Page.

Threader 21 JULY MIDNIGHT.

Curtain was open in early eve. and I glimpsed our dark Philosopher at work once again. He goes hooded-this explains why I have not been able to see his face. Perhaps he is pox-marked, or burned in an Alchemical mishap. A gray goose-quill bobbed in the gloom next to his shoulder as he stain'd page after page of a Waste-book with ink. Later the curtain was dropp'd again, and my view replaced with dim flickerings that lasted until 11:12:30.

Peter Hoxton, Esq.

22 JULY MIDDAY.

Disaster. Partry reports the five-guinea pieces are all gone, replaced by a silver penny.

Orney 22 JULY EVENING.

I beg to differ with Brother Norman. This is not a disaster, but a clear sign from the Buyer that he has correctly decyphered the Receipt and understands that it is not useful to him without the Ingredient that is supposed to be contained in the bottom of the chest. I have sent Partry back to the Tatler-Lock with the key. Henceforth I shall remain here at the Main-Topp until the culmination of the Stake-out.

Dr. Waterhouse 23 JULY MIDDAY.

Mr. Partry has been at the Tatler-Lock since day-break. He has persuaded Mr. Knockmealdown to allow him to sit vigil in a store-room directly beneath the place of the Auction. Such are the floor-boords of that edifice that not even a cat could stalk from the door to the table without producing a fusillade fusillade of cracks and booms. As soon as Mr. Partry hears anything of that nature he is to- of cracks and booms. As soon as Mr. Partry hears anything of that nature he is to- "Your pint, sirrah."

"That is very kind of you, Saturn," said Daniel, setting the quill into its pot, and glancing once more at the distant window where Partry was puffing on his pipe. "How did you guess I was in the mood for a pint?"

"I am in the mood for one," Saturn said. am in the mood for one," Saturn said.

"Then why didn't you bring up two?"

"You forget that I am a Paragon of Sobriety. I shall derive my pleasure from watching you drink yours."

"I am happy to oblige," Daniel said, and took a swallow. "There has been no signal from Mr. Partry," he said, for Saturn's dark eyes had strayed to the page of the Log, still dewy with unblotted ink. "I was merely refreshing the account."

"I must ask, why you do not write it in the Real Character," Saturn teased him, "if it is as excellent as all that."

"It is is excellent. A much better way of setting down knowledge than Latin or English. Which is why I have devoted some years to making it more excellent yet, by transliterating it into numbers." excellent. A much better way of setting down knowledge than Latin or English. Which is why I have devoted some years to making it more excellent yet, by transliterating it into numbers."

"Ah," said Saturn, "are you saying, then, that the cypher in which the women of Bridewell punch the cards, is a descendant of the Real Character?" By now he had changed places with Daniel, and taken up that position on the balcony of which they had all grown so weary in the last eleven days.

Daniel moved the Log over to its customary station on a crate-top, and busied himself blotting the latest entry with sand. "Not so much a descendant descendant as a as a sibling, sibling," he said. "The father of both is the Philosophic Language, which is a system of cla.s.sification of ideas. Once an idea has been enrolled or registered in the tables of the Philosophic Language, it may be addressed with a number, or a set of numbers-"

"Cartesian coordinates," Saturn mused, "for plotting the wand'rings of our thoughts, like."

"The similarity only holds to a point," Daniel cautioned him. "To avoid ambiguity, the Philosophic Language-Leibniz's version of it, anyway-employs only prime numbers. In this, it is quite different from the number-lines of Descartes. In any case, the Language, as it consists of ideas and numbers, may be writ down using any scheme one may care to choose. The binary cypher of our Logic Mill is one such. But when I was a young man, John Wilkins devised another-the Real Character-which for a time was all the rage in the Royal Society. Hooke and Wren used it fluently."

"Who uses it now?"

"No one."

"Then how is the Dark Philosopher able to read it?"

"The same question has been bedeviling me."

"This Wilkins cove must have published a dictionary or key-"

"Yes. I helped write it, during the Plague. The page-proofs were burnt up in the Fire. But it was was published, and can be found in any number of libraries. But in order for our mysterious Buyer to go to such a library, and consult the book, he must first published, and can be found in any number of libraries. But in order for our mysterious Buyer to go to such a library, and consult the book, he must first recognize recognize the outlandish glyphs on the page as belonging to something called the Real Character. Think-if I shewed you, Peter, a page writ in the script of Malabar, would you know to consult a Malabar-Dictionary?" the outlandish glyphs on the page as belonging to something called the Real Character. Think-if I shewed you, Peter, a page writ in the script of Malabar, would you know to consult a Malabar-Dictionary?"

"No-for these eyes, though they've seen much, have never seen Malabar-letters, and would not know 'em from j.a.panese or AEthiopian."

"Just so. Yet our buyer seems to have known the Real Character on sight."

"But is that really so extraordinary, when one considers that the same buyer knew that Hooke-stuff was to be found hidden in the walls of Bedlam? From which it's evident he knows much of your Society."

"I believe that the knowledge of where to look for the stuff came to the buyer through Henry Arlanc: the Royal Society's porter."

"I know who he is."

"Oh really? How do you know him?"

"He worked for a Huguenot watch-maker, with whom I had professional contacts before I turned to drink, and fell on black days. Several Fellows of the Royal Society patronized this horologist-that is how they got to know Henry Arlanc, and that is how Arlanc got the position at Crane Court."

"Until recently," Daniel said, "I had supposed that Arlanc was pa.s.sing intelligence to Jack the Coiner, or someone in his organization, who was, at bottom, ignorant of Natural Philosophy."

"There's a hole in that hypothesis, Doc. Why'd such a cull want to rake through the mouse-eaten leavings of a dead Vertuoso?"

"Ignorant men have fanciful notions of what may be found in such residue. Alchemists frequently work with gold. Perhaps-"

"Still, the hypothesis does not hold up well under close examination."

"I agree!" said Daniel, exasperated. "I no longer believe in it."

"Well, now now is a fine time to say so," said Saturn. "What's the is a fine time to say so," said Saturn. "What's the new new hypothesis?" hypothesis?"

"That the buyer is a Fellow of the Royal Society, or else has made a close study of the Society's early years. He knows a great deal about Hooke and about the Real Character, and..." Daniel paused.

"And?"

"And about poison," Daniel said. "An attempt was recently made on the life of Princess Caroline. The weapon was a poniard smeared with nicotine, excellently prepared."

"b.l.o.o.d.y peculiar," reflected Peter Hoxton, "when this benighted world doth so abound in simpler means of killing."

"During the 'sixties-Hooke's heyday, and the aera of the Real Character-several Fellows of the Royal Society took an interest in nicotine."

"It's obvious then, isn't it?" Saturn said.

"What is obvious?"

"The villain must be Sir Christopher Wren!" Saturn clearly meant this as a preposterous jest, and so he was appalled to see Daniel considering it seriously. "Because he is one of the very few still living from that aera, you mean," Daniel finally said. "It is a good thought. But no. This is not being done by Wren, or Halley, or Roger Comstock, or any of the others who were in the Royal Society in those days. Supposing I I wanted to kill someone-would I brew up nicotine? No. No, Peter, this is being done by someone of a more recent generation. He has conceived a diseased Fascination with the Royal Society of the 1660s. He has poured an unhealthy amount of time into studying what we did, and reading our annals." wanted to kill someone-would I brew up nicotine? No. No, Peter, this is being done by someone of a more recent generation. He has conceived a diseased Fascination with the Royal Society of the 1660s. He has poured an unhealthy amount of time into studying what we did, and reading our annals."

"Why?"

"Why? When a young man falls under the spell of a particular young woman, and will not leave her alone, though her father and brothers menace him with daggers drawn, ask you why?"

"But this is different."

"Perhaps."

"Trust me, 'tis different. The buyer desires something. I believe you know what the something is. Will you please let me in on the secret?"

"I have held it back, not because I wish to keep secrets from you," Daniel sighed, "but because I find the entire subject painfully embarra.s.sing. The buyer seeks the Philosopher's Stone."

Saturn slapped his forehead theatrically. "Why'd I even take the trouble to ask?"

"He has heard at least part of the story about the man who died in Bedlam when Hooke cut him for the stone, and who was (some would say) resurrected by the elixir of Enoch Root."

"Ah, that is the name of-?"

"Of the Alchemist in that story, yes. If you are the sort of chap who believes in Alchemy, then it is implicit, in that story, that the elixir must have been made using something akin to the Philosopher's Stone. Now, according to the lore of the Alchemists, that Stone is made by combining the Philosophic Mercury with the Philosophic Sulphur. Where, might you ask, does a bloke get his hands on such ingredients? The answers are many and various, depending on which Alchemist you talk to. But many believe that King Solomon was an Alchemist, who knew how to get, or to make, the Philosophic Mercury, and who used it to turn lead into gold."

"Ah, that would explain why he was so rich!"

"Just so. Now, the story goes that if you could find some of King Solomon's gold and put it in a crucible, you could extract from it minute traces of the Philosophic Mercury. I believe that our buyer somehow got wind of this yarn about the Alchemical Resurrection in Bedlam twenty-five years ago, and reckoned that the shortest and quickest way for him to get his hands on a sample of the Philosophic Mercury was-"

"To ransack London for Hooke's old notes and knick-knacks."

"Yes. Now, consider that, when I got back to London at the end of January, the first thing I did was to begin searching for Hooke's old notes and equipment. Arlanc was the first man I questioned. He must have mentioned this to his contact in Jack's organization. Shortly, word must have got round to our buyer."

"Who was already disposed to believe that this thing of infinite value had been hidden away, somewhere, by Hooke."

"Yes. Imagine the effect the news must have had upon him!"

"He must have been frantic," Saturn said, "believing that you were in quest of the same goods, and would get to them first."

"Indeed. As we now know, this led to the series of burglaries. I had only a dim and fragmentary understanding of these matters until a fortnight ago, when we found that doc.u.ment in the wall at Bedlam. Then all became clear. But, too, it was clear that the buyer's search was doomed to failure, for Hooke's receipt mentions mentions a certain ingredient without offering any explanation of a certain ingredient without offering any explanation of how to obtain how to obtain it. For that reason, the doc.u.ment was useless as bait for the Stake-out." it. For that reason, the doc.u.ment was useless as bait for the Stake-out."

"Which is why you and Sir Isaac had to produce the fake."

"The fake, and the box that it came in," Daniel said. "The buyer believes that a small amount of the Solomonic Gold is locked in the compartment in the bottom of that chest."

"Not for long," Saturn remarked. He was gazing fixedly out the window.

"Why do you say so?"

"Because Sean Partry is waving his arms at me from below the Window in Question."

Daniel's arm jerked and spilt his ink-bottle. It slicked the page of the log-book with a black parabola that streamed over the edge and spattered to the floor.

Saturn was on his feet. He waved back, but did not take his eye off the Tatler-Lock.

"Which direction is Partry indicating?" Daniel asked backing carefully away from the mess. The ink had already found a crevice between floor-planks. Sounds of havoc and dismay were coming up from the tap-room.

"He points toward the Bridge," said Saturn, and finally glanced away from Partry so that he could give his watch a study.

"Then the buyer ought to be coming our way-"

"In no more than two minutes," Saturn agreed. "But traffic is heavier now than when I clocked him before. I shall loap along the Bridge a-foot, and may out-pace him. Do you try to summon a hackney, or a sedan." And he preceded Daniel out the door, and down stairs. Which was fortunate for Daniel, as several ink-spattered Main-Topp patrons had by now formed up at the base of the stairs, in a retaliatory mood. Their ardor cooled when Saturn sallied forth, and through the little Mobb broke a path that Daniel was not slow to follow. "Our work above is concluded," Saturn announced, over his shoulder, as he went out, "and all losses shall be compensated anon-but not now." And with that he burst out the front door of the Main-Topp and into the streaming crowd of the Bridge.

Saturn glanced left-towards Southwark and the Tatler-Lock-but turned right, antic.i.p.ating that the buyer's carriage would overtake him presently. By the time Daniel made it out the door, Saturn had already advanced several long strides in the direction of London. Daniel followed his example and glanced left-but it availed him nothing. He lacked both Peter Hoxton's height, height, which would have enabled him to see over the crowd as far as the Great Stone Gate, and his which would have enabled him to see over the crowd as far as the Great Stone Gate, and his youth, youth, which made eyes quicker to adjust to the sudden brightness of the unroofed street. which made eyes quicker to adjust to the sudden brightness of the unroofed street.

All he had was a vague instruction to hire a coach or a sedan. No hackney of sound mind would await customers in front of the Main-Topp. Daniel guessed there might be chairs or coaches for hire in the Square, a short distance to the north. So he turned right, and began to thread his way through the jostling crowd.

Like the captain of a brittle ship hemmed in on all sides by ma.s.sive ice-floes, Daniel could not make his own path, but had to move along with the general flow, and avail himself of any leads that snaked open before him before they drew shut and crushed his ribs. He made feeble progress compared to Saturn. Before he had progressed so far as the vault of the Chapel, he had lost sight of Saturn's black head.

The artificial isles that supported the Bridge were called Starlings; the chutes between the Starlings, through which the divided River coursed, were denominated Locks. Daniel, unable to see much but heads and shoulders, estimated, by a kind of dead reckoning, that he must be pa.s.sing over Long Entry Lock, which was the narrowest, hence most dangerous of them all, as the Chapel Pier to its north side had grown so fat over the centuries as to nearly pinch it shut. Then, looking up, he saw a stone vault overhead, and knew he was pa.s.sing under the Chapel. Next (counting the Locks and Starlings in his head, like a Papist going through the Rosary) would be Chapel Lock-also quite narrow-but then St. Mary's Lock, one of the widest on the whole bridge, hence, popular among watermen. Directly over St. Mary's was the open fire-break called The Square. And it was there, Daniel reasoned, that hackney-drivers and sedan-porters would flock in hopes of swopping pa.s.sengers with the watermen below.

Such was his plan. But as commonly happened to clever Natural Philosophers who have hatched elaborate schemes, he was overtaken by simple events. The crowd, hemmed in under the vault of the Chapel, suddenly pressed him from all sides. It was like being an atom of a gas in Boyle's Rarefying Engine when the piston was slammed down by a terrific weight. A carriage was trying to force its way through-and succeeding. The crowd, sensing danger not so much from the carriage itself as from its bow-wave of panic, surged out from the dangerous confines of the vault, and Daniel, like a wine-cork tossed into Long Entry Lock, was spewed forth.

He was in the open now, tottering, looking about warily lest some eddy of the Mobb-rush take him unawares and crush him against a store-front. So he saw the carriage that had caused the trouble as it emerged from the vault, pressing on toward London.

He did not doubt that this was the one. Its window-curtains had all been drawn and its driver had evidently been paid to force his way to the other end of the Bridge with no concern for life, limb, or liability.

They were over Chapel Lock. The Square was only ten yards farther along-but this hackney had already pa.s.sed Daniel by, and at its mad pace would soon overtake Saturn as well. Daniel still nursed some hope that he might be able to summon a carriage or a chair in the Square-but it would not be easy to persuade a strange driver to light out in hot pursuit of a hackney being driven as recklessly as this one. They needed to keep the buyer in sight as long as they possibly could; for there was no way of telling how long he would wait to put the key he had just paid for into the key-hole in the bottom of the chest, and turn it.

Daniel had, by default, staggered into the sudden open s.p.a.ce left in the wake of the hackney. He was so close that he almost could have reached out and climbed aboard, if he'd been that spry. So he could hear-or so he phant'sied-a m.u.f.fled pop from within, like a musket misfiring. Then flickering light shone through the curtains, and he heard from within a man shouting "Sacre bleu!" "Sacre bleu!"

Without being aware of how fast he was moving-for if anyone had asked, he'd have insisted he was too old to run-Daniel had followed the hackney right into the Square. The way widened slightly here. He saw Saturn standing to one side. He'd been conversing with a sedan-porter, but had broken off to stare at the buyer's hackney.

Indeed many many were now staring at it, for it was were now staring at it, for it was smoking smoking. And it was making booms as the pa.s.senger flailed against the roof, signalling the driver to stop. The door on the right side flew open and disgorged a cloud of brown-gray smoke. So dense and voluminous was this, that a long and careful inspection was needed to see that there was a man in the middle of it. He was staggering away from the carriage, headed for the parapet that surrounded the Square to limit the number of pedestrians who toppled into St. Mary's Lock. The pa.s.senger looked like a figure from Ovid: a Cloud metamorphosing into a Man. For the smoke had saturated the long hooded cloak that he wore, and was still billowing out of it. Gagging, he shuffled toward the parapet. The hackney-driver scrambled round to the open door, probed into the smoke with his whip-handle, and after a bit of scratching about, dragged out a blackened carapace: a burnt box, still sputtering and jetting a st.u.r.dy plume of thick yellowish smoke. Its lid was open to reveal a sheaf of pages, still legible though they'd been burnt to gray leaves of ash; these tumbled onto the pavement and Daniel, only a fathom away, saw the angular glyphs of the Real Character. But then he turned his attention back to the buyer, who had finally cast off his raiment of smoke, and stood at the parapet, feet spread wide, hands planted to support him as he retched into St. Mary's Lock. Like a monk or wizard out of medieval times he looked in that robe. Then he was joined by a larger man who stepped in from the left and clapped his right hand on the other's left shoulder.