“Ay,” said Dodd after a moment’s assessment to see if the poet was joking. It seemed he wasn’t. “Verra…poetic.”
Marlowe frowned. “It depends on your definition of poetic. Do you mean appropriate?”
Dodd coughed. He did, but wasn’t going to admit it.
“That was done so there would be no mark on the body, you know.” Marlowe explained in a distant tone of voice. “Since he was a king they wanted it to seem that he died of natural causes. However, his screams gave them away.”
He spoke in a disinterested way as if what he was describing was not quite enough to turn your stomach. He then took a sip from a cup of aqua vitae and Dodd realised that he was actually drunk. Not staggering drunk, nor fighting drunk, just thoroughly pickled. It surprised Dodd that anyone could write anything at all in that condition, but then Robert Greene had been able to scribble away when he was just minutes from death.
Marlowe sat down again at his desk, picked up his pen, and dipped it.
“Go away,” he said. “I’m busy. Leave the tobacco on the mantelpiece.”
God, the man was rude. Dodd considered simply hitting him and seeing what happened. No, he had to talk first. “I bought it because I wanted tae ask ye about a matter of spying as there’s naebody else I can think of.”
“Why not ask Will?”
“Ah dinna think he’d tell me. If he knows.”
Marlowe grunted, dipped, and wrote. It was amazing how fast he did it as well, all the letters flowing out of the tip of his pen as if he didn’t need to think about it at all and the pen not even catching a little, it was so well cut, just sliding smoothly across the paper. Incredible. Dodd enjoyed watching a craftsman at his trade. He noticed that Marlowe didn’t hold the pen the way he did, in a clenched fist that soon became dank with sweat, but lightly, as if it were a woodcarver’s awl.
“There’s code I need to work out. Ah need tae find out how to break a code? How do you work it out?”
Marlowe grunted again.
“Well?”
“Well what? Are you still there?” He was counting something under his breath. “Why don’t you go away?”
Dodd reached for patience. “Ah wis askin ye…”
“About codes. Why should I care? I only worked for Heneage because he has been known to pay well for it and I don’t want to go on working for him which is why I’m here, as well as the fact that this is the first time I’ve had the peace and quiet to write my play since I drank the money the Burbages paid me for it…”
Dodd sighed. Why did Marlowe always have to be difficult? The man was as spiky and arrogant as if he had his own tower and a large family.
“Is this your play?” Dodd asked idly, putting a finger on the pile of paper in front of Marlowe.
“Yes it is and you can leave it alone…”
Dodd picked up the pile of papers and wandered over to the fire with it. He crumpled up the first page and fed it into the flames, which made Marlowe jump from his stool with a yelp of horror.
“What the hell…?”
“Ah wanted yer attention, Mr. Marlowe,” said Dodd, judiciously feeding the next page into the flames. “Have I got it?”
“You can’t burn my play…I…”
“Ah can,” said Dodd, puzzled at this irrationality, “And Ah am.” Another curled into red and yellow and fell to ash.
“I’ll kill you.”
“Nay, I dinna think so,” said Dodd, smiling with genuine enjoyment at the humour of this idea. “Besides, there’s nae need. All I wantae know is how ye work out a code.”
“What code?” Marlowe was staring at the pile of papers in Dodd’s hand, particularly the fourth page which he already had near the fire. He knew enough not to dump the whole lot onto the flames at once because that would put them out. In any case, this method worked better.
“A code made of numbers. Ah ken that Carey worked it out and I wantae know what he found but I’ve nae experience of spying.” Dodd shook his head. “It’s verra annoying.”
Marlowe was actually trembling, although whether it was with fear or anger only time would tell. “And how the hell do you think I would know? Is it one of Heneage’s codes?”
“Ah dinna ken, one paper wis in his office when we searched it, the other was…ah…in another place.” Dodd stopped himself just in time. He didn’t think Marlowe ought to learn anything he didn’t already know about Richard Tregian and the mysterious Father Jackson.
“And do you know what kind of code it is?”
“Sir Robert said it might be one that used a pattern to change letters to numbers or that changed them at hazard and he’d need a codebook. There’s been nae codebook found so he must have worked it out but I dinna ken what pattern it could have been and I havenae the time to puzzle ma heid over it.” Dodd grunted with sour humour. “Nor the talent forebye. Ah’m no’ a clerk, me.”
Marlowe’s eyes were narrowed. “There are other kinds of code. I doubt Carey could puzzle out either kind of numerical cypher by himself either. If he managed to work it out that means it must be tolerably obvious and simple because the man isn’t nearly as clever as he thinks he is.”
“Nor are ye, Mr. Marlowe,” said Dodd pointedly, moving the pile of paper in his hands.
Marlowe paused and then added grudgingly, “There’s a simpler kind of code which is where you use a very common well-known book as the key and refer to particular words by page number, line, and word number in a sentence. Then all you need to do is tell your correspondents which book it is and they can do the rest. The system has the benefit that you can use different codings for common words like “and” and “but” which makes it harder to crack. You also don’t have a written key lying around which always looks suspicious. In some ways it’s very secure, but simple to work out if you can guess the book being used.”
Dodd thought about this. That made sense. “How d’ye find out what book it was?”
“Usually there’s a symbol or name in another code which sets it out.”
“Could that be an upside down A?”
Marlowe shrugged. “Could be, yes. You have to use that, then get the correct book, decode some of what’s written, and see if it makes any sense at all. Generally you use a book that has been commonly printed but isn’t obvious. For instance, nobody uses the Bible because it’s too obvious. Why don’t you ask Carey when he comes home from his hawking?”
Dodd wasn’t about to answer that question. “Ah wantae surprise him.”
“I’m sure you will. Now can I have my play back?”
Dodd showed his teeth. He would probably never get a better opportunity to find out what Marlowe had been up to. “Not sae fast, Mr. Marlowe.” It was interesting to watch him: he folded his arms, his eyes half-closed and he leaned back slightly.
“If this is to be an inquisition, Sergeant, would you object if I got myself a cup of aqua vitae to wet my whistle?”
A rare smile lit Dodd’s face. “Well now,” he said, “On the one hand I would object, for a cup of aqua vitae’s a fine thing to throw in a man’s face when ye’re about tae try and stab him and I’ll thank ye to take yer hand fra yer eating knife, Mr. Marlowe.”
Marlowe scowled and uncrossed his arms.
“There again,” Dodd continued thoughtfully, “On the ither hand, Ah wouldnae object for I’m in a bad enough temper that Ah’d be fair grateful to ye if ye gave me the excuse to give ye the beatin’ of yer life.”
Marlowe looked sour. “What is it you want to know, Sergeant?”
“Ah wantae know what the hell ye’ve been up tae these past few weeks, Mr. Marlowe,” said Dodd, “I know Sir Robert thinks he’s got it worked out but fer me, it’s a’ a mystery.”
Marlowe said nothing. To encourage him, Dodd put another sheet, taken at random from the middle of the pile, into the fire. The poet winced.
“I’ll tell you what I can,” he said sulkily, “If I know myself.”
“All I wantae know whit were ye thinkin’ of, setting a pack of roaring boys on us the ither night? Eh? And then bringin’ in Topcliffe tae ambush us all? Ah take that as unfriendly, Mr. Marlowe, I surely do.”