I was certain to be ridiculed if I presented my information to Mr. Bennet, who prided himself on his understanding of the Spanish and was convinced of their friendship. Nor could I take any action against the sectaries, for as yet they had done nothing ill. So I could do nothing—once I had deciphered the letter, discovered who had written it, and amassed more evidence, then perhaps I could present a stronger case, but until then I had to keep my suspicions to myself. I very much hoped that Matthew would remember my instructions that getting the key to the letter was vital, as it was extremely difficult to communicate with him in any way. In the meantime I wrote a report to Mr. Bennet informing him (in general terms) that something was stirring among the radicals, and assuring him of my best service.
A week later, Matthew repaid my trust in him, and I received another letter which contained something of the information I required. He offered four possibilities, apologizing for being able to do no better. He had delivered the letter once more, and this time had been shown into a small room, which appeared to be an office. He found it disgusting, for it was lined with crucifixes and stank with the odor of idolatry, but while waiting for Cola himself to appear, he saw four volumes on the desk and swiftly noted down their titles. I was pleased by this, as it vindicated my faith in him—to act so was intelligent and courageous, and he would have been in great danger if anyone had come through the door while he was writing. Unfortunately, the finer points of the cryptographer’s art were lost on him—he did not realize (perhaps this was my fault for not having instructed him properly) that each edition of a book differs and that the wrong edition made my message as unintelligible as the wrong book. All I had to go on was the following, which he had copied out, letter by letter, in total ignorance of its import:
Almost as importantly, and very much more dangerously, he encountered Cola himself, and gave me an early indication of the man’s powers of deception. I have the letter still. Of course, I keep every remembrance of Matthew—every letter, every little exercise book he once filled is in a silver box, lined in silk and bound with the lock of hair I stole one night while he lay asleep. My eyesight is fading now and soon I will be able to read his words no longer; I will burn them for I could not bear to have anyone else read them to me, or snigger at my weakness. My last contact with him will be lost when the light flickers out. Even now I do not open that box up very often, as I find the sadness difficult to bear.
Cola at once began to exercise his charm, trapping the lad—too young and naïve to realize the difference between kindness and its simulacrum—into acquaintanceship, then the appearance of friendship.
He is a chubby man with bright eyes, and when he appeared and I gave him the letter, he chuckled with thanks, clapped me on the back and gave me a silver guilder. Then he questioned me closely about all things, showing great interest in my replies, and even begged me to return that he might question me further.
I must say, sir, that he gave no sign of any concern with matters political, nor did he ever mention anything the slightest bit improper. Rather, he showed himself the perfect gentleman, courteous in manner, and easy to approach and talk to in all things.
So easy it is to delude the trusting! This Cola began to steal his way into Matthew’s affections, no doubt conversing with the facility of the passing acquaintance, never approaching the care that I had devoted to the lad over so many years. It is easy to entertain and fascinate, harder to educate and love; Matthew, alas, was not yet old or discriminating enough to tell the difference, and was easy prey to the ruthlessness of the Italian, who beguiled with his words until he needed to strike.
The letter disturbed me, for my main concern was that Matthew’s natural amiability might permit some ill-chosen words to slip out and alert Cola to my awareness of him. I forced my mind to concentrate on problems more easy to resolve, and took up once more the question of the coded letter and its key.
Only one of the books Matthew mentioned could be the one I needed, the problem was to determine which one. The easiest solution was denied me—for I knew that Euclid had only been printed in octavo but once, in Paris in 1621, and I had that edition in my own library. It was simple enough, therefore, to discover it was not the one I wanted. That left the remaining three. Accordingly, the moment I arrived back in Oxford I summoned a strange young man of my acquaintance, Mr. Anthony Wood, whom I knew to be an expert squirreler in such matters. I had rendered him many favors in those days, earning his gratitude for allowing him access to manuscripts in my care, and he was pathetically eager to repay my kindnesses to him, although as a price I had to listen to interminable discussions about this press and that press, one edition after another and so on. I suppose he thought I was interested in the minutiae of ancient learning and attempted to curry favor by drawing me into scholarly conversation.
It took him some considerable time before he returned to my room one evening (building works at my house having forced me, meanwhile, to rent space at New College—a regrettable fact which I will discuss later on) and reported that in all probability he had worked out which books were meant, although personally he believed that, in the case of the Thomas More and the Polydore Vergil, better editions existed at a more modest cost.
I detested having to play such silly games, but I patiently explained, nonetheless, that I had set my heart on these particular versions. I wished, I said, to experiment with making comparisons between the various editions, so as to prepare a complete version, without faults, for the world. He admired greatly my devotion, and said he understood perfectly. The Utopia of Thomas More, he said, was a quarto, and undoubtedly the translation by Robinson which Alsop had published in 1624—he could tell that because Alsop only produced one edition before changing times meant that publishing the works of Catholic saints became a risky occupation. A copy, he said, was in the Bodleian library. The History of Polydore Vergil was also simple—there were not many new editions of this fine author published in Douai, after all. It had to be the idiosyncratic edition of George Lily, an octavo printed in 1603. Copies were not hard to come by and, indeed, he had seen a version only the other day at Mr. Heath’s, the bookseller, at a price of one shilling and sixpence. He was sure he could bargain the man down—as if I cared about two pence.
“And the fourth?”
“That is a problem,” he said. “I think I know which edition you refer to here, it is the ‘Heins’ which gives it away, of course. This refers to the handsome edition of Livy’s histories by Daniel Heinsius, issued in Leiden in 1634. A triumph of skill and learning which, alas, never received the approbation it deserved. I assume this refers to volume two of the edition, which was a duodecimo, in three volumes. Few were printed and I have never seen one. I know it only by reputation—others have shamelessly used his insights without ever crediting their true author. Which is a burden true scholars must constantly bear.”
“Make enquiries for me,” I told him with heavy patience. “I will pay a good price for it, if it is to be had. You must know booksellers and antiquarians and collectors of libraries and the like. If there is one, someone like you will be able to find it, of that I feel sure.”