Secret Breakers: The Power of Three (11 page)

Kerrith took her pair of designer glasses from the end of her nose and rested them on the pile of documents in front of her. It hadn’t been easy to get hold of all the paperwork Smithies had spent his last few weeks in the Chamber looking at, but then she’d been very persuasive with the clerk in the records office.

She leant back on her chair. Shame then, that all her persistence had led her absolutely nowhere. Everything in front of her suggested Smithies had been researching home education laws and this made no sense whatsoever. Unless the man intended to set up a school inside Bletchley Park Museum the things he’d been reading were totally useless.

She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hand, looking up only when her secretary knocked nervously on the door.

‘I’ve traced them,’ she said softly.

Kerrith pursed her lips.

The secretary held a small container of tablets in her hand. ‘They were issued to a certain Oscar Ingham just over a month ago. Of course there’s no records of his meeting with Smithies but finding them in Smithies’ office a few days before he left would suggest this Oscar Ingham, whoever he is, paid Smithies a visit before he moved on to the museum.’ She paused. ‘Any help?’

Kerrith furrowed her brow. Oscar Ingham. The name seemed to enter her brain like a butterfly, flitting for a sensible place to settle. Somewhere, deep inside her memory, there was a feeling she should recognise the name. Oscar Ingham. No. She shook her head.

And then, just as the secretary was turning for the door, her head lowered, her shoulders hunched, Kerrith remembered.

She jumped up from her desk, knocking the stack of documents to the floor, and seizing her glasses, she scanned the spines of the books that lined the shelves on the wall.

‘Miss Vernan? Are you OK?’ The secretary’s voice was pinched, her alarm obvious.

Kerrith didn’t answer. She didn’t speak until the book was open in her hands. Oscar Ingham. A classic code-breaker in his youth. The history books were glowing about his successes. Until. Kerrith could hardly focus on the words.

‘Miss Vernan?’

But they were there. Clear and bold.
Oscar Ingham had been held in high esteem by all those in the Black Chamber until his growing obsession with the banned and highly controversial document MS 408
.

‘Impossible,’ hissed Kerrith, and she snapped the book closed. ‘Impossible. But I’ve got to give it to Smithies. Totally inspired.’

‘Miss Vernan?’

Kerrith placed the book back on the shelf and resettled her glasses on her nose. ‘I know what Smithies is up to at Bletchley,’ she said and her imperfect smile was broad and wide.

Brodie woke early, as the sun made rainbow patterns on the ceiling through the crystals Tusia had hung in front of the window. She resisted the temptation to roll over and snuggle down further beneath the covers and instead pulled herself up against the pillow and rubbed her eyes. The rainbows shattered into a thousand pieces in her head.

Tusia was exercising.

‘You know if you stay in that position and the wind changes you’ll get stuck,’ Brodie laughed, imagining how her granddad would react if she began the morning with her head between her ankles.

‘I’ll have you know this is an excellent way of getting blood to flow to the brain, and we’ll need as much brainpower as possible today. Normal lessons, cipher sessions and work with Veritas.’

Brodie nodded, a response she later realised Tusia probably couldn’t see clearly from her position.

‘You nervous?’ came Tusia’s voice from somewhere very close to the floor.

Brodie drew her knees up against her chest. ‘Very,’ she said deliberately. She guessed that’s what it must feel like. Being part of a team.

Breakfast passed quickly, with Brodie managing to eat little more than a quarter of a Weetabix. She slopped milk down the front of her jumper and developed a fit of the hiccups while sipping her orange juice. None of this did much to calm her nerves.

Hut 11 seemed warmer than a few nights before. Some new smaller desks had been brought in and arranged like a giant horseshoe, with a seat and the long table in the middle and chairs arranged around the edge facing inwards. Brodie moved forward and sat down quickly between Tusia and Hunter, put her notebooks and bags down on the desk and her pen on top of them. In the centre of the horseshoe sat Smithies. On the table in front of him were various piles of books and folders. On top of these was a small wooden statue of an elephant. It reminded Brodie of the elephant from the front of the Veritas document she’d taken from the lamppost. Behind Smithies was a long blackboard resting on an easel. A haphazard selection of notes and photographs was tacked to it. Beside the easel was a huge candle like the sort Brodie had seen before inside a church.

Miss Tandari was seated beside Smithies and to her right sat Ingham. Today he was wearing a thick woollen scarf wrapped tightly around his throat and every now and then he sniffed loudly as if to remind everyone he was there.

Smithies glanced at Ingham disapprovingly before standing and beginning to speak. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said, wrinkling his nose, ‘this is really it. Our inaugural meeting of the Third Study Group. Veritas reformed.’ He laughed, unfolded his arms and rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m sure, like me, you feel the hand of history upon your shoulders.’

Brodie tried to swallow but a rather large lump appeared to be blocking her throat. She wasn’t sure about the hand of history but she could definitely feel her nerves jangling.

‘It’s taken a while, and an immense degree of selection and rejection, to narrow down the candidates to this and I have to say I’m excited. Extremely excited.’

Brodie wasn’t sure that ‘excited’ was the word she’d use. ‘Terrified’ maybe.

Smithies hesitated. ‘We’ll know soon if we’ve chosen well.’

He rubbed his hands together again and began to stride backwards and forwards in front of the blackboard, his tie, which Brodie noted was knotted a little too short, bouncing against his belly as he walked. Then he stopped and took a matchbox from his pocket. With a single strike he lit the candle. The flame swelled, flickering purple for a moment then settling into a blaze of gold. ‘Everything I’m going to tell you today is important,’ he began. ‘But maybe most important is this light.’ He pointed to where lines had been evenly spaced, stretched horizontally down the side of the candle. ‘This light marks our progress. Twenty-five days to work on the task. Twenty-five days to find an answer.’

‘Why the limit?’ asked Hunter.

Smithies cast a look in Miss Tandari’s direction. ‘There’s a season for everything,’ said Smithies. ‘And this will be our way of checking we’re on task.’

‘And when the candle burns down, sir. After twenty-five days. What then?’

Smithies’ face showed he was thinking. ‘We’ll decide when that happens. Until then we work in secret as the candle burns.’

‘About that, sir,’ said Brodie. ‘Why is it so important no one knows what we’re doing?’

‘Bletchley has a history of secrecy. Workers in the war went to their graves never telling their families they were part of the Black Chamber.’

‘And that’s the only reason?’ pressed Brodie.

Smithies looked again at Miss Tandari. Then he tossed the spent match into the bin. ‘Let’s get on with our lessons, Miss Bray. It would be a shame to waste time now the candle has started to burn.’

Brodie watched the flame. The light cast grotesque shadows on the walls of the hut and they unnerved her.

‘You know a little about the Station X Study Group Veritas,’ went on Smithies, ‘and how it was initially formed way back in the 1960s. You must remember it was referred to as the Second Study Group as a First Study Group had existed years before over the sea in the United States. It was the code-cracking partnership of Mr and Mrs Friedman who brought the quest to England and formed the Second Study Group. And it’s our special honour to carry on their work.’

Brodie jotted down the name ‘Friedman’ and ‘1960s’ in her notebook.

‘Now the group’s sole intention was to translate an encoded document which you’ve all seen now, although in copied form. The real manuscript is kept in another museum of sorts in America. The Friedmans and their team believed they’d be able to translate MS 408. Yet after two years of unrelenting work and failure, they abandoned their task. They pledged if ever new evidence came to light about the manuscript, the group would re-form. I’m here to tell you,’ his voice was casual but two pink circles bloomed on his cheeks, ‘such evidence has been found.’

Brodie felt a twinge of excitement.

‘We believe by using this new evidence we may force MS 408 to offer up its secrets. So …’ Smithies paused dramatically, ‘you’ve seen the manuscript. Now it’s time for the new evidence.’

Brodie sat herself up straight in her chair and turned the page in her notebook. With a deliberate flourish of her pen she wrote the title, ‘MS 408’, then underlined it. She’d just reached the point of deciding whether to draw a small picture of a daisy next to the title when she realised Smithies had begun to talk again.

‘The new evidence comes to us from a long-dead university professor.’

Brodie decided against the daisy picture.

‘This,’ went on Smithies, tapping the blackboard behind him and jabbing at a yellowed photograph of a tall man with a rather crooked nose, ‘is a photograph of Professor Leo Van der Essen.’

‘Leo,’ muttered Hunter. ‘That name’s worse than Hunter.’

‘Professor Van der Essen lived in Belgium. He worked in the university in a town called Louvain and was there during the time of the First World War. He was a specialist in myths and legends, you know, old traditional stories.’

‘Oh, she knows,’ laughed Hunter, jabbing Brodie in the ribs. ‘That’s just your meal of the day, isn’t it? Stories about King Arthur and dragons and stuff. Just your thing.’

Brodie agreed enthusiastically as Smithies continued to explain. ‘During that war the library was attacked and every book and document, folio and manuscript stored in the library was lost. The burning of Louvain was a terrible war crime. It enraged the world. Thousands have lost their lives in war, but when stories and books are destroyed, the memories and the cultures of those people die too.’ Smithies paused again, as if allowing a moment for the weight of his words to settle.

‘Professor Van der Essen escaped the burning and fled his homeland, staying a while in the town of Ghent, then made his way to England.’

‘But how does Van der Essen connect with MS 408?’ Hunter asked, shooting his hand into the air.

‘Good question,’ noted Smithies. ‘A point I was moving on to. Van der Essen was close friends with the book collector Wilfrid Voynich. You remember he first discovered MS 408 in 1912, and that’s why MS 408 is called the Voynich Manuscipt. Many believe Professor Van der Essen was in fact travelling with Voynich when he discovered the famous manuscript hidden away in the chest in Mondragone Castle in Italy.’

‘Mondragone,’ mused Brodie. ‘Love that name.’

‘Voynich never claimed to be able to read MS 408,’ went on Smithies. ‘He tried. He involved all sorts of people. But in the end he gave up and the manuscript was donated to Yale University. Voynich was after glory and fame. But the manuscript failed to give him that. His friend, Professor Van der Essen, on the other hand, was a quiet, more studious man. Voynich was into collecting, but for Professor Van der Essen it was all about the books and the stories they contained.’

‘Sounds familiar,’ said Hunter, catching Brodie’s arm. ‘Obsessing with story, I mean.’

‘We can’t be sure but there’s perhaps the chance Professor Van der Essen knew more about MS 408 than he ever let on. The friendship between him and Voynich broke down and Van der Essen returned to Belgium. But there’s always the chance, a small chance we admit, Van der Essen made his own find in the castle vaults of Mondragone. Perhaps he found the partner book of MS 408. The code-book that would allow us to read it. And perhaps, just perhaps he made sense of the manuscript but never told the world what he read.’

‘Sorry,’ Brodie said, raising her hand nervously into the air. ‘I’m a bit lost.’

Smithies paused and ran his finger across his top lip as if searching for the right words to make it easy to understand. ‘It’s like this,’ he explained. ‘MS 408 is a book no one in the world can understand.’

‘We’d got that bit,’ groaned Hunter.

Smithies ignored him and ploughed on. ‘We think MS 408 is in code. We think it tells a story no one can read because of the code.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Tusia, now raising her hand. ‘How do we know MS 408’s in code? I mean, it could just be in a language everyone’s forgotten. That no one speaks or reads now.’

This time Smithies looked impressed.

‘Or maybe the book is like a sort of cookery book from a place far away and the guy who wrote it just made up weird signs and symbols to help him remember things and just never bothered to tell anyone the translation,’ added Hunter.

Smithies clapped his hands. Sicknote was leaning forward in his chair, his sniffing forgotten. ‘See, I told you they’d be good, Oscar. It’s thinking like this that’ll make them excellent code-crackers.’ Smithies beamed. ‘You could be right. Totally right. With either idea. But we have to make links if we’re to make sense. And the link is
the hiding
.’