Chapter 4
Oxford
Long after Wednesday turned into Thursday, Simon tossed in his bed on the edge of sleep, his duvet doing the minimum necessary to stop the cold seeping into him. The electric fire on the opposite wall was on full, that is both bars were lit, but it seemed to have all the impact of a match on a glacier.
Although the physical pain had subsided, the trauma remained, the pure fear etched, as if by laser into his brain. There was also the shame, rescued by a nineteen year old rugger bugger who had got into the college purely on his ability to catch a ball. Humiliation would be multiplied tomorrow no doubt on the publication of Isis, the student newspaper, which was guaranteed to lead with the story. No chance with the fair Arabella now, unless, just maybe, a sympathy shag was on offer. Shaking his head, he got up. Arabella was not that kind of girl.
His mind turned, as it often had over the past days, to the letter and the riddle which ended it. Getting up, he wandered through to his study and turned on the computer. Calling up Google, he carried on the desultory search he had been conducting. There were several pubs called the Golden Bottle, one of them in Oxfordshire, so that seemed reasonable, but what was he looking for when he got there? “My third Caesarean hero”. That made no sense. Jonathan’s hero had been Polybius, and he had died about a century before Caesar.
An ancient Greek politician and soldier, Polybius had been sent as a hostage to Rome, where, mixing with the leaders of the Senate, he observed first hand his captors’ increasing involvement in Greek affairs until they eventually annexed his homeland. Using his experiences, Polybius had written a history of Rome’s increasing power and its relations with its neighbours, a book which remains one of the most important sources for the period. One thing his captivity did not give him, however, was much regard for Roman imperialism.
So what could Caesarean mean then? There was no record that Polybius had been born in anything but the natural way, and the chances of him meeting one of Caesar’s ancestors were relatively slight, the family being noble but undistinguished in those times. What else could Caesarean mean? Looking across his book-shelves, Simon scanned the titles, looking for some sort of clue. The ancient texts offered little help, nor the books of inscriptions from ancient sites. Turning to the more personal and less academic shelves, he saw volumes of thrillers, worthy novels and books on photography, his hobby and real passion. Nothing which sparked his imagination though.
And yet, and yet, and yet. There it was. He knew now, not just a penny, but a whole pound coin having dropped. The Da Vinci Code. That was it, that was the answer. Jonathan’s third Caesarean hero was a code. That was what he meant. The answer was not Polybius, that was an encryption. All he had to do was decipher it.
One of the innovations ascribed to Caesar, probably wrongly, but he was a famous historical figure at the right sort of time, was code-writing. It had been used by the Romans to send secret messages on the battlefield, to lessen the impact if the messenger was captured. And the type of code used was a substitution cypher, the easiest in the book.
While a one-time pad is potentially unbreakable, a substitution cypher requires only a degree of patience. Working on the principle of substituting letters, there are two forms. Either both parties have a key, telling them that A in the message actually means F and so on, or they just agree that each letter actually represents the letter a certain number of steps down the alphabet. Although the latter version is simpler, it was also, in the context of ancient warfare, safer. There was no need to carry a key on one’s person to unlock the cypher, a key which could be lost, stolen or captured. All one had to do was remember a number. And that was the version that Caesar had used.
Polibios. Moving each letter three places forward, that gave him Tsxemsph. And that made no sense. Although he was a Roman historian, Simon’s Greek was pretty good - it had been the dominant language in the Eastern part of the empire, so most of the writings from that part of the world, like the New Testament, had been written in Greek. But he did not recognise this new word. Flicking through the huge Lewis and Short Greek dictionary on his desk, a testament to Victorian scholarship, he confirmed what he had first thought. He had taken a word and turned it into garbage.
The results going backwards were no better, so deflated, Simon wandered off to his kitchenette to fix a cup of chocolate. It had seemed like a great solution, no, better, it had seemed like an elegant solution, but it had come to nought. Oh well, time to return to the real world and leave code-breaking to Dan Brown.
Stirring two teaspoons of cocoa mixture into his cup, he waited for the water to reach 100 degrees, watching the clock ticking off the numbers in its eternal race to the future. Numbers. How did numbers work? Well, we use a descendant of Arabic numerals, which were themselves related to Indian characters, but the ancient civilisations thought this unnecessary complication. They were quite happy to use the same symbols to represent letters and numbers, as anyone who had seen the end of a BBC television programme knew. What if Jonathan’s letters were in fact, numbers?
Using his Oxford Classical Dictionary as a reference, even tutors were allowed to cheat occasionally, Simon transcribed the mysterious word into numbers. 30020060540200500. Which meant what exactly? It wasn’t co-ordinates; of that much he was certain. There were too many numbers for that and Simon had enough experience of yachting to have a decent grasp of most mapping systems.
At the Golden Bottle, that had to be a pub, but what sort of numbers do pubs use? Simon’s experience of the drinks trade was strictly as a consumer, but he was stumped by this latest roadblock. The recent triumph seemed in the distant past as he confronted the fact that a half-solved riddle was still a riddle.
In desperation, he returned to his computer and searched for “Golden Bottle 30020060540200500” which returned no hits. Feeling some minor satisfaction that he had finally defeated the gods of Google, he began to remove the numbers one at a time, seeing if there was some sort of match available.
Eventually, when he got down to “Golden Bottle 3”, he came across reference to “The Golden Bottle Trust”, a charitable endeavour of the C. Hoare & Co. Bank. A bank. Banks have accounts and accounts have numbers. The strange code was Jonathan’s way of giving him a bank account number. That was the only explanation. He had solved the riddle. Not bad for someone who had yet to crack the Times crossword.
Understanding why Archimedes had felt the need to leap out of his bath and run naked through the streets of Syracuse, Simon undertook the modern day equivalent. He dashed to his bedroom, dressed, and headed for the bus stop and the coach to London.
Two hours later, disgorged near Victoria station, Simon joined the fag end of the rush hour on the District line, getting off four stops later at Temple. Originally the site of the Templar knights’ headquarters in London, it had long since been colonised by barristers, some of whom brushed past him on their way to the Royal Courts of Justice, just a few hundred yards from the station.
At the end of the lane leading from the tube station, Simon turned right on to Fleet Street, named for the ancient river than still ran just a few feet below, watching camera crews setting up outside the court opposite. Doubtless some important trial was due to finish today, the winners to come bounding down the steps, exhorting their victorious virtue while the losers sulked off to consider the cost of an appeal.
Carrying on past an array of book, watch and wine shops - an insight into the consuming passions of the natives of this quarter - Simon reached a non-descript sandstone building set slightly off the street by a row of iron railings. At the steps, a doorman in coat and top hat stood, his military bearing, reminiscent of the Oxford porters, subtly warning off those with mischief in mind. Suspended just above the door was a small gilt model of an old fashioned bottle.
“Can I help you sir?” It was obvious that Simon did not really belong here. The jeans and collarless shirt spoke neither of a career in the law, not of any great wealth, but plucking up his courage, he replied.
“Just come to check on the account”, trying and probably failing to project the kind of confidence the doorman was doubtless used to.
“Very good sir. Through the door to your right please. As you know, sir” The last comment served to remind Simon that he was a stranger here, one of those subtle British ways of keeping people in their place.
Passing through the hallway, lined, if it could be believed, with a collection of ancient muskets, Simon passed into the banking hall of C. Hoare and Co. Founded in 1672, the original Hoare, Richard, had been a Goldsmith who had used a golden bottle as his emblem. Discovering that banking was more lucrative than goldsmithing, he had moved into that trade and established his premises on the current location in 1690. The bank remained in the hands of his descendants to this day, the last private bank in England.
Little had changed since those days in Simon’s view as he glanced around the banking hall. Almost circular, tellers worked behind an iron screen which reached from their desks almost to the ceiling. Plexiglas, as used in most banks was too, common, too twentieth century for this institution. At the end of the counter was a desk manned by another ex-soldier, this time wearing a black coat and grey stripped trousers.
Rounding the circular feature which dominated the middle of the marble floor, an old post-box he discovered from the other side, Simon approached the desk. “I’d like to check on my account, please”.
“Who is know your manager, sir?” The clerk asked.
not entirely sure not, you see, I rather came to have this account by accident. Well, not an accident, more an inheritance.”
Spectacles slipping slightly further down his nose, the clerk was obviously not unfamiliar with strange requests. “Do you have the number then sir?”
Producing a post-it note on which he had scribbled the code, Simon handed it over.
“Take a seat sir, let me sort this out for you”
Simon sat in an old leather chair, next to a table of newspapers which, he could swear, had been ironed. Not sure whether to read them or whether that would be considered vulgar, he contented himself with studying the life-size portrait opposite, doubtless some Victorian banker, his black coat and high white collar projecting an image of unimpeachable rectitude.
“Come with me, sir” the clerk was back and led Simon through a pair of doors, turned left and took him down a long corridor lined with thick old books.
“First time in the bank sir?”
Simon nodded.
“These are the archives sir. The bank’s so old, there’s 300 years of history here. Bank statements from everyone who was anyone. Samuel Pepys, Lord Byron, all of them. They were all customers, and all their statements are kept in these books. We get a lot of historians come here sir, looking for information on these old people. Funny bunch historians”
Simon nodded. Historians were a funny bunch, some of them got up in the middle of the night to decipher a code which led them to a bank straight from the 19th century.
“Course, we don’t have any statements for our most famous customer, sir”
“Who was that?”
“The dad in Mary Poppins, he worked here. Very proud of that the bank is. It’s our claim to fame. Simon could think of other plausible claims, like knowing the extent of Lord Byron’s overdraft, but he chose to keep silent.
The clerk stopped at a door and knocked. On hearing no response, he entered, taking Simon into a small, tastefully furnished room, with Victorian prints of Greece on the wall. The window looked out on to a small courtyard, the flower beds bare, but a little fountain trickling quietly in the background. “Mr Brown will be with you shortly.”
Left to his own devices, Simon looked at the prints and then moved to the window, marvelling at the hidden garden, just yards from one of London’s busiest and smelliest streets.
A knock on the door. A small, slightly plump man in his forties appeared, carrying a box. Wearing a suit, he had the air of someone who spent most of his day acceding to the requests of others, no matter how unreasonable.
“Mr?”
“Dr actually. Simon Pelham.” Simon rarely used his title, but felt the need of every advantage he could muster.
“Dr Pelham, David Brown.” As in "nose" thought Simon.
“First time in the bank sir?” Simon nodded.
“I thought so. We are an old institution and being an old institution, we do things a bit differently to other places. Your account is a numbered one, as you no doubt know.” Simon didn’t but was not going to give Mr Brown any satisfaction.
“Most banks in Britain don’t do them anymore, but we do, for our most select clients.” Simon was struggling to imagine Jonathan, greying hair askew, being any sort of client in this reserved, formal bank, let alone a select one. “Can you give me the number again?”
Simon handed over the post-it again which Mr Brown checked off against a large card he was carrying.
“Very good sir. According to the instructions on the account, I am to open this box and leave you now. If you need anything, please dial 9 and ask for me.” He indicated a telephone on the desk. “Have a very good day.”
He placed the box on the desk, unlocked it with a small key hanging from a long chain and, with an almost imperceptible bow, withdrew.
The box was about a foot long, by nine inches wide. Covered in dark blue leather, it could only have been 150 years old. Plucking up his courage, Simon reached out to open the box.
Not have been sure what to expect, he was slightly disappointed to see that rather than containing bundles of notes, neatly tied together, jewels or share certificates, the only contents were a small piece of card and a ring.
Picking up the latter, Simon saw it was a signet ring. Odd, Jonathan had never worn one, so why the mystery about this one. Looking at it more closely, he saw the odd design, a bird - was it an eagle, with a stick in its talons. No, it was a spear, but still, an eagle with a spear in its talons, what was that doing there? Presumably it meant something to someone, but what?
Reaching for the card, Simon immediately recognised the quality. An ivory shade, the thickness of the card signalled that this was no mere hand-out from some corporate middle manager. Turning it over, Simon saw the embossed copper-plate writing was a steely shade of blue and read the name on it.
Dr Fleicher, Kunsthistorisches Museum, Wien.
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