Dark Matter

“The letters a and e occur together three times within the coded text; and where they do, the author of the message observes the convention of running them into one another as se. This indicates a diphthong, which is but a complexion or coupling of vowels, and indicates a Latin pronunciation. For example, it shows that we should pronounce the C in the word Cæsar with a hard k. Therefore I have no doubt that we shall find that the author of this message has been a scholar of sorts, which would exclude Mister Twistleton, whose education has been of a more rudimentary nature.”

“But how do you know that? It is possible he might have had some Latin.”

“Do you not remember how in response to all his ravings about war and peace, I asked him the meaning of the Latin pace belloque?”

“Yes, of course. ‘In war and peace.’ That was why you asked him that. I wondered.”

“He did not know. And it was not because his wits are disordered, but because he did not know. Ergo, he has not Latin.” Newton sighed. “You are very dull today, Ellis. Are you quite well? You do not seem like yourself, sir.”

“My headache is troubling me,” I said. “But I’ll be all right,” I added, although I did begin to feel quite ill.

We arrived in Pall Mall where the foppish Samuel Tuer, a Huguenot milliner, regarded the two of us entering his shop like a couple of Minerva’s birds, being doubtless used to more exotic peacocks, like the gaudy beau in his shop who was examining a hat with the same care and attention that Newton or myself would have devoted to a counterfeit coin. Listening to Newton’s question about plumes, Mister Tuer tossed open the lid of a little enamelled snuff-box and charged his fastidious nostrils with a pinch and then sneezed an answer to the effect that James Chase, a featherman in Covent Garden, provided him with all of the ostrich and peacock plumes for his hats, being the biggest and best supplier of feathers in London.

A short while later, arriving at the premises of Mister Chase, which was a large aviary with all varieties of ducks, crows, swans, geese, chickens, and several peacocks, Newton produced the long single feather he had brought from the Tower with its rainbow eye ringed with blue and bronze, and, explaining that he had come on the King’s business, continued thus:

“I am told you are the largest supplier of exotic plumes in London.”

“That is true, sir. I am to feathers what Virginia is to tobacco, or what Newcastle is to coals. I supply everyone—coachmakers, penmakers, furniture-makers, bed-makers and milliners.”

“This is the feather of a blue Indian peacock, is it not?”

Mister Chase, who was a tall, thin and birdlike man, examined the feather but briefly before confirming that Newton was correct.

“Yes sir. That’s a blue, right enough.”

“Can you tell me anything more about it?”

“Never been on a hat, by the look of it, for it is untrimmed. It’s a rare enough bird, the peacock, although a few rich folks like them. But peacocks has a bad disposition, sir, and must be kept apart from other fowl. Apart from the fact that this feather is from one of my birds, I can tell you very little about it, gentlemen.”

“It is one from one of your birds?” repeated Newton. “How can you tell?”

“Why, from the calamus, of course.” Mister Chase turned the feather upside down to show the horny barrel end, uponwhich there appeared a single blue stain. “All our feathers is marked thus,” he said. “As a sign of quality. Whether it be a swan’s feather for writing, or an ostrich plume for a ladies’ headdress.”

“Is it possible you would know to whom you supplied this particular feather?” asked Newton.

“Nearly all of my peacock plumes go to Mister Tuer, or Madame Cheret, who are both of them French milliners. Huguenots, sir. They’ve been good for the feather business.Occasionally I sell a few to ladies what want to make their own hats. Although not very often. Mister Tuer says there are plenty of women who’ll make a dress, but not many who want to make a hat.

“I did sell some to a new customer the other day. A man I had never before seen. What was his name? I cannot recall. But not at all the type of man to be a hatmaker.”

“Can you remember anything else about him?” enquired Newton.

Mister Chase thought for a moment and then said, “He looked like a Frenchie.”

“What, a Huguenot?”

Mister Chase shook his head. “Looked like one. Foreign-sounding name, I thought, although I can’t remember what it was. But to be honest with you, sir, the French are really all the foreigners I know. He could just as easily have been Spanish, I suppose. Not that he spoke like a foreigner. No sir, he sounded English. And educated, too. But then some of these Huguenots parlez-vous English pretty well. I mean, you would think Mister Tuer an Englishman, sir.”

“An Englishman, of sorts,” said Newton.