Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(44)

“It’s a code,” I said.

Daley narrowed his eyes. “You think?”

“And Miss Moran obviously understands it. I think we may conclude that the message it sends—whether about apples or true love or a subject we have not considered—is clear to her. Unhappily clear, it seems.”

“So? You’re the detective.” Daley looked hopeful for the first time since he’d walked in. “Can you figure it out?”

“That, I fear, is impossible.” I had to admit it. “Even for me.”

“But—” His body deflated, and he sank, morose, into the swivel chair. It creaked again in protest.

“There simply aren’t sufficient exemplars,” I explained, putting down my granite. “A substitution cipher—”

“Where one letter or number stands for a certain letter of the alphabet,” Watson interjected. “We used them in the . . . anyway. You were saying.”

I cleared my throat. I appreciate Watson’s enthusiasm, but when I have the floor, I have the floor. “A substitution cipher, to put it the simplest way, substitutes one thing for a letter. It can be a different letter of the alphabet, or a number, or even a symbol. Some have used stick figures, others foreign alphabets. Random squiggles might be employed, certainly, because such a code only requires the sender and receiver know the system. The most elementary of codes are easily broken, in English at least, by applying the well-understood Etaoin Shrdlu analysis, which proves—”

I noticed Daley exchanging a baffled glance with Watson.

“It has to do with how often a letter is used,” I broke off to explain. “In a code, in English at least, the symbol most often present stands for E. The next most commonly used letter is T. And so on, in the order I have mentioned. But in this example, Mr. Daley, there are only six symbols. Far too few to analyze. Using only this, decryption is quite impossible.”

“So there’s nothing you can do to help?” Daley stood, his fists clenched as he questioned me.

From outside came the sound of a honking horn, as the morning rush hour, such as it is in a tiny New England town, paraded by our front window—a few station wagons, the yellow mini-bus taking children to Louisa May Alcott School, a landscaper’s rickety screen-walled truck, clattering with rakes. A gust of wind swirled a sidewalk confetti of autumn-bright fallen leaves. Wind? Someone, or something, would arrive as the wind changes? That prospect certainly changed Ms. Moran’s demeanor. And our visitor’s life. He seemed to care for his young woman, and worried for their future.

“You spoke of a series of emails,” I reminded him.

“Oh, right,” Daley replied. “So after I found that one, I scrolled around, forward and back—worried she’d discover me any second. There might be some I didn’t see, who knows. But I found others, like this one.”

He swiped his finger across his cell phone screen, held it up. “It had arrived two hours after the apple smiley-face.”

“Send it,” Watson said.

“Print it,” I said. “The more the better.”

As it emerged from the printer, though, I saw it would be no help in our undertaking. Three symbols only, each a man in a blue hat. Police officers, I gathered, from their frowns and tiny gold badges. “Three—”

“Police officers,” Daley said. “Doesn’t that feel like a threat?”

“Possibly.” I paused, considering. “There are, indeed, only three police officers in Norraton. But it’s frustratingly ambiguous. And if this is a code, the most used letter, as I said, is E. This cannot mean E.”

“One more,” Daley said. “It was the last to arrive. That I know of. And it’s why I’m here, I guess.”

“Email it,” Watson said.

“And print.” I again pointed to the printer.

The final communication was also unhelpful to our decryption. But helpful, indeed, as to why Ms. Moran was distressed.

“A death’s head,” I said. “There is nothing ambiguous about that, I fear.”

The three of us fell silent. I studied the white stucco swirls on our ceiling, saw how the color deepened in the shadowy corners. The success of a code relies on both parties having the key. Or, like the symbols I had received earlier today from our satisfied dog-recovery client, at least knowing the sender and the context.

Clearly Ms. Moran understood the messages, both context and sender. If she had been as baffled as the three of us, she would certainly have shared her curiosity with her fiancé, not turned secretive and melancholy.

Three coded messages—if that’s what they were—with only one repeated character meant my initial idea of the substitution system was probably incorrect. Unless, of course, the clever sender knew that’s exactly what anyone with the slightest knowledge of cryptology would predict and created the messages deliberately to foil that notion.

But whatever these messages were meant to convey, Miss Moran understood. Now it fell to me to try—before whatever she feared, or whatever was threatened, took place.

“Penny.” Daley shook his head as he pronounced her name, his shoulders slumping, his morose visage a picture of despair, his voice matching. “What good am I as a future husband if she’s terrified and I can’t even help her? What kind of marriage will we have if she doesn’t trust me? Isn’t there anything you can do?”