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Authors: Mark Latham
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Ambrose had been understandably surprised at my sudden insight. I told him how I had come to serve in Burma, recounting much as was pertinent, but omitting the story of my capture during a routine patrol, and the beginning of my own personal hell. The night drew on as I sat in feverish study of the two artefacts. Ambrose tried to make himself useful, bringing coffee to sustain me whilst I pored over books of linguistics and applied my own knowledge of the language that brought back so many painful memories. In some strange way I hoped that perhaps ardent study of those fearful Burmese characters would go some way to banishing the ghosts of my past. The oil lamp flickered and I became lost to time. Ambrose grew bored, but duty kept him by my side for the most part. He went off to stretch his legs from time to time, but at least tried to look interested. After several hours I had my breakthrough, and my exclamation snapped Ambrose back into wakefulness.
‘What is it? Have you cracked it?’ he asked.
‘I believe I have,’ I said. ‘It’s not simply written in Burmese, which is why it took me so long to work out what I was looking at. Once you translate it into English, it still looks like gibberish—a jumble of words and phrases—that is, until you realise that it is a code.’
‘Code? And can you read it?’
‘Almost. I believe I can work out a cipher for it, and then we’ll crack it.’
I stood and stretched, before re-entering the main library in a search for any books on codes and secret writing. I was invigorated by the breakthrough, despite the lateness of the hour, and I climbed a narrow iron stair to the second tier of books with a spring in my step. Again, the library did not let me down, and I returned to the office clutching five volumes, ranging from the history of the Babington plot against Queen Elizabeth, to a more modern book on military codes. I split the volumes with Ambrose, giving him specific instructions on what to look out for, and within the hour we had the best part of our cipher.
‘It is the simplest type of substitution code,’ I explained. ‘I’ve encountered their like before. See here.’ I indicated the paper I was jotting on. ‘The notebook we found contains names and addresses, two per page. These may not be completely accurate, but a good study of this material and the completion of the cipher that we’ve begun will undoubtedly prove fruitful. The scrap of paper, however, is a little different.’
‘In what way?’ Ambrose’s curiosity was piqued.
‘They are not letters, nor even words, but a numerical sequence. In fact, they look to me like map references. Six-digit grid references to be precise.’
‘Of where?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I should start with Britain and go from there. Do we have any more maps?’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Ambrose with a smile, ‘did you really need to ask?’
* * *
We spent our last hour or so at the club ensconced in the map room. That the club had such a room at all was a surprise to me, and a delight. It was the hours spent poring over old maps of the world as a youngster that had led to pangs of wanderlust throughout my boyhood, and which had ultimately inspired me to follow in my father’s footsteps. This comfortable, square room was full of maps and atlases from every era and detailing every corner of the Earth. However, for our purposes we began with the Ordnance Survey’s map series, which we spread out over the large rectangular tables in the centre of the room.
The club was quiet; it was nearing midnight, and those clubmen who remained on the premises had either retired to their rooms or were enjoying a quiet drink downstairs in the dining room. As we had made to enter the map room, a servant had scurried in before us to turn on the lights and draw the heavy drapes across the tall windows. Only two men occupied the library when we had passed through it, sitting at opposite ends engaged in their own private
Ambrose had been understandably surprised at my sudden insight. I told him how I had come to serve in Burma, recounting much as was pertinent, but omitting the story of my capture during a routine patrol, and the beginning of my own personal hell. The night drew on as I sat in feverish study of the two artefacts. Ambrose tried to make himself useful, bringing coffee to sustain me whilst I pored over books of linguistics and applied my own knowledge of the language that brought back so many painful memories. In some strange way I hoped that perhaps ardent study of those fearful Burmese characters would go some way to banishing the ghosts of my past. The oil lamp flickered and I became lost to time. Ambrose grew bored, but duty kept him by my side for the most part. He went off to stretch his legs from time to time, but at least tried to look interested. After several hours I had my breakthrough, and my exclamation snapped Ambrose back into wakefulness.
‘What is it? Have you cracked it?’ he asked.
‘I believe I have,’ I said. ‘It’s not simply written in Burmese, which is why it took me so long to work out what I was looking at. Once you translate it into English, it still looks like gibberish—a jumble of words and phrases—that is, until you realise that it is a code.’
‘Code? And can you read it?’
‘Almost. I believe I can work out a cipher for it, and then we’ll crack it.’
I stood and stretched, before re-entering the main library in a search for any books on codes and secret writing. I was invigorated by the breakthrough, despite the lateness of the hour, and I climbed a narrow iron stair to the second tier of books with a spring in my step. Again, the library did not let me down, and I returned to the office clutching five volumes, ranging from the history of the Babington plot against Queen Elizabeth, to a more modern book on military codes. I split the volumes with Ambrose, giving him specific instructions on what to look out for, and within the hour we had the best part of our cipher.
‘It is the simplest type of substitution code,’ I explained. ‘I’ve encountered their like before. See here.’ I indicated the paper I was jotting on. ‘The notebook we found contains names and addresses, two per page. These may not be completely accurate, but a good study of this material and the completion of the cipher that we’ve begun will undoubtedly prove fruitful. The scrap of paper, however, is a little different.’
‘In what way?’ Ambrose’s curiosity was piqued.
‘They are not letters, nor even words, but a numerical sequence. In fact, they look to me like map references. Six-digit grid references to be precise.’
‘Of where?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I should start with Britain and go from there. Do we have any more maps?’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Ambrose with a smile, ‘did you really need to ask?’
* * *
We spent our last hour or so at the club ensconced in the map room. That the club had such a room at all was a surprise to me, and a delight. It was the hours spent poring over old maps of the world as a youngster that had led to pangs of wanderlust throughout my boyhood, and which had ultimately inspired me to follow in my father’s footsteps. This comfortable, square room was full of maps and atlases from every era and detailing every corner of the Earth. However, for our purposes we began with the Ordnance Survey’s map series, which we spread out over the large rectangular tables in the centre of the room.
The club was quiet; it was nearing midnight, and those clubmen who remained on the premises had either retired to their rooms or were enjoying a quiet drink downstairs in the dining room. As we had made to enter the map room, a servant had scurried in before us to turn on the lights and draw the heavy drapes across the tall windows. Only two men occupied the library when we had passed through it, sitting at opposite ends engaged in their own private
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