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Garbagemen, artists, university lecturers, civil servants. It’s thought they have connections very high up in the Bavarian government.”
    “Hang on a second,” Steven interjected. “Are you trying to tell me there’s a Bavarian secret society that’s been around for a hundred and twenty-five years, operating underground, with connections to the highest levels of government? It sounds more like some crazy Freemason conspiracy theory.”
    “You know, Herr Lukas, the Illuminati themselves started in Bavaria. As a Berliner, I can tell you the Bavarians are surly little mountain people who have always been a little different from the rest of the world.”
    “If you say so,” Steven said. “But why would these Cowled Men be interested in getting their hands on that little box? If your uncle had decoded the book and published it, then that would prove Ludwig was murdered, and the Order would have what it wanted.”
    Sara dropped to the sofa again. “These Cowled Men are about as conservative as they come. They’re only slightly to the left of Genghis Khan. Remember that theory that Theodor Marot could have had a relationship with the king? What do you think would happen in Bavaria if something like that came to light? The beloved Fairy-tale King turns out to be an old queen who likes cute boys? It would be scandalous.” She took off her ballet flats, aimed, and threw them on top of a crushed pizza box in the corner of the room. “Believe me, the Cowled Men will do anything they can to get hold of that book. And they won’t publish what’s in it until they’ve removed any reference to that particular suspicion.”
    “Then you genuinely think these Cowled Men murdered your uncle?” Steven asked.
    Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, her head raised, Sara stared straight ahead. “Think about it,” she finally replied. “They have a strong motive, and they’re definitely after that book. Your encounter with them on the Theresienweise proves that. And I’m sure that guy in the lederhosen is one of them.”
    Sighing, Steven picked up the yellowing notebook again and leafed through it. “That doesn’t change the fact that the book was written in code. Nothing but odd signs, and now and then a jumble of capital letters. If I only knew . . .”
    Suddenly he stopped dead.
    “What is it?” asked Sara.
    “The book your uncle was asking me about,” Steven began thoughtfully. “The diaries of Samuel Pepys . . .”
    “What about them?”
    “As far as I know, they were written in a kind of code, too. An early seventeenth-century variety of shorthand.”
    Sara frowned. “What about it?”
    “I bought the book online,” Steven said, “but I haven’t looked inside it yet. I may be wrong, but . . .”
    He went over to the computer and typed
Pepys
into Search. It took him some time, but at last Steven found the right site. His heart leaped.
    “I was right,” he said. “See for yourself.”
    Sara jumped off the sofa and padded over to the bookseller. Together, they stared at the screen. A cryptic script flickered on the monitor, consisting mainly of flourishes, lines, and dots. Only a few recognizable English words stood out.

    The art detective whistled softly through her teeth. It was the same coded script the king’s assistant had used in his diary.
    “Shelton’s shorthand from the seventeenth century,” Steven said. “Samuel Pepys used it in his diary to keep all his affairs secret from his wife. It wasn’t decoded until two hundred years later. Your uncle must have guessed something and came to me to check his suspicions.” He shook his head. “Who’d have expected a little French assistant doctor to write his diary in an antiquated secret code?”
    “Theodor Marot studied history as well as medicine in Strasbourg,” Sara said. “He obviously qualified with distinction. Nice work!” She patted Steven on the shoulder. “The competitor progresses to the next round of the game. Although that