“What’s the difference?”
“None, from a mechanical standpoint. Yet, from the standpoint of cryptography—code breaking—letters are, or I ought to say, might be, more easily broken than numbers, because letters suggest that the locks spell out words. My suspicion of the existence of words is further augmented by the irregular number of dials on the locks—three, three, six, and five.”
“How is it you know about all this?”
“The cavalry,” Penrose said vaguely. He fiddled with the top lock. “There is, of course, the question of language. Colifichet is a Frenchman.” He tried a few combinations: MOI, CLE, ECU. The lock held fast. “But he also speaks English.” AGE, RID. No go.
“On the other hand,” Ophelia said, “Monsieur Colifichet is not only a Frenchman, he’s a snob.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, do you fancy he knows Greek or something?”
“Latin,” Penrose murmured. He tried a few combinations that Ophelia could not read, and then there was a gratifying, sighing snap, and the top lock fell open.
“What does that mean?” Ophelia squinted at the winning combination: ARS.
“Art. Colifichet does indeed hold his art—or industry—in the highest esteem.”
“By golly, he does. What’s next? Beauty? Science? God?”
“It’s another three-letter word. If it is a sentence, I suppose the next word would be a verb of some kind.” Penrose tried a few words, and then—snap!—it was open. EST. “That means it is.”
“Art it is?” Ophelia frowned.
“Well, there are considerations of syntax.” Penrose studied the third lock, the one with six letters. He fussed and twirled. Ophelia stood; the crouching was too much for her tender toe. She limped around, peered over the professor’s shoulder, and anxiously out into the courtyard—
Another snap.
She darted over. “You’ve got it!” The dials spelled CELARE.
“To conceal.” Penrose was quickly turning the dials of the last lock.
“You know what it says?”
“Yes. A common saying.” Penrose positioned the final dial on M. The lock spelled ARTEM. “Ars est celare artem. It is art to conceal art.”
“Art to conceal . . .” Ophelia’s eyes narrowed. “Aha. Quite the jokester, that Colifichet. He made these locks—they are artworks, in a sense—to conceal the artworks in his workshop.”
“Precisely.” Penrose pushed into the dim workshop. “Well, Miss Flax. After all is said and done, we make rather a fine housebreaking team, do we not? Or, I ought to say, shopbreaking.”
Ophelia hurried through just behind him.
The workshop felt bigger than it had before. Light seeped through tall windows, but the ceilings and corners disappeared in shadow. They picked their way towards the draughtsman’s table. Whatever it was that Colifichet had been laboring over was no longer there. When they inspected the workbenches, there was no sign of any finished projects, or even works in progress. Only delicate hand tools lined up in neat rows or hanging from brackets on the walls.
And those big, shrouded shapes in the corner.
Penrose headed for them.
From somewhere behind her, Ophelia heard an almost-sound. Like another person’s breath in the dark, or the faint rustle a sleeve makes when it brushes against one’s side. She froze and strained her ears.
Nothing. Only Penrose’s soft footfalls and her own wheezy pulse.
Ophelia hurried to Penrose’s side, feeling sheepish.
The shrouded shapes—there were four of them—stood about as tall as Ophelia. Drop cloths covered them from top to bottom. Behind them was a cupboard.
Penrose took hold of one of the drop cloths and pulled.