Spycraft: Tricks and Tools of the Dangerous Trade from Elizabeth I to the Restoration, Nadine Akkerman & Peter Langman, Yale University Press, £20.

As paradoxical as it may seem, it is becoming increasingly difficult to keep up with books on the secret world of spies. Amid this wealth of publications, some really stand out. Drawing on meticulous archival research, Nadine Akkerman and Peter Langman’s Spycraft takes us back to a key moment in English intelligence: the Early Modern period, when conspiracies and murders punctuated the day-to-day life of a kingdom besieged by the Catholic threat, both at home and abroad. But instead of tackling this tumultuous period head-on, the authors follow a different path by focusing on the tools and tricks used by spies at the time – some of which have parallels with those deployed during the Cold War. In doing so, they reveal the decisive role played by another kind of spymaster: the brilliant inventors or ‘dark artificers’, without whom modern and contemporary espionage would not have been possible.

Spycraft begins with a rather simple observation. While previous studies have highlighted the essential role played by spies in the Early Modern period, they have mostly focused on leaders, with Sir Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth I’s so-called spymaster, being the most famous example. However, the idea that there was just one omnipotent leader is, according to the authors, ‘inaccurate and anachronistic’, as it gives the impression of a highly centralized intelligence system. Rather, espionage at the time followed a patronage structure, with a few rival spy chiefs, all trying to outdo each other with the help of better-performing men and tools. In this way, paying attention to the technical innovations of the period not only sheds light on a blind spot in history, but it also does justice to the structure in place at the time, before the professionalisation of intelligence.

The study of the early modern spy’s toolbox unfolds in each of the chapters: ciphers, magic ink, masks, and poisons. From their conception to their practical application, such tricks are meticulously considered in evocative terms. At a time when letters were the principal communication channel, yet always ran the risk of being intercepted, cryptography or codes proved particularly useful for ensuring secret communication. Concealed messages could also take different forms, possibly less visible. Hidden in all kinds of objects, ‘micrographia’ – or tiny letters – were often used to pass on sensitive information, including by Mary, Queen of Scots. Conveniently though, they could also be swallowed if the messenger was captured.

It wasn’t just secret messages that were hidden in plain sight: the 16^th and 17^th centuries were also a time of great experimentation in disguise. Cross-dressing or costumes were often used to deceive the adversary (including by the Babington Plot conspirators in 1586), revealing what might be called the ‘theatricality of espionage’. This art of disguise and concealment could, when needed, extend to murder: the authors examine various everyday objects used to administer death (poisoned gloves, concealed daggers) or used as forms of protection (magic toadstones).

Technical innovations required inventors. One emblematic character is Arthur Gregory, a genius counterfeiter, whose specialty was to open and reseal letters without detection. This convenient skill did not go unnoticed: Walsingham regularly employed Gregory under the existing system of patronage. Gregory’s dexterity in opening sealed letters is connected to another of his priceless inventions, which he also famously shared with Walsingham in a letter reproduced in the book: an invisible ink made from alum, which made all writing imperceptible to the naked eye and could only be revealed by following a strict protocol. By enabling the secret reading of other people’s mail, while also protecting secret communications from interception, Gregory certainly deserves a prominent place in the history of the craft. While history often remembers great men or leaders, Spycraft reminds us that their aides or employees, these little hands of espionage, matter just as much.

But Spycraft goes even further. Recalling Gregory’s pleas for a more permanent basis for operations, Akkerman and Langman emphasise how his inventions, and those of other ‘dark artificers’, are precisely what enabled the semi-professionalisation of intelligence. To support this claim, the authors take the example of ‘black chambers’, the hidden offices in which letters were intercepted, opened, copied, and then released back into the postal system. Originally developed on the continent, they began to multiply in England around the 1630s. The Thirty Years’ War and the English Civil War greatly contributed to breaking down the moral barrier preventing, until then, the systematic surveillance of correspondence. Most importantly, though, the mastery of techniques developed, almost on an amateur basis, by such ‘dark artificers’ enabled the scaling-up of collection efforts by increasing the speed and dexterity with which counterfeiters performed their duties. Seen in this light, inventors like Gregory are not just details of history but essential figures in the slow institutionalisation of intelligence in England.

One of the most telling examples Spycraft recalls is John Thurloe’s infamous ‘black chamber’, located conveniently in the heart of Whitehall. This unprecedented structure not only enabled Cromwell to keep an eye on all epistolary exchanges almost in real time, but it also allowed for the systematic storage and archiving of vital information. State intelligence was born.

By placing the actual practice of espionage at the heart of history, Spycraft reminds us that spying is also rooted in very ordinary considerations, often overlooked, yet absolutely central. As such, it is one of the most important contributions to the ordinary history of intelligence that has begun to emerge in recent scholarship. But Spycraft also questions the way in which history is written, inviting readers and scholars to distance themselves from overly simplistic hierarchies, where only the omnipotent spymasters rule. As Akkerman and Langman show, history is infinitely more complex. Their book is a must-read for anyone interested in historiography and intelligence.