Before leaving, Monica brought them down a big cardboard box tied with string.
‘I’ve collected all the papers,’ she whispered. ‘And they’re in here. I thought you could take it away with you, and then you’ll have plenty of time to go over them—but I’m sure you won’t find anything to throw light on the mysterious happenings in this house—’
Her words were interrupted by a terrific crash overhead. Tommy ran quickly up the stairs. A jug and a basin in one of the front rooms was lying on the ground broken to pieces. There was no one in the room.
‘The ghost up to its tricks again,’ he murmured with a grin.
He went downstairs again thoughtfully.
‘I wonder, Miss Deane, if I might speak to the maid, Crockett, for a minute.’
‘Certainly. I will ask her to come to you.’
Monica went off to the kitchen. She returned with the elderly maid who had opened the door to them earlier.
‘We are thinking of buying this house,’ said Tommy pleasantly, ‘and my wife was wondering whether, in that case, you would care to remain on with us?’
Crockett’s respectable face displayed no emotion of any kind.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘I should like to think it over if I may.’
Tommy turned to Monica.
‘I am delighted with the house, Miss Deane. I understand that there is another buyer in the market. I know what he has offered for the house, and I will willingly give a hundred more. And mind you, that is a good price I am offering.’
Monica murmured something noncommittal, and the Beresfords took their leave.
‘I was right,’ said Tommy, as they went down the drive, ‘Crockett’s in it. Did you notice that she was out of breath? That was from running down the backstairs after smashing the jug and basin. Sometimes, very likely, she has admitted her nephew secretly, and he has done a little poltergeisting, or whatever you call it, whilst she has been innocently with the family. You’ll see Dr O’Neill will make a further offer before the day is out.’
True enough, after dinner, a note was brought. It was from Monica.
‘I have just heard from Dr O’Neill. He raises his previous offer by £150.’
‘The nephew must be a man of means,’ said Tommy thoughtfully. ‘And I tell you what, Tuppence, the prize he’s after must be well worth while.’
‘Oh! Oh! Oh! if only we could find it!’
‘Well, let’s get on with the spade work.’
They were sorting through the big box of papers, a wearisome affair, as they were all jumbled up pell mell without any kind of order or method. Every few minutes they compared notes.
‘What’s the latest, Tuppence?’
‘Two old receipted bills, three unimportant letters, a recipe for preserving new potatoes and one for making lemon cheesecake. What’s yours?’
‘One bill, a poem on Spring, two newspaper cuttings: ‘Why Women buy Pearls—a sound investment”, and ‘Man with Four Wives—Extraordinary Story”, and a recipe for Jugged Hare.’
‘It’s heart-breaking,’ said Tuppence, and they fell to once more. At last the box was empty. They looked at each other.
‘I put this aside,’ said Tommy, picking up a half sheet of notepaper, ‘because it struck me as peculiar. But I don’t suppose it’s got anything to do with what we’re looking for.’
‘Let’s see it. Oh! it’s one of these funny things, what do they call them? Anagrams, charades or something.’ She read it:
‘My first you put on glowing coal
And into it you put my whole;
My second really is the first;
My third mislikes the winter blast.’
‘H’m,’ said Tommy critically. ‘I don’t think much of the poet’s rhymes.’
‘I don’t see what you find peculiar about it, though,’ said Tuppence. ‘Everybody used to have a collection of these sort of things about fifty years ago. You saved them up for winter evenings round the fire.’
‘I wasn’t referring to the verse. It’s the words written below it that strike me as peculiar.’
‘St Luke, xi, 9,’ she read. ‘It’s a text.’
‘Yes. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Would an old lady of a religious persuasion write a text just under a charade?’
‘It is rather odd,’ agreed Tuppence thoughtfully.
‘I presume that you, being a clergyman’s daughter, have got your Bible with you?’
‘As a matter of fact, I have. Aha! you didn’t expect that. Wait a sec.’
Tuppence ran to her suitcase, extracted a small red volume and returned to the table. She turned the leaves rapidly. ‘Here we are. Luke, chapter xi, verse 9. Oh! Tommy, look.’
Tommy bent over and looked where Tuppence’s small finger pointed to a portion of the verse in question.
‘Seek and ye shall find.’
‘That’s it,’ cried Tuppence. ‘We’ve got it! Solve the cryptogram and the treasure is ours—or rather Monica’s.’
‘Well, let’s get to work on the cryptogram, as you call it. ‘My first you put on glowing coal.’ What does that mean, I wonder? Then—‘My second really is the first.’ That’s pure gibberish.’
‘It’s quite simple, really,’ said Tuppence kindly. ‘It’s just a sort of knack. Let me have it.’
Tommy surrendered it willingly. Tuppence ensconced herself in an armchair, and began muttering to herself with bent brows.
‘It’s quite simple, really,’ murmured Tommy when half an hour had elapsed.
‘Don’t crow! We’re the wrong generation for this. I’ve a good mind to go back to town tomorrow and call on some old pussy who would probably read it as easy as winking. It’s a knack, that’s all.’
‘Well, let’s have one more try.’
‘There aren’t many things you can put on glowing coal,’ said Tuppence thoughtfully. ‘There’s water, to put it out, or wood, or a kettle.’
‘It must be one syllable, I suppose? What about wood, then?’
‘You couldn’t put anything into wood, though.’
‘There’s no one syllable word instead of water, but there must be one syllable things you can put on a fire in the kettle line.’
‘Saucepans,’
