Monica nodded.
“Well,” said Tuppence, “I think it would be as well if we went down to the neighbourhood and studied matters upon the spot. What is the address?”
“The Red House, Stourton-in-the-Marsh.”
Tuppence wrote down the address in her notebook.
“I didn’t ask you,” Monica began—“about terms—” she ended, blushing a little.
“Our payments are strictly by results,” said Tuppence gravely. “If the secret of the Red House is a profitable one, as seems possible from the anxiety displayed to acquire the property, we should expect a small percentage, otherwise—nothing!”
“Thank you very much,” said the girl gratefully.
“And now,” said Tuppence, “don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right. Let’s enjoy lunch and talk of interesting things.”
Fifteen
THE RED HOUSE
“Well,” said Tommy, looking out of the window of the Crown and Anchor, “here we are at Toad in the Hole—or whatever this blasted village is called.”
“Let us review the case,” said Tuppence.
“By all means,” said Tommy. “To begin with, getting my say in first, I suspect the invalid mother!”
“Why?”
“My dear Tuppence, grant that this poltergeist business is all a put-up job, got up in order to persuade the girl to sell the house, someone must have thrown the things about. Now the girl said everyone was at dinner—but if the mother is a thoroughgoing invalid, she’d be upstairs in her room.”
“If she was an invalid she could hardly throw furniture about.”
“Ah! but she wouldn’t be a real invalid. She’d be shamming.”
“Why?”
“There you have me,” confessed her husband. “I was really going on the well-known principle of suspecting the most unlikely person.”
“You always make fun of everything,” said Tuppence severely. “There must be something that makes these people so anxious to get hold of the house. And if you don’t care about getting to the bottom of this matter, I do. I like that girl. She’s a dear.”
Tommy nodded seriously enough.
“I quite agree. But I never can resist ragging you, Tuppence. Of course, there’s something queer about the house, and whatever it is, it’s something that’s difficult to get at. Otherwise a mere burglary would do the trick. But to be willing to buy the house means either that you’ve got to take up floors or pull down walls, or else that there’s a coal mine under the back garden.”
“I don’t want it to be a coal mine. Buried treasure is much more romantic.”
“H’m,” said Tommy. “In that case I think that I shall pay a visit to the local Bank Manager, explain that I am staying here over Christmas and probably buying the Red House, and discuss the question of opening an account.”
“But why—?”
“Wait and see.”
Tommy returned at the end of half an hour. His eyes were twinkling.
“We advance, Tuppence. Our interview proceeded on the lines indicated. I then asked casually whether he had had much gold paid in, as is often the case nowadays in these small country banks—small farmers who hoarded it during the war, you understand. From that we proceeded quite naturally to the extraordinary vagaries of old ladies. I invented an aunt who on the outbreak of war drove to the Army and Navy Stores in a four-wheeler, and returned with sixteen hams. He immediately mentioned a client of his own, who had insisted on drawing out every penny of money she had—in gold as far as possible, and who also insisted on having her securities, bearer bonds and such things, given into her own custody. I exclaimed on such an act of folly, and he mentioned casually that she was the former owner of the Red House. You see, Tuppence? She drew out all this money, and she hid it somewhere. You remember that Monica Deane mentioned that they were astonished at the small amount of her estate? Yes, she hid it in the Red House, and someone knows about it. I can make a pretty good guess who that someone is too.”
“Who?”
“What about the faithful Crockett? She would know all about her mistress’s peculiarities.”
“And that gold-toothed Dr. O’Neill?”
“The gentlemanly nephew, of course! That’s it. But whereabouts did she hide it. You know more about old ladies than I do, Tuppence. Where do they hide things?”
“Wrapped up in stockings and petticoats, under mattresses.”
Tommy nodded.
“I expect you’re right. All the same, she can’t have done that because it would have been found when her things were turned over. It worries me—you see, an old lady like that can’t have taken up floors or dug holes in the garden. All the same it’s there in the Red House somewhere. Crockett hasn’t found it, but she knows it’s there, and once they get the house to themselves, she and her precious nephew, they can turn it upside down until they find what they’re after. We’ve got to get ahead of them. Come on, Tuppence. We’ll go to the Red House.”
Monica Deane received them. To her mother and Crockett they were represented as would-be purchasers of the Red House, which would account for their being taken all over the house and grounds. Tommy did not tell Monica of the conclusions he had come to, but he asked her various searching questions. Of the garments and personal belongings of the dead woman, some had been given to Crockett and the others sent to various poor families. Everything had been gone through and turned out.
“Did your aunt leave any papers?”
“The desk was full, and there were some in a drawer in her bedroom, but there was nothing of importance amongst them.”
“Have they been thrown away?”
“No, my mother is always very loath to throw away old papers. There were some old-fashioned recipes among them which she intends to go through one day.”
“Good,” said Tommy approvingly. Then, indicating an old man who was at work upon one of the flower beds in the garden, he asked: “Was that old man the gardener here in your aunt’s time?”
“Yes, he used to come three days a week. He lives in the village. Poor old fellow, he is past doing any really useful work. We have him just once a week to keep things tidied up. We can’t afford more.”
Tommy winked at Tuppence to indicate that she was to keep Monica with her, and he himself stepped across to where the gardener was working. He spoke a few pleasant words to the old man, asked him if he had been there in the old lady’s time, and then said casually.
“You buried a box for her once, didn’t you?”
“No, sir, I never buried naught for her. What should she want to bury a box for?”
Tommy shook his head. He strolled back to the house frowning. It was to be hoped that a study of the old lady’s papers would yield some clue—otherwise the problem was a hard one to solve. The house itself was old-fashioned, but not old enough to contain a secret room or passage.
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?”
&n
bsp; 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 worthwhile.”
“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 heartbreaking,” 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,” mused Tuppence. “Frying pans. How about pan? or pot? What’s a word beginning pan or pot that is something you cook?”
“Pottery,” suggested Tommy. “You bake that in the fire. Wouldn’t that be near enough?”
“The rest of it doesn’t fit. Pancakes? No. Oh! bother.”
They were interrupted by the little serving maid, who told them that dinner would be ready in a few minutes.
“Only Mrs. Lumley, she wanted to know if you like your potatoes fried, or boiled in their jackets? She’s got some of each.”
“Boiled in their jackets,” said Tuppence promptly. “I love potatoes—” She stopped dead with her mouth open.
“What’s the matter, Tuppence? Have you seen a ghost?”
“Tommy,” cried Tuppence. “Don’t you see? That’s it! The word, I mean. Potatoes! ‘My first you put on glowing coal’—that’s pot. ‘And into it you put my whole.’ ‘My second really is the first.’ That’s A, the first letter of the alphabet. ‘My third mislikes the wintry blast’—cold toes of course!”
“You’re right, Tuppence. Very clever of you. But I’m afraid we’ve wasted an awful lot of time over nothing. Potatoes don’t fit in at all with missing treasure. Half a sec, though. What did you read out just now, when we were going through the box? Something about a recipe for New Potatoes. I wonder if there’s anything in that.”
He rummaged hastily through the pile of recipes.
“Here it is. ‘To KEEP NEW POTATOES. Put the new potatoes into tins and bury them in the garden. Even in the middle of winter, they will taste as though freshly dug.’
“We’ve got it,” screamed Tuppence. “That’s it. The treasure is in the garden, buried in a tin.”
“But I asked the gardener. He said he’d never buried anything.”
“Yes, I know, but that’s because people never really answer what you say, they answer what they think you mean. He knew he’d never buried anything out of the common. We’ll go tomorrow and ask him where he buried the potatoes.”
The following morning was Christmas Eve. By dint of inquiry they found the old gardener’s cottage. Tuppence broached the subject after some minutes’ conversation.
“I wish one could have new potatoes at Christmas time,” she remarked. “Wouldn’t they be good with turkey? Do people round here ever bury them in tins? I’ve heard that keeps them fresh.”
“Ay, that they do,” declared the old man. “Old Miss Deane, up to the Red House, she allus had three tins buried every summer, and as often as not forgot to have ’em dug up again!”
“In the bed by the house, as a rule, didn’t she?”
“No, over against the wall by the fir tree.”
Having got the information they wanted, they soon took their leave of the old man, presenting him with five shillings as a Christmas box.
“And now for Monica,” said Tommy.
?
??Tommy! You have no sense of the dramatic. Leave it to me. I’ve got a beautiful plan. Do you think you could manage to beg, borrow or steal a spade?”
Somehow or other, a spade was duly produced, and that night, late, two figures might have been seen stealing into the grounds of the Red House. The place indicated by the gardener was easily found, and Tommy set to work. Presently his spade rang on metal, and a few seconds later he had unearthed a big biscuit tin. It was sealed round with adhesive plaster and firmly fastened down, but Tuppence, by the aid of Tommy’s knife, soon managed to open it. Then she gave a groan. The tin was full of potatoes. She poured them out, so that the tin was completely empty, but there were no other contents.
“Go on digging, Tommy.”
It was some time before a second tin rewarded their search. As before, Tuppence unsealed it.
“Well?” demanded Tommy anxiously.
“Potatoes again!”
“Damn!” said Tommy, and set to once more.
“The third time is lucky,” said Tuppence consolingly.
“I believe the whole thing’s a mare’s nest,” said Tommy gloomily, but he continued to dig.
At last a third tin was brought to light.
“Potatoes aga—” began Tuppence, then stopped. “Oh, Tommy, we’ve got it. It’s only potatoes on top. Look!”
She held up a big old-fashioned velvet bag.
“Cut along home,” cried Tommy. “It’s icy cold. Take the bag with you. I must shovel back the earth. And may a thousand curses light upon your head, Tuppence, if you open that bag before I come!”
“I’ll play fair. Ouch! I’m frozen.” She beat a speedy retreat.
On arrival at the inn she had not long to wait. Tommy was hard upon her heels, perspiring freely after his digging and the final brisk run.
“Now then,” said Tommy, “the private inquiry agents make good! Open the loot, Mrs. Beresford.”
Inside the bag was a package done up in oil silk and a heavy chamois leather bag. They opened the latter first. It was full of gold sovereigns. Tommy counted them.