The Claresby Collection
Twelve Mysteries
The full collection of Claresby mystery stories with Rupert and Laura Latimer.
By Daphne Coleridge
Copyright © Daphne Coleridge 2011
For Alan, with thanks for all his ideas
The Treasure of Claresby Manor
Pickled Toad with Diamonds
An Uninvited Guest
The Claresby Mystery
The Black Widow of Claresby
The Claresby Ghost
Death of a Clarinettist
The Floods Murder
Rupert Investigates: A Cambridge Mystery
The Coach House Mystery
The Curious Legacy
The Twelve Days of Christmas Mystery
The Treasure of Claresby Manor
Laura took a bottle of wine out of the fridge and made her way to the study. It was a longish walk, down the chilly corridors past dusty suits of armour, through the Great Hall with its high beams and carved musicians’ gallery disappearing in the darks shadows above, and into the panelled room beyond. Had not every inch of the house been familiar to her, it might have felt eerie so empty and gloomy it was as the last beams of evening sun made their reluctant way through the mullioned windows, barely reaching the furthest corner. Her study, however, was warm and welcoming with a fire burning to ward off the chilly late summer nightfall and her favourite pieces of furniture in comfortable abundance about the place. She set the wine down and took a couple of glasses from an ornate oriental cabinet. As she did so, a bell rang from the front door. Again a longish walk until she could swing open one of the creaking double doors at the entrance. A tall, slightly gangly man with light hair and strong features stood waiting. He too held a bottle of wine.
“Ooh, more wine,” commented Laura happily. “I just unearthed something from the cellar, but half the stuff is undrinkable, so it is just as well to have a backup.”
The man bent to peck her fondly on the cheek and followed her in. Once back in the study, Laura sat down in a red, plush chair of great antiquity which oozed a greyish stuffing from one corner. She would not have considered the fact, but the dim light enhanced the attractions of her pale, oval face, delicate features and lustrous auburn hair. The man, turning to pass her some wine, cast a glance at her which suggested that he, at least, was not oblivious. Laura sipped the wine with some trepidation.
“Well, it’s not corked.” She observed the golden liquid in the cut glass with a critical eye. “It’s not cloudy either. I think it is a dessert wine; I hope it’s not too sweet for you? I can’t tell you what it is as the label had dissolved.”
“It’s lovely,” replied the man, sitting down opposite her. “Now, tell me how you are today?”
Laura crinkled her nose, “Well, happier for seeing you Rupert, but I’m really having to face up to things now, and I can’t say that I like it. I preferred being an ostrich, but I have bills I can’t pay and they sit there ugly and insistent and I’m going to have to deal with them.”
“Do you have a plan B?”
Laura shook her head. “Everything saleable had been sold to cover debts; starting with grandfather’s death duties and ending up with the inheritance tax when father died. I have inherited this wonderful house, but it has swallowed itself up. The only thing I could sell is the title.”
“You mentioned that before: I still don’t quite understand,” replied Rupert, sipping his wine with appreciation.
“Well, there is a title that goes with the Manor – Lord of Claresby Manor or Lady of Claresby Manor in my case. It is a property and can be conveyed in the same way as any other property: in other words I could sell the title,” she explained, seeing Rupert looking vague.
“I thought I read somewhere that titles could not be sold – despite the number of websites promising you a certificate that makes you Lord or Lady Something-or-Another at inflated prices.”
“Well, that is pretty much true,” conceded Laura. “You cannot buy or sell the right to any title in the peerage, nor pay to become a Lord or Lady. There are only two titles which can be legitimately sold: that of a Scottish Feudal Baron or Lordship of the Manor. Lordship of the Manor does not make you Lord anything. Father was James Mortimer, Lord of the Manor of Claresby – not that he would have ever styled himself as such. He wasn’t Lord Mortimer. Anyway, the point is that I can sell that title – and there are people who buy such things. With the title goes certain historical rights such as a monopoly on holding markets and fairs in the Manor – oh, and fishing rights in the river; for all the good that may do anyone.”
“Doesn’t the title go with ownership of Claresby Manor?” inquired Rupert.
Laura shook her head, taking another sip of the wine. “No; the two are separate properties and I can sell either one without the other. As a matter of fact I think that they should stay together, but only for sentimental reasons. In any case, I don’t think I can afford to retain either. I will have to sell the house even if it breaks my heart. Did you know that it has been in my family, give or take a few changes down the female line, since before 1066? I feel like I am letting down a whole host of ancestors, most of whom glare down at me from unsaleable, second-rate portraits whenever I make my way down the Gallery to bed at night!”
Rupert laughed, even though her wit was of the dour, resigned type. They both sat drinking the venerable golden liquor from their glasses in the firelight for a few moments until Laura spoke again.
“Of course, there is one hope – but it is a very forlorn and worn out hope.”
“What is that?” asked Rupert.
“Well, I’ve not mentioned this before, because it has been tried by my ancestors down the centuries whenever they have hit hard times and never amounted to anything. It’s just a story that has been passed down verbally, so it is probably apocryphal.”
“Well?” prompted Rupert, when she became silent again.
“Oh, it’s just so silly it’s probably not worth mentioning.” Laura shook her halo of auburn hair before rushing off the tale in an almost embarrassed, off-hand tone. “Well, it is back to the sixteen hundreds and Oliver Cromwell and the Civil War and all that and of course my family were romantic and loyal and all the things it wasn’t clever to be – in other words, they were royalists and supported King Charles, even though they didn’t think much of him personally as far as I can tell. The practical upshot of all this was that, at some point, a group of roundheads were deployed in this direction to loot the place and generally teach the Mortimers a lesson. The Lord of the Manor at the time was one Gerald Mortimer who, rumour has it, took all the silver and gold and prudently stashed it away in a safe place. Luckily for him his cousin, Henry Mortimer, was on good terms with Cromwell - my family has been historically very good at hedging its political and religious bets - so nobody was killed at Claresby Manor. I think the soldiers tore some tapestries and roughed up a few of the servants, but all in all we got off lightly. As for Gerald, who was elderly at the time – he died of perfectly natural causes a few months later leaving the house to his daughter, Elizabeth, who had the good sense to marry her cousin, thus retaining the family name. Anyway, amongst the upset, furore, illness, marriage and dynastic changes, old Gerald entirely failed to tell anyone where he had actually put the treasure. On his deathbed, Elizabeth’s diary tells us, he told them that “the treasure is in the pictures”, but no one has ever made the slightest sense of this enigmatic comment. Hence the rumour of hidden treasure – and if ever the Mortimer family was in need of it to rescue their fortune, now is that time.”
“The treasure is in the pictures...” mused Ruper
t. “I like a conundrum. Did he mean that some of the paintings were valuable?”
“Well, we only have two paintings of that era left. Gerald was painted with his wife, Margaret, by Peter Lely, the fashionable portrait artist of the day. He was, by the way, the artist who famously painted Cromwell “warts and all”. He must have been a shrewd man as well as a great artist as he served Charles the First, painted Cromwell and was still around to serve the restored monarchy. Anyway, that painting was sold ages ago and the profits swallowed up by this greedy estate. There were some exquisite miniatures as well, painted by Samuel Cooper, but they too have gone. There are only two paintings left from Gerald’s time, both very inferior works by person or persons unknown.”
“Well we had better start with those,” replied Rupert enthusiastically, “if we are going to find that treasure.”
Laura sighed and put down her glass. “Well, by all means take a look, but I can promise you that every effort has been made to decipher them and various demolitions and diggings have taken place and yielded nothing.”
“Yes, precisely because I was not there to decipher the pictures: show a little faith in me, Laura!” Rupert’s face was lit with enthusiasm. He was not a handsome man, his nose being too large, his mouth having a suggestion of the lopsided about it, but it was a pleasant face and Laura had been fond of him since they had shared an unhappy, dispossessed, first term at Cambridge. She rose reluctantly to her feet.
“Very well; they are pushed to one side in a junk room upstairs, not being deemed worthy of display.”
The two of them walked through the chilly, dimly lit but nonetheless beautiful rooms of the medieval Clarebsy Manor, up the grand oak staircase and down a narrow corridor to one of the undistinguished back rooms. There were discarded objects old and new: brass bedsteads, boxes of books, folds of heavy curtains.
“All of it junk,” commented Laura despondently. “My family have long since ravaged the place for anything of value.” She picked up two paintings and set them up against a wall and sat on the threadbare carpet to look at them, shivering a little in the cold of the evening. Rupert hunkered down beside her to study the paintings.
One painting was a heavy work in oils set in a cumbersome gilded frame. It depicted Gerald Mortimer looking rather smug in the foppish clothes of a royalist; long hair, lacy cuffs and large feather in his hat. Behind him was Claresby Manor.
“It really is a very bad painting,” commented Rupert, examining it carefully. “It must have been painted by a student or an amateur.”
“Family history suggests that he might have painted it himself. Anyway, it has been studied for clues and codes and suchlike. There is one obvious anomaly and perhaps a statement of intention; I’ll be kind and let you have the satisfaction of spotting those for yourself.”
Rupert duly studied the details of the picture. The first thing that inevitably drew his eye was the scroll of paper that Gerald held. “Sollicitae tu causa, pecunia, vitae,” he read aloud. “Hmm, I wish I hadn’t dozed through Miss Taylor’s Latin classes.” Rupert screwed up his light blue eyes, making his nose look even more pronounced on his pleasantly ugly face. “I make it something like – You, money, are the cause of an anxious life; am I close?”
“Pretty much,” Laura nodded. “Sextus Propertius, a poet.”
“Okay; so we deduce that Gerald had money on his mind when he, or someone else, composed the painting. And there is an anomaly, you say?”
Laura nodded. Rupert studied the picture further and then said, “I’m guessing that there is something odd about the house, but I can’t work out what. Bear with me whilst I take it outside and compare art with reality.”
Laure trailed behind Rupert as he bounded down the stairs, out through the front door and across the overgrown lawn to the place where Gerald was shown in relation to the house. He looked from painting to house a few times with rapt interest.
“Fascinating to see how little it has changed over the centuries. The chimneys are different, which could be accounted for by decay or strong winds. Those stables have gone and the entrance has been rebuilt, but other than that, remarkably unaltered.”
“And the deliberate error?” pushed Laura.
“Well, the extra window on the front of the house, of course.”
Laura nodded. “Yes, to the left of the entrance – the first area of wall at the far end before the angle where the library is set forward. There are only three windows there. That has traditionally been a music room.”
“So, where the fourth window is shown – is there a secret blocked up room?”
Laura shook her head. “No, the extra window is set in an area of wall that is simply windowless. Exactly behind it is that nice chintz settee. Come back inside and I’ll show you.”
The two of them made their way down the moonlit lawn and inside to the music room. Laura turned on the light. It was a pretty, cosy room with a large piano, bookshelves and a number of tall backed chairs and a selection of settees with floral covers. There were indeed three large windows to the front – two at one end, then a gap, then another window. Inevitably Rupert started tapping at the wall and floor around the area where the window had been shown in the painting, pushing the settee away from the wall to do so. Laura watched him indulgently for a few minutes before saying, mildly;
“I can promise you that there is nothing there. The wall is of normal thickness, there are no hidden spaces either inside or out. This part of the house has been taken apart to look for the treasure because of that painting. The only result is that, the walls having been rebuilt, this is the one part of the house that does not leak. Other than that...” she shrugged her shoulders dismissively.
“Okay,” conceded Rupert. “But the position of the window must have some relevance, otherwise why bother drawing our attention to the spot. Let’s go and take a look at the other painting.”
The second painting showed a view looking away from the house to two low hills a few miles away. The view had changed very little in substance, although areas of trees had been cleared, a road constructed and a few more houses had appeared in the distance. In the foreground of the picture, very conspicuous and spoiling both the composition and the pleasant impression of a landscape at sunrise, was a gravestone in the shape of a cross.
“Before you ask,” Laura intervened, “There is not and, to my knowledge, never has been a stone or monument in that particular place. Although the view of the sunrise over the hills is painted from Claresby Manor the gravestone, had it been there, would only have been about a hundred yards from the house itself. Nobody would have buried treasure there in full view. And, as before, generations of my family have dug holes there just in case: nothing!”
Rupert was squinting at the picture. “Something was written on the grave though, but is has darkened so much over the years that I can’t make out what it says.”
“Turn the picture over,” advised Laura. “My great grandfather transcribed a version there when it could still be made out.”
Rupert turned the picture over. A scrawling dark pen had written the words –To the furthest reach where the sun does not reach. “What are we supposed to make of that?” he mused.
“We have generally interpreted it as meaning death – or the state of death. You are welcome to form another opinion, but I doubt if you will get any sense out of it. Like I say, we have gone down this path before and only found a dead end.” Laura yawned. “Anyway, I hope you don’t mind an early night. You can help yourself to the blue bedroom – you know where everything is.”
“Okay.” Rupert placed the picture down and gave Laura a brotherly hug and kiss. Only his wistful glance after her as she left the room suggested feelings other than the purely platonic.
It was still dark when Rupert crept into Laura’s room. Although purposeful, he paused a moment to relish the sight of her sweet face, peaceful on the pillow, her hair glowing in the soft moonlight. However softened he was by this vision, it did not stop him fro
m gently shaking her shoulder and softly calling her name.
“What? What is it?” Suddenly awake, Laura sat up with a jump and stared at Rupert. “What’s happened?” she asked.
“It’s all right, don’t worry,” he said soothingly. “It’s just that I have worked out the clues. I’m pretty sure that we can find the treasure – it’s just that it might help if we watch the dawn.”
“Dawn? It’s still pitch black,” grumbled Laura, nevertheless getting out of bed and slipping a dressing gown over her white cotton nightdress. “It must be about four in the morning!”
The two of them, still in night clothes, stumbled downstairs and out into the damp of a chilly pre-dawn. Fortunately the sky was clear, so there was the prospect of actually seeing a sunrise.
“You see,” explained Rupert as he dragged a wooden bench over to a spot on the lawn just in front of the house where the music room was, “I realised that we just weren’t thinking far enough – literally. Old Gerald made it clear that the spot where the window wasn’t had significance. He also showed the dawn over the hills. Put those together and we have to follow the trajectory to the furthest reach where the sun does not reach. I think he means the most distant point of the grounds of Claresby Manor on the west side of the house. Wait, see the sun come up and it should make sense.”
The Claresby Collection: Twelve Mysteries Page 1
