The Cryptic Lines

by Richard Storry

  Charles smiled and indicated the vacant seat at the table.

  He slowly made his way across the room and sat down.

  "Would you care for a glass of wine?"

  Charles held up a bottle of a particularly fine Barollo, rich and full bodied, which James had uncorked some thirty minutes ago to allow it to breathe. Matthew managed a slight smile and held out his glass. The crackling fire in the hearth, the flickering candles and the beautifully delicate sound of the vintage wine as it left its bottle and softly splashed into the cut crystal glass would have made a perfect moment in other circumstances. They clinked their glasses and sipped in silence, savouring the smooth, fruity liquid as its palette of flavours broke over their tongues. Matthew cleared his throat.

  "Er...Mr Seymour, I owe you an apology."

  "You do?"

  "Well, yes. My outburst earlier on was quite uncalled for. It won't happen again."

  "No need for an apology, Mr Willoughby, but since you have offered it, it would be most un-gentlemanly of me not to accept."

  "That film was...well...it just gave me a bit of a shock."

  "To be quite honest with you, I'm not surprised."

  "You see, the thing is..."

  He stopped speaking as the door opened and James entered. He walked over to the dumb waiter, slid open the door and, reaching inside, began to pull on the ropes.

  Some distance below stairs a beautifully cooked leg of roast venison began to ascend from Mrs Gillcarey's kitchen, its delicious aroma sufficient to win over even the most fastidious of vegetarians. On arrival, James lifted the silver platter with its steaming joint from the hatch and carried it to the table. Setting it down precisely, with practised ease he proceeded to carve several slices, all uniformly thick. By the time he had added the garlic mash and roast potatoes, chipolatas, mange tout, carrots, peas, sage and chestnut stuffing and a generous helping of Mrs Gillcarey's rich onion gravy, made according to her secret recipe, the meal had become a veritable work of art.

  "Thank you, James," said Charles. "This looks magnificent! Please pass our thanks to Mrs Gillcarey."

  He nodded. "Very good, sir."

  He turned and left the two men to enjoy the meal, the presentation of which was surpassed only by its taste. They both ate with enthusiasm. Old Lord Alfred was clearly accustomed to doing himself well, and he had managed to find the perfect housekeeper in Mrs Gillcarey.

  After the meal, they adjourned to the armchairs in front of the fire, where they sat for a while, just staring into the flames. Then, as he refilled their glasses, yet again, with the ruby coloured wine, Charles spoke.

  "You were saying..?"

  "Sorry?"

  "Just before James came in to serve dinner, you were about to tell me something."

  Matthew paused and set down his glass.

  "Yes. I just wanted to explain..." His voice tailed off and his fingers fumbled against each other as he sought to find the right words.

  Then, all at once, he suddenly seemed to find his stride.

  "When I was growing up, I so desperately wanted to be like my father. He was so successful, admired and respected by everyone."

  "There's nothing wrong with that. Plenty of boys want to be like Dad."

  "Yes, only it seemed that whatever I did to try and impress him was never good enough. Trying to get praise out of him was like trying to get blood out of a stone. But at the same time, he would be openly critical of anything I did that was even slightly imperfect, pouring scorn on everything - even in front of other people."

  Charles eyed Matthew as he poured out his heart and soul and felt a pang of sympathy for him. How could he feel otherwise? His mother had raised him by herself and flatly refused to discuss his father on those occasions when Charles had been brave enough to broach the subject. "You have me," she used to snap, "and I'm all you need."

  "On top of that," Matthew continued, "whether I was just imagining it I don't know, but it seemed to me that all my friends got on with their dads really well. And no matter what I tried to do..." he faltered and looked down. "I...I just found that it was difficult to talk to him about things that mattered to me; and a sort of void developed, an empty hollow. And now he’s gone…and I…I can't help feeling as though there's a piece of the puzzle missing."

  In his professional capacity, Charles had heard variations on this theme time and time again. Was it preferable, he wondered for the hundredth time, to not have a father at all, as in his case, or to have a father - but one who did not display the affection and acceptance which every boy needs? A pointless question, he concluded, since no-one can change their situation in that regard. They just have to soldier on and make the best of it, with whatever hand they've been dealt. But he was starting to see the young man from a different perspective, he realised.

  "And now," he continued, morosely, "with all this farcical business of having to solve the clues or inherit nothing...I just feel like it’s one last kick in the teeth."

  Just then, James entered carrying a tray, bearing a decanter of tawny port and two glasses. He placed a glass of the nectar in front of both Charles and Matthew then moved to the table and began to clear away the remains of the dinner. During this pause in the conversation Charles ran through the extraordinary events of the last few days in his mind and silently reached a moment of decision; he leant forward in his chair and said, "Matthew, I have an idea."

  "Oh?" Matthew raised his head from his despondent thoughts.

  "Well, I can assure you that I have been just as surprised as you to find out what your father had to say concerning each of us, although obviously for different reasons. Now then, rather than be at loggerheads with each other over this, why don't we join forces?"

  "I don't quite follow."

  "We could team up; figure out the clues and solve them together; and, instead of one winner taking everything, we could both be winners and take half each."

  Matthew didn't say anything but was obviously considering it. Certainly, he thought, his efforts so far had proved entirely fruitless and, realistically, what chance would he, of all people, have against the logical and clear thinking mind of a solicitor?

  "And," Charles continued, "if we work together on this, it would increase our chances of solving the conundrum before the deadline is reached, after which neither of us will get anything."

  "Good point."

  "Ahem." James had cleared the table and approached. "Will there be anything else, gentlemen?"

  "No thanks, James. That will be all."

  "Thank you, sir. Goodnight, sirs."

  With a curt nod he turned and left, gently closing the door behind him.

  There was a pause.

  Charles spoke first. "Well..?"

  Matthew thought for a moment longer. Then he smiled and stood up. "Mr Seymour, you have a deal."

  Charles now stood too. Silhouetted against the light from the dying embers, the two men shook hands.

  Chapter 7

  The next day, as Charles was making the lengthy hike from his bedroom down to the morning room for breakfast, he happened to almost bump into James as he appeared suddenly from a side corridor.

  "Oh! James! Good morning. You startled me."

  "I'm very sorry, sir; that was not my intention."

  "That's ok. I'm just coming down for some breakfast. Has Matthew surfaced yet?"

  "Yes, sir. Master Matthew has already started his breakfast."

  "Right, so it seems that I have some catching up to do then, eh?"

  There was a momentary pause that felt decidedly awkward, after which James said, "Sir...if I may?"

  "Yes, of course. What is it?"

  The butler looked up and down the corridor to make sure they were not being overheard and then spoke again, his voice little more than a whisper.

  "May I speak frankly, sir?"

  "Please do."

  "Thank you, sir. In one sense, the division of His Lordship's estate is none of my business. By the terms of t
he Will I have come into a very substantial sum and perhaps I should just let my involvement end there." He paused. Charles' eyes narrowed.

  "Then why don’t you?"

  "Well, sir, I couldn't help overhearing some of your conversation with master Matthew last night and the...the arrangement which the two of you have now entered into."

  "Well, that's alright, James. I know you to be a discreet fellow; it doesn't matter to me in the slightest that you know what our plans are."

  "Of course, sir. What I'm trying to say is...well...please be careful, sir. As I've mentioned to you before, although it grieves me to say it, master Matthew is... he's a scoundrel, sir. His father was right to be very careful in his dealings with him."

  "James, I appreciate your kind concern, but I've had a long talk with Matthew. He's a decent chap really - he's just been misunderstood, that's all. Anyway, now that we've agreed to go halves on everything he'll have every incentive to really work with me, not against me."

  James looked down and pursed his lips.

  "Very well, sir. Whatever you think is best. I apologise if I have in any way spoken out of turn."

  "Not at all. I'm greatly encouraged that you would voice your concerns like this. Now, I need to get some breakfast."

  James watched as Charles walked away and disappeared round the corner at the end of the corridor.

  "Do be careful," he muttered under his breath. "Master Matthew is a scoundrel."

  He turned and walked away to attend to his duties, still muttering to himself. “A scoundrel indeed.”

  Mrs Gillcarey looked after both Charles and Matthew wonderfully. After the hearty breakfast (during which Charles thought several times that he would have no hope at all of attracting a member of the fairer sex if he continued to add to his waistline like this) the two riddle-solvers sat in the morning room, with large mugs of steaming freshly ground Colombian coffee, going over the words of the cryptic lines again.

  Like burnt out torches by a sick man's bed

  "Might that be referring to Dad's actual bed?" wondered Matthew, aloud. "It seems that he was pretty sick by the end."

  "Possibly," Charles replied, "but how does that tie in with the next line?"

  Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone

  "I did think, yesterday, that perhaps it might be referring to the private cemetery in the grounds so I went to have a look at it."

  "And...?"

  "Didn't find anything." Charles nodded, unaware of the half-truth of this statement.

  Quickly, Matthew said, "The actual choice of words seems very flowery for Dad."

  Charles' mouth fell open in surprise.

  "Of course! That must be it!"

  "Must be what?"

  "Matthew, you're a genius! I've been acting on the assumption that your father wrote this poem himself but, given the style of the writing, I think there's a good chance we might just find it on one of the shelves in the library. Come on!"

  They walked briskly from the room in search of Lord Alfred's poetry collection.

  After this burst of euphoria the actual locating of the poem proved to be a more difficult task than either man would have liked. They pulled volume after volume from the shelves, scouring the contents page of each one, and then the index of first lines. The stack of discarded books grew larger as the number of items remaining on the shelves grew fewer. Time ticked by and the minutes became hours. At length, Matthew picked up a volume by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

  "I suppose it would be far too obvious for Dad to make use of the Lord Alfred/Alfred Lord connection?" he wondered aloud.

  Charles chuckled. "Good thinking. It might be worth examining it extra closely, just to be on the safe side."

  Matthew gave a sigh and began to turn the pages.

  It was some considerable time later, not long after James had brought in yet another pot of Earl Grey tea with some generous slices of Dundee cake, that Charles gave a startled yelp. Matthew looked up from the weighty Tennyson volume in his hands.

  "You found something?" he asked.

  Charles nodded, letting the collection of Wilfred Owen poetry drop to the floor beside him. "Maybe. I do hope so."

  "Well?"

  "It's something that Lord Alfred said in the film. 'This is one of my favourite poems,'"

  "Yes...so?"

  "Look."

  Charles slowly raised his hand and pointed to a high shelf on which sat a single volume, bound in red leather with gold block lettering on its spine. The title read, "My Favourite Poems."

  Matthew was already out of his seat and reaching up to pull the dusty book from the shelf. Excitedly, they sat shoulder to shoulder and opened it. As the book fell open the gilt-edged pages revealed that this was no ordinary volume. Originally, a long time ago, the pages had all been blank. Now, however, there was a handwritten poem on each one, and each was presented in Lord Alfred's very best calligraphy.

  "Well, well," said Charles, "maybe he did write the poem himself after all."

  The script was cursive and contained many illuminated letters, expertly and artistically crafted. Shapes and colours all blended so effectively and, Charles noticed, enhanced the mood which the words of the poem were trying to convey. Matthew was in awe.

  "I knew he was a keen artist," he whispered, "but these are amazing."

  Charles could only agree. Reverently, he turned the fragile pages but stopped when he came to the page which contained the now familiar cryptic lines. They both stared at it.

  "Well, there it is. So what now?"

  "Might it be that this particular version of the poem contains some clue or other that we wouldn't notice if we just studied the text in our own handwriting?"

  "Possibly, but what can it be?"

  There was so much detail in these masterpieces. Who could say where a clue might be cunningly concealed? Perhaps they would need to locate a magnifying glass.

  Just then, James entered to announce that luncheon was served.

  A few minutes later found the two self-styled sleuths entering the conservatory. It was a large summery room, whose French windows and open patio doors welcomed plenty of daylight. Wicker furniture and comfortable cushions added to the relaxed ambience. Charles momentarily marvelled that such a charming room could be found at all in a house which seemed to exist in such a state of perpetual darkness.

  Against one wall was an aquarium in which swam all manner of tropical fish. Charles was no expert where fish were concerned but he did recognise some rainbow fish, a few guppies, a catfish and even a bright orange oscar fish with its ostentatious tail.

  As they settled themselves at the table Mrs Gillcarey came bustling in and began to carve some succulent ham. There was also a home baked loaf of bread, still warm from the oven, and a large bowl of waldorf salad. Fresh mango juice was poured into tall glasses. As they began to eat, Mrs Gillcarey spoke.

  "Begging your pardon, gentlemen." They looked up. "Tomorrow is the day when the window cleaners are booked to come. I was just wondering whether I should put them off for the time being?"

  Charles and Matthew looked at each other and shrugged.

  "I don't think that'll be a problem," said Charles. "I can’t see how they will get in our way. They might as well still come."

  "Very good, sir. As my mother used to say - God rest her - there's nothing quite so unpleasant as dirty windows; and now I've inherited her feelings on the matter!" She curtsied politely before scurrying away to finish preparing one of her 'specialities', which later turned out to be a perfect bread pudding with thick Devon custard - the ultimate comfort food. She produced it with pride, though blushed with pleasure at the diners' effusive compliments.

  As they completed the meal, Matthew said, "In the absence of any other ideas, perhaps we should examine the hand-written poem again in tandem with having another look at the film."

  Charles agreed and they returned to the library. Once there, while he waited for Matthew to start the projector, Charl
es began to flick through the pages looking for the poem, but then cried out in surprise.

  "What is it?" asked Matthew.

  "Well," he replied, "this just becomes more and more curious."

  Holding the book out to Matthew, he pointed to the poem but then turned the page...and there was the same poem written out again. True, some of the lettering was slightly different - not surprising in handwriting of this style - and the second version had been written a little further down the page for some reason, but the text was identical. They flicked the pages back and forth a few times.

  "Now, why would Dad go to all the trouble of writing out the same poem twice, on opposite sides of the same sheet of paper?" said Matthew.

  "Beats me," Charles replied. "Let's watch the film."

  Matthew set it running and they watched, yet again. They saw Lord Alfred make his entrance; they saw him reward James, rebuke Matthew and commend Charles; they watched as he held the sapphire aloft and recited that wretched poem; and then -

  "Wait!" shouted Charles. "Wind the film back. I want to hear that bit again."

  Matthew did so. Something was trying to surface in Charles' mind.

  Mrs Gillcarey dislikes being unable to see through dirty windows.

  The film was running again.

  "...the clues are not that difficult. I am sure you will see through them eventually."

  On impulse, he snatched up the book and folded it right back on itself so the crucial page stood out alone. Moving over to the large bay window he held it up to the bright sunlight. At first, he couldn’t quite make sense of the jumble of ornate letters; but then, suddenly, he saw it.

  "Well, I'll be!"

  "What is it?" asked Matthew, joining him in the window. "What have you found?"

  "Well, take a look for yourself."

  At first, Matthew also didn't know what he was looking for but then, all at once, he saw it too.

  What he saw appeared to be some sort of architectural plan. Then, recognition dawned and, once again, he found himself marvelling at his late father's ingenuity. Incredibly, with the light shining through the page, the elaborate lettering of the two versions of the poem combined to form an outline-plan of Heston Grange! True, not every room was shown, but there was the main front door, here was the entrance hall, and here were all those warren-like corridors. And then, as they continued to stare at it in amazement, it was Matthew who found what really mattered.