Close Quarters (15 page)

‘Of course – then 2 down goes with it. “Apple-blossoms.” But then, what do you make of 27?' It was noticeable that he was now treating Prynne almost as an equal in the craft.

The solution to 27 struck them both simultaneously.

‘This is getting rather creepy,' said Trumpington. ‘“Down.” “Apple-down,” I suppose it must be.'

‘It's of no significance, of course – this must have been written a long time before—'

‘Of course, rather an unfortunate coincidence. How affectionately he refers to him. Whyte was one of the few people who seemed to know our head verger well – our late head verger, I should say. What do you make of 1 across? A “ramp” is a slope and would fit – but it's hardly crooked, is it?'

‘In the American sense.'

‘Good gracious, yes. I fear my knowledge of transatlantic terms—'

‘Then 3 down seems to be “P-AR” – what does “see 17” mean?'

‘Look at clue 17; the two words have to be considered together – isn't there a lily called a “nenuphar?” That gives us an “N” for this mysterious 12 down. We can't even guess at it yet.'

‘Look at 19 across then, how do we work that?'

‘Two English pronouns … in a foreign one. Foreign, of course, always means French in these puzzles. The first or last letter will be the French pronoun. I see we already have an “S” for first letter. Then it must be the reflexive pronoun “se,” unless it's “sa” – but that's really an adjective. We have only three internal letters for two pronouns. So one must be “I” – either the second or the penultimate. The latter, I think, don't you? That leaves us with “S,” obviously “US.” And the result'—concluded Trumpington, with the simple triumph of a man producing a small rabbit out of a large hat—'is “Susie.”'

‘All right,' said Prynne. ‘I give in. But you mustn't show off more than necessary. Now I think 20 down must be “ilex” – the literal botany meaning. But it implies an “X” at the second of 29 across.'

‘But that's splendid. “Past” signifies “ex” – in the sense of ex-captain. Then “scraps” is a four-letter word, which—'

‘“Orts.” “Exorts.” Put it in. We shall soon be finished at this rate.' On which fatal words a doldrum settled on the puzzle, and both solvers stared at it for ten irritating minutes and made no progress.

‘Puzzles often go dead like this in the middle,' said Trumpington. ‘But, of course, it's those four blank marginal words which are holding us up. “Solve empirically.” What on earth does it mean? Do you know, I was sure they went in pairs. 4 across and 30 across the same, and 12 down and 14 down the same. But they can't be. The middle letter of 12 is “N,” whilst 14 starts “R-G,” or should do.'

Prynne wasn't attending. He gave a little sigh of satisfaction. ‘I like this game of yours,' he said at last. ‘I confess it. It gets me. And I think that I am beginning to understand the language. 12 across is “pew” – reference Treasure Island. It doesn't help much, since we can't guess 12 down, and the other letters are blank. But I've got an idea for 15 down, which ought to help. What about “runner up?” “Second” in a sporting sense.'

‘That's good, really – very good indeed. I'll write it down. Now what does that give us? Isn't 30 across going to be an odd word? I don't believe there is such a—Still, we mustn't speculate; let's check up by means of 21 across.'

‘Construe it, first.'

‘Well, a cipher is “nought” – in other words, the letter “O.” But the clue is cunningly set. It might mean one of two things. A word for “thrust” minus the letter “O” equals a word for “Loll.” Or, alternatively, a word for “Loll” minus the letter “O” to equal a word for “thrust.” In either case we can place the “O” – it's the second letter. Then we have “-N-E,” and most probably “-NCE” or “-NGE;” “NSE” isn't a verbal termination. “NNE” is uncommon.

‘Some sort of vowel between the “O” and the “N.” “OA” or “OU.” It must be “lounge,” I think. Yes, of course. Take away the “O” and you have “lunge” – to thrust in fencing.'

‘Your bird, Colonel. Now I'm going to cheat. Don't I see a Shakespeare concordance up there? Well, look up “barefaced.” Only four possibles. “Play barefaced” – “I could with barefaced power” – Only one from
Hamlet.
Listen to this. “They bore him barefaced on the bier.” That's good enough, isn't it? Sung by Ophelia. Speaking of Polonius. That explains the sex difficulty. Simple enough when you know how.'

‘Blank letters, all of them,' sighed Trumpington ungratefully. ‘But I own that it's nice to be right. Now that drunken business in 26 down – that's another convention. The finished word has to end in “SH,” like a stage drunkard, you know. “Mess” is “confusion.” Make it drunk and it becomes “mesh.” Rather arbitrary, really, like the assumption that all Welshmen turn their initial d's into t's, or that all f 's become v's in Dorsetshire. That completes that fantastic word at 30 across.'

‘Haven't we been overlooking rather an easy one at 23 across? It says “the confused end of 8 or 6” – we have 8 across, anyway. That ends “ATE.” Then 23 across must be “TEA” – unless it's just plain muddling of the letters – but that's hardly playing the game, is it? I mean, the second one must be a word itself, too, mustn't it? Or don't you play that convention?'

‘Certainly it must. But you can also make “EAT.”'

‘Confound it, so you can. The Greek letter “ETA,” for that matter – or would it be spelt with a double “E?”'

‘Taking the alternatives as “TEA” and “EAT,” it gives us two possible combinations for 24 down. “E-T,” or “A-T.” Do either of those suggest to you a ladylike flower?'

‘I can't say they do. When is a flower ladylike?'

‘Well, cutting out the ladylike, can you think of any flower beginning with those letters?'

‘“Aster” – but why the Lady? Oh, of course. Unfair, really, but put it down. That gives us “EAT” for 23 across. 31 across, by the way, must be norm – not that it affects the main issue. Then for our key word at 14 down, we have “R-G-T.”'

It was at this point that Prynne made a momentous observation.

‘I wonder,' he said slowly, ‘whether perhaps we aren't meant to take that clue at 14 down and the others quite literally – do you see what I mean? After all, the words “solve empirically” might be taken in two ways. They might be the clue themselves – as, of course, we first assumed that they were – in which case the answer would be something like “guess” or “puzzle out.” Or else they might be instructions to us, as solvers. Meaning that we are to get the “straight clues” first, and then puzzle out what the four key words are by looking at the letters we have got. That's really what empirically means, isn't it – trying all possible combinations?'

‘I've seen something of the sort in Torquemada.' Trumpington spoke with reverence of the great Inquisitor. ‘You have sometimes whole sentences or stanzas to guess. But in his arrangement of the frame, of course, there are no hidden letters.'

Then perhaps we can start by guessing 14 down. “R-G-T.” Unless we are embracing the Latin language – and I don't see any reason to do so – the only word which suggests itself is “right.”'

‘And 12 down? “Penal,” or—'

‘Don't be so cautious – it's “panel.”'

‘Right, “panel.”'

They were both silent for a moment. It sounded all of a sudden that they had taken a long step nearer to the heart of Canon Whyte's little mystification. Then Trumpington got up and turned the light on. He tried to make his voice sound as matter of fact as possible.

‘That's a very clever suggestion. The right panel of what, I wonder? His own library, perhaps – but that's panelled all over.'

‘Or of his desk?'

‘That's more likely. What became of his desk? I believe his son had it – he must have taken it away with him. I do think that Whyte might have been more explicit.'

‘Aren't we forgetting the other two key words? 4 across and 30 across should tell us all we want to know.'

‘Of course; we must finish this, Prynne.'

‘We must, and we will, Trumpington. Advance the standards. What do you make of 4 down?'

‘Nothing, at the moment. It seems to leave no point of attack – and which Blake?'

‘Sexton Blake?'

‘The poet, more probably. What about 6 down, then?'

‘One thing we have established; it must end in “ATE” if the last three letters are an anagram at 23 across. With the “I” from sliver that gives us four blank letters followed by “IATE.”'

‘Well, that's a likely enough ending, in all conscience. An adjective, like “collegiate” or “branchiate” – or a verb, perhaps – “officiate.”'

‘All good sound suggestions – except that they've got too many letters.'

‘And nothing to do with the clue.'

‘True. What about 7 down?'

‘Well, I have a feeling, based on many similar subterfuges, that the word “merely” has been put in with intent to deceive – the nucleus of the clue is “relative.”'

‘Five letters, and ending in “E.” “Uncle.”'

‘Or “niece.”'

‘Confound you, yes. It might be “niece.” What a hard world it is. And 10 across is quite incomprehensible.'

‘“Archetype of the manifold varieties of existence.” But it does seem to mean something, doesn't it? I mean, it's not just sheer gibberish, like “Why is a mouse when it spins?” Now, how would you define an archetype?'

‘I shouldn't. I should look it up. Here we are. It means a prototype.'

‘Well, that's very helpful. And a prototype means – don't tell me. I've guessed it. It means an archetype.'

After this pronouncement a gloomy silence prevailed. Once again it was Prynne, the amateur, who came to the rescue.

‘“Idea,”' he said firmly.

‘You've had an idea?'

‘No. Yes. I mean “idea” is the answer to 10 across. It's an Aristotelian definition. I knew I had met it somewhere.'

‘Are you sure? That's very remarkable. I don't wish to look a gift horse in the mouth, but if you'll pass the dictionary. Yes, indeed. “An image of an external object formed by the mind – notion – thought – product of intellectual action. An archetype of the manifold …” Prynne, that's absolutely brilliant.'

‘Write it in,' said Prynne. ‘We're in the straight now. 7 down has got to be “niece,” of course.'

‘And 6 down seems to suggest a word now. “-I-IATE,” “-ICIATE,” “-ILIATE,” “-ITIATE.” “Initiate.” That's right, it must be. Taken in four separate words. “In it I ate.”'

‘I don't wish to damp your ardour, but 4 across doesn't look any more like a word than 30 across. What letter are you going to suggest between the “I” and the “N?” A vowel – or another “N.” Or a “G” – that gives it a sort of French look, finishing “-IGNE.”'

‘There are too many possibilities. We shall have to get 4 down. I feel that it's the poet Blake that is referred to. I haven't a copy of his works—'

‘I have,' said Prynne. ‘I'll fetch it. And we'll dig it out if it means reading through the whole boiling issue.'

A moment later the door had slammed behind him.

When he came back with a fat volume of Blake's poems, one look at Trumpington's face told him that he'd had his journey for nothing. ‘Have you got it?' he cried.

‘“Women's Institute.” I thought of it as soon as you'd left.'

‘Of course. Why, it was only last week that we had it – “and did those feet …?” Put it in, anyway.'

‘There!' They stared at the finished product.

‘That top word, now. It should be easy enough, with the first letter “F” and the third letter “B.” Where's that dictionary? I'll start with the FAB's. No good. FEB – “Febrific” would do, if niece is wrong. And it means “feverish,” or “producing fever,” which is quite appropriate. FIB – no use. FOB – FUB – nothing at all.'

‘Try FYB,' said Prynne desperately. ‘It must be something … Well, it's a rotten dictionary, then.'

‘This is the only dictionary Whyte ever used.' Trumpington gazed lovingly at the tattered, dog-eared edition of Chambers'
Twentieth Century
– the crossword solver's vademecum.

‘Try that gazetteer.' The gazetteer produced a number of towns, rivers, inlets, and hills, starting with F-B, but nothing of eight letters to fit the data except “Fabriano,” which they discovered to be a cathedral town (population 23,200) in the neighbourhood of Ancona in Italy.

‘And Whyte was never in Italy in his life,' wailed Trumpington – and broke off short at the sight of Prynne's face.

‘Don't talk,' said Prynne simply, ‘and I may remember it. I don't promise anything, mind you. Somewhere, somehow. Oh, Lord, what a muddled head I've got. “Fabriano.” But it's not a place at all – it's a person. That's it. Exhibition of Italian art. Where's that dictionary of biography?'

Feverishly he turned the pages. ‘“Fabriano, Gentile da (1348?-1428?) – Italian painter. Born at Fabriano and known after his native town. Painted at, etc., etc. Adorned the Lateran Church with many beautiful frescoes – a series of five beautiful miniature triptyches.” There you are,' he finished simply.

In complete silence Canon Trumpington wrote “Fabriano” into the top right-hand corner of the puzzle, and “triptych” into the bottom left-hand corner. Then he got up.

‘That must be the one he gave the Dean,' he said. ‘We'd better go and look at it now. Come on.'