Partners in Crime (18 page)

‘No, you will see this concentration will work in the end,’ said Tuppence. ‘How busy our sub-conscious will have to be in the next eight hours!’ And on this hopeful note they went to bed.

‘Well,’ said Tommy next morning. ‘Has the subconscious worked?’

‘I have got an idea,’ said Tuppence.

‘You have. What sort of an idea?’

‘Well, rather a funny idea. Not at all like anything I have ever read in detective stories. As a matter of fact it is an idea that
you
put into my head.’

‘Then it must be a good idea,’ said Tommy firmly. ‘Come on, Tuppence, out with it.’

‘I shall have to send a cable to verify it,’ said Tuppence. ‘No, I am not going to tell you. It’s a perfectly wild idea, but it’s the only thing that fits the facts.’

‘Well,’ said Tommy, ‘I must away to the office. A roomful of disappointed clients must not wait in vain. I leave this case in the hands of my promising subordinate.’

Tuppence nodded cheerfully.

She did not put in an appearance at the office all day. When Tommy returned that evening about half-past five it was to find a wildly exultant Tuppence awaiting him.

‘I have done it, Tommy. I have solved the mystery of the alibi. We can charge up all these half-crowns and ten-shilling notes and demand a substantial fee of our own from Mr Montgomery Jones and he can go right off and collect his girl.’

‘What is the solution?’ cried Tommy.

‘A perfectly simple one,’ said Tuppence. ‘
Twins
.’

‘What do you mean?–Twins?’

‘Why, just that. Of course it is the only solution. I will say you put it into my head last night talking about mothers-in-law, twins, and bottles of beer. I cabled to Australia and got back the information I wanted. Una has a twin sister, Vera, who arrived in England last Monday. That is why she was able to make this bet so spontaneously. She thought it would be a frightful rag on poor Montgomery Jones. The sister went to Torquay and she stayed in London.’

‘Do you think she’ll be terribly despondent that she’s lost?’ asked Tommy.

‘No,’ said Tuppence, ‘I don’t. I gave you my views about that before. She will put all the kudos down to Montgomery Jones. I always think respect for your husband’s abilities should be the foundation of married life.’

‘I am glad to have inspired these sentiments in you, Tuppence.’

‘It is not a really satisfactory solution,’ said Tuppence. ‘Not the ingenious sort of flaw that Inspector French would have detected.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Tommy. ‘I think the way I showed these photographs to the waiter in the restaurant was exactly like Inspector French.’

‘He didn’t have to use nearly so many half-crowns and ten-shilling notes as we seem to have done,’ said Tuppence.

‘Never mind,’ said Tommy. ‘We can charge them all up with additions to Mr Montgomery Jones. He will be in such a state of idiotic bliss that he would probably pay the most enormous bill without jibbing at it.’

‘So he should,’ said Tuppence. ‘Haven’t Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives been brilliantly successful? Oh, Tommy, I do think we are extraordinarily clever. It quite frightens me sometimes.’

‘The next case we have shall be a Roger Sheringham case, and you, Tuppence, shall be Roger Sheringham.’

‘I shall have to talk a lot,’ said Tuppence.

‘You do that naturally,’ said Tommy. ‘And now I suggest that we carry out my programme of last night and seek out a Music Hall where they have plenty of jokes about mothers-in-law, bottles of beer,
and Twins
.’

‘I wish,’ said Tuppence, roaming moodily round the office, ‘that we could befriend a clergyman’s daughter.’

‘Why?’ asked Tommy.

‘You may have forgotten the fact, but I was once a clergyman’s daughter myself. I remember what it was like. Hence this altruistic urge–this spirit of thoughtful consideration for others–this –’

‘You are getting ready to be Roger Sheringham, I see,’ said Tommy. ‘If you will allow me to make a criticism, you talk quite as much as he does, but not nearly so well.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Tuppence. ‘There is a feminine subtlety about my conversation, a
je ne sais quoi
that no gross male could ever attain to. I have, moreover, powers unknown to my prototype–do I mean prototype? Words are such uncertain things, they so often sound well, but mean the opposite of what one thinks they do.’

‘Go on,’ said Tommy kindly.

‘I was. I was only pausing to take breath. Touching these powers, it is my wish today to assist a clergyman’s daughter. You will see, Tommy, the first person to enlist the aid of Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives will be a clergyman’s daughter.’

‘I’ll bet you it isn’t,’ said Tommy.

‘Done,’ said Tuppence. ‘Hist! To your typewriters, Oh! Israel. One comes.’

Mr Blunt’s office was humming with industry as Albert opened the door and announced:

‘Miss Monica Deane.’

A slender, brown-haired girl, rather shabbily dressed, entered and stood hesitating. Tommy came forward.

‘Good-morning, Miss Deane. Won’t you sit down and tell us what we can do for you? By the way, let me introduce my confidential secretary, Miss Sheringham.’

‘I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Deane,’ said Tuppence.‘Yourfather was in the Church, I think.’

‘Yes, he was. But how
did
you know that?’

‘Oh! we have our methods,’ said Tuppence. ‘You mustn’t mind me rattling on. Mr Blunt likes to hear me talk. He always says it gives him ideas.’

The girl stared at her. She was a slender creature, not beautiful, but possessing a wistful prettiness. She had a quantity of soft mouse-coloured hair, and her eyes were dark blue and very lovely, though the dark shadows round them spoke of trouble and anxiety.

‘Will you tell me your story, Miss Deane?’ said Tommy.

The girl turned to him gratefully.

‘It’s such a long rambling story,’ said the girl. ‘My name is Monica Deane. My father was the rector of Little Hampsley in Suffolk. He died three years ago, and my mother and I were left very badly off. I went out as a governess, but my mother became a confirmed invalid, and I had to come home to look after her. We were desperately poor, but one day we received a lawyer’s letter telling us that an aunt of my father’s had died and had left everything to me. I had often heard of this aunt, who had quarrelled with my father many years ago, and I knew that she was very well off, so it really seemed that our troubles were at an end. But matters did not turn out quite as well as we had hoped. I inherited the house she had lived in, but after paying one or two small legacies, there was no money left. I suppose she must have lost it during the war, or perhaps she had been living on her capital. Still, we had the house, and almost at once we had a chance of selling it at quite an advantageous price. But, foolishly perhaps, I refused the offer. We were in tiny, but expensive lodgings, and I thought it would be much nicer to live in the Red House, where my mother could have comfortable rooms and take in paying guests to cover our expenses.

‘I adhered to this plan, notwithstanding a further tempting offer from the gentleman who wanted to buy. We moved in, and I advertised for paying guests. For a time, all went well, we had several answers to our advertisement; my aunt’s old servant remained on with us, and she and I between us did the work of the house. And then these unaccountable things began to happen.’

‘What things?’

‘The queerest things. The whole place seemed bewitched. Pictures fell down, crockery flew across the room and broke; one morning we came down to find all the furniture moved round. At first we thought someone was playing a pracitcal joke, but we had to give up that explanation. Sometimes when we were all sitting down to dinner, a terrific crash would be heard overhead. We would go up and find no one there, but a piece of furniture thrown violently to the ground.’

‘A
poltergeist
,’ cried Tuppence, much interested.

‘Yes, that’s what Dr O’Neill said–though I don’t know what it means.’

‘It’s a sort of evil spirit that plays tricks,’ explained Tuppence, who in reality knew very little about the subject, and was not even sure that she had got the word
poltergeist
right.

‘Well, at any rate, the effect was disastrous. Our visitors were frightened to death, and left as soon as possible. We got new ones, and they too left hurriedly. I was in despair, and, to crown all, our own tiny income ceased suddenly–the Company in which it was invested failed.’

‘You poor dear,’ said Tuppence sympathetically. ‘What a time you have had. Did you want Mr Blunt to investigate this “haunting” business?’

‘Not exactly. You see, three days ago, a gentleman called upon us. His name was Dr O’Neill. He told us that he was a member of the Society for Physical Research, and that he had heard about the curious manifestations that had taken place in our house and was much interested. So much so, that he was prepared to buy it from us, and conduct a series of experiments there.’

‘Well?’

‘Of course, at first, I was overcome with joy. It seemed the way out of all our difficulties. But –’

‘Yes?’

‘Perhaps you will think me fanciful. Perhaps I am. But–oh! I’m sure I haven’t made a mistake. It was the same man!’

‘What same man?’

‘The same man who wanted to buy it before. Oh! I’m sure I’m right.’

‘But why shouldn’t it be?’

‘You don’t understand. The two men were quite different, different name and everything. The first man was quite young, a spruce, dark young man of thirty odd. Dr O’Neill is about fifty, he has a grey beard and wears glasses and stoops. But when he talked I saw a gold tooth one side of his mouth. It only shows when he laughs. The other man had a tooth in just the same position, and then I looked at his ears. I had noticed the other man’s ears, because they were a peculiar shape with hardly any lobe. Dr O’Neill’s were just the same. Both things couldn’t be a coincidence, could they? I thought and thought and finally I wrote and said I would let him know in a week. I had noticed Mr Blunt’s advertisement some time ago–as a matter of fact in an old paper that lined one of the kitchen drawers. I cut it out and came up to town.’

‘You were quite right,’ said Tuppence, nodding her head with vigour. ‘This needs looking into.’

‘A very interesting case, Miss Deane,’ observed Tommy.

‘We shall be pleased to look into this for you–eh, Miss Sheringham?’

‘Rather,’ said Tuppence, ‘and we’ll get to the bottom of it too.’

‘I understand, Miss Deane,’ went on Tommy, ‘that the household consists of you and your mother and a servant. Can you give me any particulars about the servant?’

‘Her name is Crockett. She was with my aunt about eight or ten years. She is an elderly woman, not very pleasant in manner, but a good servant. She is inclined to give herself airs because her sister married out of her station. Crockett has a nephew whom she is always telling us is “quite the gentleman”.’

‘H’m,’ said Tommy, rather at a loss how to proceed.

Tuppence had been eyeing Monica keenly, now she spoke with sudden decision.

‘I think the best plan would be for Miss Deane to come out and lunch with me. It’s just one o’clock. I can get full details from her.’

‘Certainly, Miss Sheringham,’ said Tommy. ‘An excellent plan.’

‘Look here,’ said Tuppence, when they were comfortably ensconced at a little table in a neighbouring restaurant, ‘I want to know: Is there any special reason why you want to find out about all this?’

Monica blushed.

‘Well, you see –’

‘Out with it,’ said Tuppence encouragingly.

‘Well–there are two men who–who–want to marry me.’

‘The usual story, I suppose? One rich, one poor, and the poor one is the one you like!’

‘I don’t know how you know all these things,’ murmured the girl.

‘That’s a sort of law of Nature,’ explained Tuppence. ‘It happens to everybody. It happened to me.’

‘You see, even if I sell the house, it won’t bring us in enough to live on. Gerald is a dear, but he’s desperately poor–though he’s a very clever engineer; and if only he had a little capital, his firm would take him into partnership. The other, Mr Partridge, is a very good man, I am sure–and well off, and if I married him, it would be an end to all our troubles. But–but –’

‘I know,’ said Tuppence sympathetically. ‘It isn’t the same thing at all. You can go on telling yourself how good and worthy he is, and adding up his qualities as though they were an addition sum–and it all has a simply refrigerating effect.’

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.’

‘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?’

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:

‘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.