“Never heard such nonsense,” said Edwin. He glared at Henry and added, in an undertone to Claud, “Told you the man was unbalanced.”
Henry said, “Mason’s car was numbered RM1 — typically. But in his diary he had entered the number as BK6P82. It was obviously not his car number but some other number which he wished to remember, something important. It didn’t take much imagination to come to the conclusion that it meant Book Six, page eighty-two. I had no idea what it referred to, but my — that is, I had a feeling that it was important. And then I read Aunt Dora’s copy of old Dr. Thompson’s letter to Major Manciple.”
“Better ring young Dr. Thompson,” said Edwin audibly to Claud. “Fellow’s off his rocker.”
“I don’t see,” said Violet.
“From that letter, written just after old Mr. Manciple’s death, it was clear that on his deathbed Mr. Manciple had been trying very hard to communicate to Dr. Thompson some message to be passed on to his son, George. I couldn’t believe that it was simply about not selling the house; that was understood among the family and was mentioned in his will. Nor did I believe that the Head would have wasted his precious last breaths in mumbling that he was ill and sick. His final remark to Dr. Thompson was also revealing.”
“What final remark?” Ramona asked.
“That Dr. Thompson was a fool. Meaning that he had not grasped what the Head was trying to tell him. However, fortunately, Dr. Thompson was conscientious enough to report to Major Manciple verbatim what his father had said, so that it’s possible for us to interpret it. In fact, it was not ‘my home,’ but ‘my Homer.’ And what Thompson took for the words ‘ill’ and ‘sick’ were actually ‘ Iliad ’ and ‘Six,’ Book Six, that is. This at once tied up with the entry in Mason’s diary. Book Six of the Iliad contains, on page eighty-two, a special message left by Mr. Augustus Manciple to his son George.
“I have been told by several people,” Henry went on, “that old Mr. Manciple became extremely suspicious of outsiders as he grew older, that he was convinced that he was being cheated, and that he trusted nobody except his solicitor, Arthur Pringle. Pringle undoubtedly had instructions to pass on to George the secret of the Iliad, but he died before he could do so. On hearing of Pringle’s death the Head did his best to get the message over himself, but he was misunderstood. For years the book sat here on the library shelf, unread — for none of you are classical scholars. Eventually it was sold with a number of similar volumes to Raymond Mason, who wished to make a brave show of leather-bound volumes in his study.
“What made him look at the book we shall never know — although I gather that he made a pretense of reading these weighty works in order to impress people like Sir John Adamson. At any rate he opened the book, which is more than any of you had done, and he found the secret of page eighty-two. Which explains why he was so desperate to buy this house. Why he tried every trick he could think of to make Major Manciple sell — and why he finally killed himself in a desperate effort to do so.”
George Manciple was looking much as he did when Claud and Edwin started on a metaphysical discussion. He said, “I don’t understand a word of what you’ve been saying, Tibbett. What has Mason’s registration number got to do with it? I always disliked that car of his.”
“I think,” said Henry, “that the time has come to let you take a look at this.”
He held out the leather-bound book to George, who took it gingerly. It was open to page eighty-two. George said, “All Greek to me, old man.”
“Look more closely,” said Henry, “between the pages.”
They all watched as George examined the open book, and there was a dead silence as he held it up to show that pages eighty-two and eighty-three had, in fact, been pasted together. Apparently, at some recent date, they had been carefully cut open with a sharp knife for the cut showed clearly, but they had been refastened with transparent tape.
Henry held out a pocket knife. “Open it up, Major Manciple,” he said.
George cut the pages apart, and as he did so, a flimsy paper with writing on it in faded ink fluttered to the ground. Edwin stooped to pick it up.
“That’s the Head’s handwriting,” he said.
Henry nodded. “It’s addressed to his son, George,” he said. And to Major Manciple, “Read it, sir.”
George Manciple slowly smoothed the paper. Then he began to read aloud.
Dear George,
By the time you read this I shall be in my grave, thanks mainly to the ministrations of that old fool Thompson and his cronies. Arthur Pringle, who is the only honest man in England, will have told you where to find this letter. When you read it, you will see that I have taken steps to safeguard your inheritance. Had I not taken these steps you can be certain that you would never have had the means to maintain Cregwell Grange, which, as you know, I have charged you to do in perpetuity.
For some years now my suspicions have been growing concerning Masterman, the bank manager, and I am now convinced of his dishonesty. I considered moving your dear mother’s jewels to a safer spot, but in these days where is safety to be found? One bank is as perfidious as the next, and all of them are thieves and rogues.
However, I think I may say that I have fooled them. Over a period of years I have been removing items of jewelry from the bank safe, one at a time, having them copied in worthless paste, and replacing the fake pieces in the bank. The real jewels I have concealed at Cregwell Grange, where I can keep them under my own eye. Just last week I completed the final transfer — the diamond sunburst brooch. So, when Masterman and his gang of crooks come to rifle the strongbox, they will find only pinchbeck and glass. I confess that this thought gives me considerable satisfaction.
Now, it only remains for me to tell you how to locate the real jewels. They are buried beneath a flagstone in the wine cellar of the Grange. From the doorway count ten flagstones forward, and three to the left. The stone itself is beneath the bin containing my vintage port. I trust that the wine has not been unduly disturbed each time that I have had to move it in order to bury another piece, but I should advise leaving it to rest for several months before drinking it. You will note — with amusement, I hope — that in my will I have specifically left to you “Cregwell Grange and all its contents.” Thus your title to the jewelry is unassailable.
I most strongly advise you to leave the jewels where they are, removing one piece at a time to sell as and when you may need money. On no account should you entrust it to a bank, any more than you should entrust your investments to a stockbroker or your person to the medical profession. Consider, after all, what has happened to me.
Your loving father,
Augustus Manciple
George’s voice trailed away into a sort of astonished whistle, and for a moment there was dead silence.
Then Henry said, quickly, “You’ll obviously want to talk this over, and, I imagine, to go and dig in the cellar. I suppose there’s no doubt that the jewels will be there?”
“If he left them there, they’re there still,” said George. “There are even a few bottles of the Head’s port left. And, of course, they are never disturbed.”
Henry held out his hand to George. “Well,” he said, “I congratulate you, Major Manciple. That jewelry must be worth many thousands of pounds.”
George was looking dazed. He shook Henry’s hand and said, “Who brought back my gun then?”
“I don’t know for certain,” said Henry, “but I think it was probably Sir John Adamson.”