"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 the 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.
"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?"
"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.