"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, Charles 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.
"Look!" he exclaimed. "There!"
Jabbing his finger at the page there appeared to be a small red 'x' in a room adjacent to one of the turrets.
"Well," said Charles, his feelings of excitement covered with traditional British reserve, "I suggest we make that location our next destination."
Taking the all-important book with them, they sprinted from the library and out into the maze of corridors.
Chapter 8
Sometimes running, sometimes walking briskly, Charles and Matthew turned left and right through the endless maze of passageways which was Heston Grange. Although they had Lord Alfred’s hand-drawn map to guide them it was difficult to follow it at times, since it was hardly of Ordnance Survey standard, and their route passed through some dark areas of the irregularly shaped house where was no light source to enable them to look at it properly. Added to that was the realisation that there was no indication as to which floor the red X referred to. All they knew for sure was that it had been marked next to one of the manor’s turrets. After what seemed an age of scurrying this way and that, upstairs and down, Matthew, who had been leading the way with the book in hand, came to a stop. They were now on the top floor and Charles, catching up a moment later, was somewhat out of breath, thanks to all the stairs. Matthew examined the map again.
"Well," he began, "if I'm reading this correctly the room we're after is on the other side of this wall."
"So where's the way in?"
There was no door; just oak panelling. But this panelling was slightly different to elsewhere in the house because many years ago a craftsman had engraved into the wood, and then painted, posy of red poppies.
Reasoning that the entrance must be round the other side they immediately tried to get there, but it proved not to be as simple as just walking round the corner. There appeared to be no direct route. Once again they had to brave the catacomb-like structure of the house. Eventually, though, Matthew once again halted — by another wall. Again, no door.
"Do you suppose it could be a secret room?" wondered Charles, "A bit like the octagonal room in the tower — completely enclosed. No windows, and impossible to detect because of the ramshackle layout of the place."