"Perhaps we should watch both films again," said Matthew.
"Why not?"
"Next, we'll be opening our very own cinema."
"Very witty."
As the second roll of film came to an end yet again Charles and Matthew remained staring at the vacant screen as, for the umpteenth time, they combed through Lord Alfred's words in their minds.
"I agree that both poems could well be alluding to that cemetery," said Charles. "Their theme is quite obviously centred around graves and death."
"Yes, and what did he mean when he said he wanted to indulge his love of painting?" asked Matthew.
Charles sighed. "I don't have the faintest idea. At least, not yet." There was another pause, then he took a deep breath.
"Let's assess what we have so far. We have the first poem, the so-called cryptic lines, which we then find are written in Lord Alfred’s hand, in duplicate and back to back in such a way that a floor plan of the house is created. That leads us to the location of a secret room—"
"— which we can't get into until we've talked our way past an old crone whose brain has atrophied," interrupted Matthew.
"Once we do get inside we find that it that looks like a pyramid, and we deduce that it once contained a sphinx. After further talking with Meg we manage to find the sphinx—"
"— which is now broken."
"And that leads us to the disguised box containing the second film. That is where we hear another poem and we're told, rather intriguingly, that the first one still contains clues. We also learn that His Lordship wants to bring his painting skills into the mix." He paused. "Have I missed anything?"
"Just one small detail."
"Oh?"
Matthew stood up and began to pace back and forth, angrily.
"The clock is ticking and time is running out. Let's suppose that we do manage to make some headway with this second poem. What then? Are we to discover yet another film hidden under the floorboards? And then another one stuffed inside a reindeer head in the trophy room? And then do we find we have to recite the complete works of Shakespeare backwards, in Swahili? Or does this wild goose chase even have an end at all? I wouldn't be surprised if the old codger deliberately set out to make the task so long and complicated that we couldn't possibly solve it in the time allowed."
Charles took another swig of tea, discovering too late that it was now unpleasantly tepid. Then a thought struck him.
"I wonder… " he began.
Matthew momentarily paused in his pacing and glanced over at him.
"I wonder whether Lord Alfred was being more crafty than we've quite realised."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the artistic lettering of the first poem provided us with a plan of the house, but additionally the actual content of the text mentioned the pyramid room and also told us about the sphinx."
"Yes… so?"
"I'm thinking that maybe each clue has more than one meaning."
"Oh, well that's just great. So at a stroke we've doubled the size of the task."
"Wait. Can we identify which clues have so far appeared to lead in only one direction?"
It didn't take them long to work it out.
"The sphinx!" said Matthew. "The inscription in the base led us to the box with the second roll of film, but up to now that's all. Could it be trying to tell us something else in addition?"
Charles was thinking. "Hmm… maybe."
"But it's broken," Matthew lamented.
"I suppose we could ask James to bring us the broken pieces — that might yield something."
"Perhaps there was something hidden inside it?"
"I would've thought that was unlikely. If Lord Alfred did put something inside it he would need to have done so when the model was first made before the plaster had set. Surely he couldn't have planned this little escapade so long ago?"
"Wouldn't put it past him."
"Just a minute… what did the inscription say? 'My tribute to Oscar's best.'"
"Yes, from which we found the box."
"It was cleverly disguised to look like a book — a book of what?"
"Stories or poems, I assume. It was called 'The best of Oscar Wilde.'"
"But inside, there weren't any poems — only the film."
Matthew was becoming restless again.
"Ok, so what of it?"
"This entire quest has been hallmarked with poetry from start to finish — but we haven't yet looked at any of Oscar Wilde's actual poems!"
Matthew hesitated before saying, thoughtfully, "Yes, you're right."
They moved quickly along the library shelves yet again and found the small number of Oscar Wilde volumes. Charles handed three of them to Matthew and took the other three himself.
"Once again, I don't know what we're looking for," he said, "but let's hope we recognise it when we see it."
They settled themselves into the two comfy chairs and began to read.
It was barely three minutes later when Matthew suddenly exclaimed, "I've got it!"
Charles leapt up and crossed over to him.
"What have you found?"
"See for yourself."
Matthew handed him the book, holding it open at a certain page, then sat back in his chair folding his arms in satisfaction. Charles took one look and gave a wry smile. "So the poems were not Lord Alfred's own creations after all."
The two poems, with which Charles and Matthew were now both very familiar, were in fact two halves of the same poem. Written by Oscar Wilde, it was entitled "The Grave of Shelley."
Chapter 15
"He could have told us the title right at the start when he made the first film, but he didn't."
Charles was pacing up and down and thinking aloud as he sought to assimilate what this new discovery could mean.
"He could also have included it with the two handwritten versions in his book, but he didn't do that either. Clearly, he made a conscious decision to deliberately keep the title a secret until this point."
"He made the assumption that neither of us would possess a sufficient knowledge of poetry to immediately recognise the poem in the first place."
"A safe assumption, as it turns out. Anyway, now that we know that it’s just a single poem, and written about Shelley’s final resting place, where does that take us?"
"I don't know. Did Shelley write poems too?"
Charles thought for a moment. "Hmm… not sure. If he did, I'm sure they'll be here on these shelves."
"Let's look."
"We're going to be quite well read by the time we're done."
Matthew smiled. "Here's a thought. Do you think this Shelley was any relation to Mary Shelley, who wrote 'Frankenstein'? Dad was always a bit of a monster."
Charles smiled back.
"Just find his poems and then find some clues."
They searched, and read, then read some more, and searched again, but it was heavy going. Prior to this whole incident Matthew had never so much as even picked up a book of poetry but now here he was, wading through numerous poems by this bloke, Shelley, and being faced with titles such as 'Song of Proserpine' and 'Adonais.' When he turned the page and came across a piece of writing entitled 'Ozymandias' he all but threw the book on the floor in despair. Time was passing and, despite the burst of euphoria when the title of the Wilde poem was discovered, further progress was now proving elusive. The ticking of the stately grandfather clock was the only sound as the two men read, serving as a constant reminder to them both that the deadline was drawing inexorably closer.
That evening, after hours of reading with nothing to show for their efforts, Charles and Matthew sat hunched over their dinners feeling miserable. Even the best efforts of the inestimable Mrs Gillcarey with her expertly prepared roast pork did little to lift their spirits, despite the tastiness of the crackling; but James did his job well and was constantly on hand to refill their glasses with mulled wine and, after the meal as they sat once again before the open fire, he left them with a handsome cheeseboard and a full decanter of vintage port.