“That might not be such a good idea,” Matthew replied. “I can feel those calories settling aready!”
The screen and projector were still set up in the same positions they had been occupying for the last several days. The two men ate and drank, lapsing into silence, as they both sat staring at the empty screen wondering whether they needed to watch the two films yet again and, if so, whether they could stand to do so. Matthew, especially, was sure that he could now recite the entire contents of each by heart.
The screen was standing against the one wall of the library which was not lined from floor to ceiling with books. Charles found himself looking beyond the screen to this wall, covered with traditional oak panelling and all those portraits in their oval shaped frames. On impulse, he rose from his chair, crossed the room and began to walk along this gallery of the great and the good. Something was trying to surface from his subconscious mind. After years as a practising solicitor he had grown to recognise the feeling. But what was it? Some detail in one of these portraits? Or was it perhaps something from one of the landscapes they had seen earlier? Maybe his brain was at last starting to piece together some hitherto unrecognised clues from Lord Alfred's films. He frowned, aware that some subliminal thought process was taking place but unable to formulate it fully, just at the moment. He walked along the rows of portraits again, on full mental alert. Here was a picture of Shakespeare. There was one of Robert Burns, and another showing William Wordsworth… and then he saw it.
"Matthew," he said, quietly. "Come and look at this."
"What is it?"
"Have a look at all these portraits. Do you see anything unusual?"
Matthew looked. "Nothing springs to mind."
"Which one would you say is the odd one out?"
"They're all pretty much the same. Oh, hang on a moment; I suppose that one's slightly different. It has a background."
And that was the crucial detail.
With this one exception, all the portraits had a dark coloured nondescript brown-grey background; but this one was different.
"The one with the scenic background," explained Charles, is a portrait of our friend, Shelley."
He looked up, sharply. "Ok, you have my attention."
"Look at it, Matthew. Don't you see what I see?"
He looked back at the face of Shelley staring impassively from the frame, and moved closer.
Then he gasped, speaking softly. "This is an old portrait," he whispered, "but I do believe that the background was added only recently."
"I think so too, but why?"
"How am I supposed to know?"
"For crying out loud, Matthew, look at it! Doesn't it strike you as being rather familiar?"
He looked again… and his mouth fell open as realisation dawned.
Lord Alfred had given them a poem entitled 'Shelley's Grave.' Here was a portrait of Shelley with a recently added background. This new background showed, of all things, a cemetery; one which they both knew about — the very one which was only a short distance away from where they now stood.
"He added a picture of Heston Grange cemetery into the background of the portrait," said Matthew, suddenly full of excitement.
"Yes, but look again. What else can you see?"
As Matthew pondered, Charles could no longer contain himself; he reached out an excited finger and pointed.
Among the various graves now familiar to them both, this newly added detail also showed a large flat white slab embedded into the ground. It was overshadowed with cypress trees.
"The sun bleached stone?" asked Matthew.
"I'd put money on it. We didn't see it before because it's hidden under all those creepers and brambles!"
"Do you fancy exploring some tombs?"
"I thought you'd never ask. Let's go!”
Chapter 17
This time Charles and Matthew all but sprinted to the cemetery, roughly throwing open the gate and rushing inside in a manner which was quite the opposite of that adopted by most visitors to such places. Walking slowly back and forth, they carefully picked their way over the tangle of vines and branches. Taking the relative positions of the various graves into account, they eventually made an estimation as to where the crucial sun-bleached stone was likely to be concealed. The corner of the cemetery housed an old wooden shed, virtually hidden from view behind a straggling privet hedge. This shed was found to contain a selection of gardening implements which had certainly seen better days. Charles and Matthew returned, each armed with a rusty rake, with which they began to pull at the overgrown vegetation. Dozens of insects went scurrying away as their homes were ransacked, and clouds of spores and seed heads became airborne, lodging in their hair and clothing, but they paid no attention. It was but the work of a few seconds before a white stone began to appear beneath the numerous layers of old leaves and twigs. There was no need to speak. They moved and acted as one man, and soon the entire white rectangle was uncovered. They paused and stood, gardening tools still in hand, gazing down at it.
A plain, white slab.
Nothing else.
No cryptic poem this time.
"I was expecting it to have had some sort of inscription," said Charles.
"I don't want to be the one to spoil the party," said Matthew, "but do we know for certain that this is the stone we're looking for? There could be others hidden beneath all this rubbish."
They turned and surveyed the graveyard and it was immediately apparent that to clear the whole site would be a mammoth task.
"But we both saw the painting. This must be the right place. Look where the cypress trees are."
Matthew had to agree that this did seem to be the correct location.
Charles spoke again. "Alright, let's assume for a moment that we have uncovered the same stone that we saw in the portrait. It would appear, however, that there is no message waiting for us here. So what should we be looking for instead?"
"I hope we're not expected to go hunting for something underneath it. It must weigh a ton!"
Suddenly, Charles dropped his rake. His arms hung loosely at his sides and he stared straight ahead into mid-air.
"Are you ok?" asked Matthew.
"Could it really be that simple?" Charles murmured.
"What do you mean?"
"However unwittingly, you may well have hit the proverbial nail squarely on the head."
"In what way?"
"If there is something underneath this slab, given that we are standing in a cemetery, what might it be?"
"Well, I would hope it would be that wretched sapphire!"
Charles shook his head. "Not quite yet, I think. Matthew, what are cemeteries for?"
"Oh, I have no idea. Might they sometimes be used for burying dead people?"
"Are dead people ever put anywhere else?"
"Yes, there's the crematorium although I don't see many of those nearby. Sometimes they'll be entombed in a mausoleum, or perhaps a crypt."
Charles smiled.
"In both films, Lord Alfred has been constantly referring to the cryptic lines," he said. "I wonder if what he meant was literally 'crypt-ic'?"
"Are you suggesting that there might be an actual crypt underneath this stone?"
Charles picked up his rake, held it with its metal comb uppermost, and brought the wooden handle down onto the stone with a sharp crack. The dull thud which they would have expected did not occur. What they actually heard was a resonant, hollow sound.
"You have any better ideas?"
"Now that you mention it, no I don't.
Matthew ran back to the old wooden shed and returned with a couple of shovels and pickaxes. Charles examined the edge of the stone carefully, looking for any indication that would suggest how they should try to lift it.