THE RED HOUSE
"Well," said Tommy, looking out of the window of the Crown and Anchor,
"here we are at Toad in the Hole--or whatever this blasted village is
called."
"Let us review the case," said Tuppence.
"By all means," said Tommy. "To begin with, getting my say in first,
_I_ suspect the invalid mother!"
"Why?"
"My dear Tuppence, grant that this _poltergeist_ business is all a put
up job, got up in order to persuade the girl to sell the house, someone
must have thrown the things about. Now the girl said everyone was at
dinner--but if the mother is a thoroughgoing invalid, she'd be upstairs
in her room."
"If she was an invalid she could hardly throw furniture about."
"Ah! but she wouldn't be a real invalid. She'd be shamming."
"Why?"
"There you have me," confessed her husband. "I was really going on the
well known principle of suspecting the most unlikely person."
"You always make fun of everything," said Tuppence severely. "There
must be _something_ that makes these people so anxious to get hold of
the house. And if you don't care about getting to the bottom of this
matter, I do. I like that girl. She's a dear."
Tommy nodded seriously enough.
"I quite agree. But I never can resist ragging you, Tuppence. Of course
there's something queer about the house, and whatever it is, it's
something that's difficult to get at. Otherwise a mere burglary would
do the trick. But to be willing to buy the house means either that
you've got to take up floors or pull down walls, or else that there's a
coal mine under the back garden!"
"I don't want it to be a coal mine. Buried treasure is much more
romantic."
"H'm," said Tommy. "In that case I think that I shall pay a visit to
the local Bank Manager, explain that I am staying here over Christmas
and probably buying the Red House, and discuss the question of opening
an account."
"But why--?"
"Wait and see."
Tommy returned at the end of half an hour. His eyes were twinkling.
"We advance, Tuppence. Our interview proceeded on the lines indicated.
I then asked casually whether he had had much gold paid in, as is
often the case nowadays in these small country banks--small farmers
who hoarded it during the War, you understand. From that we proceeded
quite naturally to the extraordinary vagaries of old ladies. I
invented an aunt, who on the outbreak of the War, drove to the Army
and Navy Stores in a four wheeler, and returned with sixteen hams. He
immediately mentioned a client of his own who had insisted on drawing
out every penny of money she had--in gold as far as possible, and who
also insisted on having her securities, bearer bonds and such things,
given into her own custody. I exclaimed on such an act of folly, and he
mentioned casually that she was the former owner of the Red House. You
see, Tuppence? She drew out all this money, and she hid it somewhere.
You remember that Monica Deane mentioned that they were astonished at
the small amount of her estate? Yes, she hid it in the Red House, and
someone knows about it. I can make a pretty good guess who that someone
is too."
"Who?"
"What about the faithful Crockett? She would know all about her
mistress's peculiarities."
"And that gold-toothed Dr. O'Neill?"
"The gentlemanly nephew, of course! That's it. But whereabouts did she
hide it? You know more about old ladies than I do, Tuppence. Where do
they hide things?"
"Wrapped up in stockings and petticoats, under mattresses."
Tommy nodded.
"I expect you're right. All the same, she can't have done that because
it would have been found when her things were turned over. It worries
me--you see, an old lady like that can't have taken up floors or
dug holes in the garden. All the same it's there in the Red House
somewhere. Crockett hasn't found it, but she knows it's there, and once
they get the house to themselves, she and her precious nephew, they can
turn it upside down until they find what they're after. We've got to
get ahead of them. Come on, Tuppence. We'll go to the Red House."
Monica Deane received them. To her mother and Crockett they were
represented as would be purchasers of the Red House which would account
for their being taken all over the house and grounds. Tommy did not
tell Monica of the conclusions he had come to, but he asked her various
searching questions. Of the garments and personal belongings of the
dead woman, some had been given to Crockett and the others sent to
various poor families. Everything had been gone through and turned out.
"Did your aunt leave any papers?"
"The desk was full, and there were some in a drawer in her bedroom, but
there was nothing of importance amongst them."
"Have they been thrown away?"
"No, my mother is always very loath to throw away old papers. There
were some old fashioned recipes among them which she intends to go
through one day."
"Good," said Tommy approvingly. Then, indicating an old man who was at
work upon one of the flower beds in the garden, he asked: "Was that old
man the gardener here in your aunt's time?"
"Yes, he used to come three days a week. He lives in the village. Poor
old fellow, he is past doing any really useful work. We have him just
once a week to keep things tidied up. We can't afford more."
Tommy winked at Tuppence to indicate that she was to keep Monica with
her, and he himself stepped across to where the gardener was working.
He spoke a few pleasant words to the old man, asked him if he had been
there in the old lady's time, and then said casually:
"You buried a box for her once, didn't you?"
"No, sir, I never buried naught for her. What should she want to bury a
box for?"
Tommy shook his head. He strolled back to the house frowning. It was
to be hoped that a study of the old lady's papers would yield some
clue--otherwise the problem was a hard one to solve. The house itself
was old fashioned, but not old enough to contain a secret room or
passage.
Before leaving, Monica brought them down a big cardboard box, tied with
string.
"I've collected all the papers," she whispered. "And they're in here.
I thought you could take it away with you, and then you'll have plenty
of time to go over them--but I'm sure you won't find anything to throw
light on the mysterious happenings in this house--"
Her words were interrupted by a terrific crash overhead. Tommy ran
quickly up the stairs. A jug and basin in one of the front rooms was
lying on the ground broken to pieces. There was no one in the room.
"The ghost up to its tricks again," he murmured with a grin.
He went down stairs again thoughtfully.
"I wonder, Miss Deane, if I might speak to the maid, Crockett, for a
minute."
"Certainly. I will ask her to come to you."
Monica went off to the kitchen. She returned with the elderly maid who
had opened the door to them earlier.
"We are thinking of buying this house," said Tommy pleasantly, "and my
wife was wondering whether, in that case, you would care to remain on
with us?"
Crockett's respectable face displayed no emotion of any kind.
"Thank you, sir," she said. "I should like to think it over if I may."
Tommy turned to Monica.
"I am delighted with the house, Miss Deane. I understand that there is
another buyer in the market. I know what he has offered for the house,
and I will willingly give a hundred more. And mind you, that is a good
price I am offering."
Monica murmured something noncommittal, and the Beresfords took their
leave.
"I was right," said Tommy, as they went down the drive. "Crockett's in
it. Did you notice that she was out of breath? That was from running
down the back stairs after smashing the jug and basin. Sometimes, very
likely, she has admitted her nephew secretly, and he has done a little
poltergeisting, or whatever you call it, whilst she has been innocently
with the family. You'll see, Dr. O'Neill will make a further offer
before the day is out."
True enough, after dinner a note was brought. It was from Monica.
"I have just heard from Dr. O'Neill. He raises his previous offer by
£150."
"The nephew must be a man of means," said Tommy thoughtfully. "And I
tell you what, Tuppence, the prize he's after must be well worth while."
"Oh! Oh! Oh! if only we could find it!"
"Well, let's get on with the spade work."
They were sorting through the big box of papers, a wearisome affair, as
they were all jumbled up pell mell without any kind of order or method.
Every few minutes they compared notes.
"What's the latest, Tuppence?"
"Two old receipted bills, three unimportant letters, a recipe for
preserving new potatoes and one for making lemon cheesecake. What's
yours?"
"One bill, poem on Spring, two newspaper cuttings: 'Why Women buy
Pearls--a sound investment' and 'Man with Four Wives--Extraordinary
Story,' and a recipe for Jugged Hare."
"It's heart breaking," said Tuppence, and they fell to once more. At
last the box was empty. They looked at each other.
"I put this aside," said Tommy, picking up a half sheet of notepaper,
"because it struck me as peculiar. But I don't suppose it's got
anything to do with what we're looking for."
"Let's see it. Oh! it's one of those funny things, what do they call
them? Anagrams, charades or something." She read it:
"My _first_ you put on glowing coal
And into it you put my _whole_
My _second_ really is the first
My third mislikes the winter blast."
"H'm," said Tommy critically. "I don't think much of the poet's rhymes."
"I don't see what you find peculiar about it, though," said Tuppence.
"Everybody used to have a collection of these sort of things about
fifty years ago. You saved them up for winter evenings round the fire."
"I wasn't referring to the verse. It's the words written below it that
strike me as peculiar."
"St. Luke XI. 9," she said. "It's a text."
"Yes. Doesn't that strike you as odd? Would an old lady of a religious
persuasion write a text just under a charade?"
"It is rather odd," agreed Tuppence thoughtfully.
"I presume that you, being a clergyman's daughter, have got your Bible
with you?"
"As a matter of fact I have. Aha, you didn't expect that. Wait a sec."
Tuppence ran to her suit case, extracted a small red volume and
returned to the table. She turned the leaves rapidly. "Here we are.
Luke, Chapter XI, Verse 9. Oh! Tommy, look."
Tommy bent over and looked where Tuppence's small finger pointed to a
portion of the verse in question.
"_Seek, and ye shall find._"
"That's it," cried Tuppence. "We've got it! Solve the cryptogram and
the treasure is ours--or rather Monica's."
"Well, let's get to work on the cryptogram, as you call it. 'My _first_
you put on glowing coal.' What does that mean, I wonder? Then--'My
_second_ really is the first.' That's pure gibberish."
"It's quite simple really," said Tuppence kindly. "It's just a sort of
knack. Let _me_ have it."
Tommy surrendered it willingly. Tuppence ensconced herself in an arm
chair, and began muttering to herself with bent brows.
"It's quite simple really," murmured Tommy when half an hour had
elapsed.
"Don't crow! We're the wrong generation for this. I've a good mind to
go back to town to-morrow and call on some old pussy who would probably
read it as easy as winking. It's a knack, that's all."
"Well, let's have one more try."
"There aren't many things you can put on glowing coal," said Tuppence
thoughtfully. "There's water, to put it out, or wood, or a kettle."
"It must be one syllable, I suppose? What about _wood_, then?"
"You couldn't put anything _into_ wood, though."
"There's no one syllable word instead of _water_, but there must be one
syllable things you can put on a fire in the kettle line."
"Saucepans," mused Tuppence. "Frying pans. How about _pan_? Or _pot_?
What's a word beginning pan or pot that is something you cook?"
"Pottery," suggested Tommy. "You bake that in the fire. Wouldn't that
be near enough?"
"The rest of it doesn't fit. Pancakes? No. Oh! bother."
They were interrupted by the little serving maid, who told them that
dinner would be ready in a few minutes.
"Only Mrs. Lumley, she wanted to know if you'd like your potatoes
fried, or boiled in their jackets? She's got some of each."
"Boiled in their jackets," said Tuppence promptly. "I love potatoes--"
She stopped dead with her mouth open.
"What's the matter, Tuppence? Have you seen a ghost?"
"Tommy," cried Tuppence. "Don't you see? That's it! The word, I mean.
_Potatoes!_ 'My _first_ you put on glowing coal'--that's _pot_. 'And
into it you put my whole.' 'My _second_ really is the first.' That's
A, the first letter of the alphabet. 'My _third_ mislikes the wintry
blast'--cold _toes_ of course!"
"You're right, Tuppence. Very clever of you. But I'm afraid we've
wasted an awful lot of time over nothing. Potatoes don't fit in at all
with missing treasure. Half a sec., though. What did you read out just
now, when we were going through the box? Something about a recipe for
New Potatoes. I wonder whether there's anything in that."
He rummaged hastily through the pile of recipes.
"Here it is. 'TO KEEP NEW POTATOES. Put the new potatoes into tins and
bury them in the garden. Even in the middle of winter, they will taste
as though freshly dug.'"
"We've got it," screamed Tuppence. "That's it. The treasure is in the
garden, buried in a tin."
"But I asked the gardener. He said he'd never buried anything."
"Yes, I know, but that's because people never really answer what you
say, they answer what they think you mean. He knew he'd never buried
anything out of the common. We'll go to-morrow and ask him where he
buried the potatoes."
The following morning was Christmas Eve. By dint of inquiry they found
the old gardener's cottage. Tuppence broached the subject after some
minutes' conversation.
"I wish one could have new potatoes at Christmas time," she remarked.
"Wouldn't they be good with turkey? Do people round here ever bury them
in tins? I've heard that keeps them fresh."
"Ay, that they do," declared the old man. "Old Miss Deane, up to the
Red House, she allus had three tins buried every summer, and as often
as not forgot to have 'em dug up again!"
"In the bed by the house, as a rule, didn't she?"
"No, over against the wall by the fir tree."
Having got the information they wanted, they soon took their leave of
the old man, presenting him with five shillings as a Christmas box.
"And now for Monica," said Tommy.
"Tommy! You have no sense of the dramatic. Leave it to me. I've got a
beautiful plan. Do you think you could manage to beg, borrow, or steal
a spade?"
Somehow or other, a spade was duly produced, and that night, late,
two figures might have been seen stealing into the grounds of the Red
House. The place indicated by the gardener was easily found, and Tommy
set to work. Presently his spade rang on metal, and a few seconds later
he had unearthed a big biscuit tin. It was sealed round with adhesive
plaster and firmly fastened down, but Tuppence, by the aid of Tommy's
knife, soon managed to open it. Then she gave a groan. The tin was full
of potatoes. She poured them out so that the tin was completely empty,
but there were no other contents.
"Go on digging, Tommy."
It was some time before a second tin rewarded their search. As before
Tuppence unsealed it.
"Well?" demanded Tommy anxiously.
"Potatoes again!"
"Damn!" said Tommy and set to once more.
"The third time is lucky," said Tuppence consolingly.
"I believe the whole thing's a mare's nest," said Tommy gloomily, but
he continued to dig.
At last a third tin was brought to light.
"Potatoes aga--" began Tuppence, then stopped. "Oh! Tommy, we've got
it. It's only potatoes on top. Look!"
She held up a big old fashioned velvet bag.
"Cut along home," cried Tommy. "It's icy cold. Take the bag with you. I
must just shovel back the earth. And may a thousand curses light upon
your head, Tuppence, if you open that bag before I come!"
"I'll play fair. Ouch! I'm frozen." She beat a speedy retreat.
On arrival at the Inn she had not long to wait. Tommy was hard upon her
heels, perspiring freely after his digging and the final brisk run.
"Now then," said Tommy. "The private inquiry agents make good! Open the
loot, Mrs. Beresford."
Inside the bag was a package done up in oil silk and a heavy chamois
leather bag. They opened the latter first. It was full of gold
sovereigns. Tommy counted them.
"Two hundred pounds. That was all they would let her have, I suppose.
Cut open the package."
Tuppence did so. It was full of closely folded banknotes. Tommy and
Tuppence counted them carefully. They amounted to exactly twenty
thousand pounds!
"Whew!" said Tommy. "Isn't it lucky for Monica that we're both rich and
honest? What's that done up in tissue paper?"
Tuppence unrolled the little parcel and drew out a magnificent string
of pearls, exquisitely matched.
"I don't know much about these things," said Tommy slowly, "but I'm
pretty sure that those pearls are worth another five thousand pounds at
least. Look at the size of them. Now I see why the old lady kept that
cutting about pearls being a good investment. She must have realized
all her securities and turned them into notes and jewels."
"Oh! Tommy, isn't it wonderful? Darling Monica. Now she can marry her
nice young man and live happily ever afterwards, like me."
"That's rather sweet of you, Tuppence. So you _are_ happy with me?"
"As a matter of fact," said Tuppence, "I am. But I didn't mean to say
so. It slipped out. What with being excited, and Christmas Eve, and one
thing and another--"
"If you really love me," said Tommy, "will you answer me one question?"
"I hate these catches," said Tuppence. "But--well--all right."
"Then how did you know that Monica was a clergyman's daughter?"
"Oh, that was just cheating," said Tuppence happily. "I opened her
letter making an appointment, and a Mr. Deane was Father's curate
once and he had a little girl called Monica, about four or five years
younger than me. So I put two and two together."
"You are a shameless creature," said Tommy. "Hullo, there's twelve
o'clock striking. Happy Christmas, Tuppence."
"Happy Christmas, Tommy. It'll be a Happy Christmas for Monica too--and
all owing to us. I am glad. Poor thing, she has been so miserable. Do
you know, Tommy, I feel all queer and choky about the throat when I
think of it."
"Darling Tuppence," said Tommy.
"Darling Tommy," said Tuppence. "How awfully sentimental we are
getting."
"Christmas comes but once a year," said Tommy sententiously. "That's
what our great grandmothers said and I expect there's a lot of truth in
it still."