by Sapper
Drummond from the outset gave it up. With a graceful movement of the hand he waved it from him, as a child might wave a plate of prunes and semolina pudding. Algy Longworth having at last got his story about the lily off his chest was found guilty of telling the world’s hoariest chestnut, and having been thrown into the passage refused to play any more. So it was left to the rest of us to try and solve it. And honesty compels me to admit that we failed – utterly. It seemed completely meaningless.
“A lily with the plural put before.”
That seemed to give Slily. Toby Sinclair insisted that there was a loch of that name somewhere in the Hebrides, but on being pressed was not quite sure it wasn’t an island off the coast of Cork. And that was about as far as we got. Except for Achilles: I got that.
“Dipped in the river Styx one part alone stayed dry.”
That seemed to point to the Achilles Statue, an unsuitable spot, as Drummond pointed out moodily, for erecting a booby-trap. And we were all somewhat moody when we left at ten that night for his house in London. Concealment was necessary and personally I was hidden under a rug at the back of the first car. Before that I had always felt a certain contempt for individuals who endeavour to evade paying for a railway ticket by travelling under the seat. Now I regard them with nothing short of admiration. To walk is a far, far better thing.
But we arrived at length, and having got Algy Longworth’s shoe out of my mouth we crept through two dust-bins to the back door. It was a risk coming to his house at all but it had to be run, since all his props for make-up were there. And after a short pause the door was opened by a manservant, who evinced not the slightest surprise at the sight of the procession.
“Have you seen any one loitering about the house, Denny?” said Drummond, as the door closed behind us.
“No, sir. But a man called this afternoon and asked for you.”
“What sort of a man?”
“A stranger, sir. And I am inclined to think, not an Englishman.”
“What did you say?”
“The truth, sir. I said you were away from home.”
Drummond looked thoughtful.
“Look here, Peter – we’ve got to try and ride them off. I’m tolerably certain we weren’t spotted coming in here, but it looks as if they were watching the front. Go with Ted and drive up openly to the house. Ring the bell. When Denny comes – tell him the news in a voice broken with grief. Tell him I’m dead. Tell him twice if you think the blighter outside hasn’t heard. Denny – you will clutch the door, turn pale with anguish and sob out – ‘No man had ever a better master.’ And for God’s sake don’t breathe port all over the street. After that, Peter, you three go off to your rooms and wait for further orders. Somehow or other we’ve got to solve this confounded thing.”
“Right-ho, old boy, I’ll pitch Denny the tale. And then we’ll wait to hear further from you.”
And it was while we were waiting for them to come that I had an idea. Old Tom Jenkinson. If any man in London could solve it he could. A former schoolmaster of mine now retired, and a member of my club, he still appeared to regard me as a dirty and ink-stained schoolboy. But over acrostics, riddles or cross-words he was a perfect genius. I said as much to Drummond.
“Splendid,” he remarked. “Is he likely to be at the club now?”
“Never leaves it before midnight.”
“Then go and scribble a line to him, old boy, explaining what we want – and I’ll send it round by Denny. You’ll find paper in that room up there, but see that the curtains are pulled tight before you switch on the light.”
Dear Mr Jenkinson, – I wrote –
I would be deeply obliged to you if you would send me the solution of the enclosed rhyme. It represents a town or locality or place of some sort, presumably in the British Isles. It is a matter of urgent importance that I should get the answer as soon as possible. Knowing you I feel sure that you can solve it at once, and the bearer of this note will wait for a reply. I hope Mrs Jenkinson is in the best of health.
Yours sincerely,
Joe Dixon.
“Splendid,” said Drummond. “Peter has been, and according to Denny there was a man loitering by the railings who overheard what was said. Moreover, he’s gone now, so it may have done some good. Anyway we’ll send Denny round with that note at once.
“Go out by the back door,” he said as his servant came in, “and take this to the Junior Reform. Wait for an answer. And don’t forget – if anyone asks you – I’m dead.”
“Very good, sir,” said the man impassively. “There is a new cask, sir, behind the door.”
“A good fellow,” remarked Drummond. “And improved considerably since the death of his wife. She was a muscular woman and a martyr to indigestion, and the result left much to be desired.”
He lit a cigarette, and began pacing up and down the room.
“Lord! but I hope this old buster of yours solves it,” he said once or twice.
“If he doesn’t, it’s unsolvable,” I assured him. “But there’s just a chance, of course, that he may not be in London.”
And the instant I’d said it I regretted having spoken. His face fell, and he stared at me blankly.
“If so,” I hastened to add, “we can always get him through the club. Letters will be forwarded.”
“But it means delay,” he muttered. “More hanging about.”
An hour passed, and two, and suddenly he lifted his head listening.
“Denny’s back,” he said. “Now we shall know.”
His voice was quiet, but there was a strained look in his eyes as he watched the door. Should we have the answer, or did it mean further waiting? And mercifully it was the former; his servant had brought an answer. I opened it, and the others listened breathlessly.
Dear Dixon, – it ran –
Before giving you the solution of your ridiculous little problem there are one or two points to which I would draw your attention. In days gone by, when you went, if memory serves me aright, by the name of Stinkhound, I endeavoured, for my sins, to teach you the rudiments of English composition. Why then do you offend my eyes, and give me further proof, if such were needed, of my complete failure, by using the word would twice in the first sentence? ‘I should be’, not ‘I would be’, is the correct opening to your ill-written missive. Again, if the matter is of urgent importance, obviously you require the answer as soon as possible – a clear case of tautology. Lastly, your interest in Mrs Jenkinson’s health, though doubtless well meant, is a little tardy. She died some five years ago.
However – to your problem. My opinion of your intellect was always microscopic: even so, it is incredible that anyone out of an asylum could have failed to solve it at sight – knowing that it was meant to represent a place. Let us take the first stanza. Clearly the last line has nothing to do with it: it is put in to cheer you on when you have interpreted the other three. Now, of course, I do not know the nature of the lady you met last night: your repellent habits are, I am glad to say, a closed book to me. But in this case she was obviously not a thing of beauty. Ergo – she was ugly or plain. But few places contain the letters UGLY: whereas there are many Plains in the British Isles. One in particular leaps to the mind – Salisbury Plain.
You may at this point ask what relation Salisbury has to a lily with the plural put before. Knowing your abysmal ignorance of everything remotely approaching to culture you probably will. The ancient name for Salisbury, my dear Dixon, was Sarum. To this day you will see the word written on many of the milestones around the town. Well, I suppose even you have heard of an Arum Lily. And therefore the first stanza is solved and gives us – Salisbury Plain.
A large area – comprising as it does a considerable portion of the county of Wiltshire. The second stanza is clearly designed to narrow our field. It does – to a remarkable degree. The first line could, of course, be solved by a child of six. But as Ruff’s Guide to the Turf is doubtless more familiar to you than Homer’s Iliad I shall
assume that your mind has not even reached that infantile standard. Achilles was the son of Peleus by Thetis, one of the Nereids. And ancient mythology tells us that to make him invulnerable she dipped him in the Styx, holding him by the heel. Hence the phrase, the heel of Achilles – which was the only part that remained dry. The first line therefore gives us Heel.
“The cry of every schoolboy.”
What the repulsive little horrors call it now, I do not know – but when you were one of them, what word rose most often to your lips? What was your moan – your everlasting bleat? Tuck. You gorged your bellies on tuck, and slept, as a result, in school – making disgusting noises. Tuck, Stinkhound – tuck.
“That should give a man.”
Have you never read ‘Ivanhoe’? Have you never heard of Robin Hood, and the fat and jovial Friar Tuck, his constant companion and father confessor?
And so we have Heel, Tuck and Friar. A glance at the verse will show us that Tuck is to be left out – and that reduces us to Heel and Friar.
On Salisbury Plain is an ancient Druidical temple known as Stonehenge. Outside the main circle is a great stone – the sun-stone. This is the point where a spectator, centrally placed within the temple, would see the sun rise on Midsummer Day. And the common name for the sun-stone is the Friar’s Heel.
Wherefore, the solution of your childish effusion is the monolith known as the Friar’s Heel at Stonehenge on Salisbury Plain. And in conclusion I can only endorse most wholeheartedly the terse and apt description of you given in the middle of the last line.
Faithfully yours,
Thomas Jenkinson.
P.S. – I have often wanted to know one thing. Were you or were you not the miserable little boy who first nicknamed me Wart Hog? and the late Mrs Jenkinson Slab Face? A nickname – like a caricature – should bear some relation to the truth, Dixon, if it is to be considered clever. And to call me a Wart Hog is positively stupid.
“I got Achilles at any rate, confound the old ass,” I remarked, as I put the letter down. “Well – there you are. Now we know.”
“Stonehenge,” said Drummond. “Close to Amesbury.”
“With cantonments all round it,” put in Toby Sinclair. “I motored past it last summer.”
“How far away?” Drummond looked at him thoughtfully. “I haven’t been there since I was a kid, and there was nothing built then.”
“I suppose about a mile to the nearest,” said Sinclair. “Perhaps less. And there’s another thing, too. By day there are hordes of trippers all over the place – guides and all that sort of stunt. You’ve got to pay to go in.”
“So nothing can happen by day. And by night – with troops as close as that – they will have to be careful.”
He went to the telephone, and gave a number.
“Peter,” he said as soon as he got through, “come round at once – all of you. Back door, as before.”
He sat down and stared at me.
“I wonder what is the best rig for you,” he pondered. “In a way, you’re the least important, as only the man and the woman of last night know you.”
“And our venerable friend of the Angler’s Rest,” I reminded him.
“True. I’d forgotten him. Still a moustache, a pair of spectacles and the earnest air of a tourist should meet the case. And if you see any of those three, efface yourself. Toby – I’ve got a very good line in elderly professors for you. Butterflies, I think. You can gambol lightly over Salisbury Plain making a noise like a killing-bottle.”
“Thanks, dear old boy,” said Sinclair. “What are you going to be?”
“That remains to be seen,” answered Drummond with an enigmatic smile. “I’ve got two or three half-formed ideas.”
The smile faded slowly from his face.
“But whatever it is, I’m thinking that the sooner we begin to put the fear of God into this bunch the better.”
And I realised suddenly how he had earned the sobriquet of Bulldog.
A minute or so later Peter Darrell and the other two came in.
“You’ve solved it?” asked Jerningham eagerly.
“A pal of Dixon’s has,” said Drummond. “A stone called the Friar’s Heel at Stonehenge. You can read the letter later.”
“And you can read this one now,” said Darrell. “Delivered by hand.”
It consisted of one line.
Read today’s Times. Personal column.
“So she really does think we’re dead, Peter.” Drummond rubbed his hands together. “Excellent. However, let’s get down to it. In the first place, from now on you three have got to run this show alone. Officially, that’s to say. And, dash it all, I don’t like it.”
“Cut it out, you ass,” laughed Jerningham.
“It’s all very fine and large, Ted – but they mean business. And I don’t want any casualties. I believe that what Dixon said is absolutely right. Whether she is insane or not is beside the point: there’s not much sign of insanity about her plans up to date. But from what he heard her say this morning we are all for it, and Phyllis as well, before she goes to join Peterson. She was never remarkable, was she, for the quality of mercy. And now that she’s obsessed with this idea, she will be utterly merciless. It’s revenge run mad. So for the love of Heaven be careful. I’d never forgive myself if one of you took it in the neck.”
“We’ll be careful all right, old boy,” said Darrell quietly. “But Phyllis has got to be found, hasn’t she?”
“I know that. But I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be better for you three to chuck it and leave it to me.”
“We have but little desire for a rough house,” said Jerningham, “but there’s going to be one in a moment unless you cease talking tripe.”
“Well, well; so be it,” grinned Drummond. “But I thought I’d just mention it. So as I said before – let’s get down to it. From what Toby says, the place is stiff with people all the day. So by day there can’t be any risk. Now, it’s possible that all we are going to get there is another clue – in fact, it’s probable. I really don’t see how they can rig up anything in a public place like that, which can be dangerous – even at night. And so as I see it – there’s just one thing to fear, and that can only happen at night.”
“What’s that?” said Darrell.
“Common or garden murder, Peter,” said Drummond gravely. “There may be a clue; on the other hand, it may be a trap.”
“Murder,” I said doubtfully. “In a place like that.”
“Why not?” said Drummond coolly. “What leads in nine cases out of ten to the discovery of a murder? Motive. And what possible known motive is there for killing any of them. We know the motive: who else does? If we told this story to the police we’d be laughed out of court.”
“And Phyllis would pay the price,” said Jerningham gravely.
“We know they are utterly unscrupulous: we know that they intend to kill them. What more likely than that they’ll have a dip at it at the Friar’s Heel? And that is a thing I do not propose to risk unless it is absolutely essential. No. Peter, my mind is made up, old boy – so there’s no use your looking like that. I promise you that when it is necessary, I’ll send for you.”
“What is your suggestion, Hugh?” said Jerningham after a while.
“This, Ted. From what Dixon overheard Irma say, this little show will not be concluded until they’ve got you – all three. I may be wrong, but I don’t think they will try for you in London: in her own distorted way she is going to play this game through to the end in the way she intended. And, therefore, nothing further will take place until you come to the Friar’s Heel. Now my proposal is this. But for this freak pal of Dixon’s, Heaven alone knows when we should have solved that last clue. So there will be nothing surprising about it if you take at least a couple of days over finding the answer. And during those two days – or until I wire for you – you will remain in London, ready to leave the instant you hear from me.”
“And you three?” asked Darrell.
/> “We’ll go down in disguise and spy out the land. Maybe we shall find nothing; maybe the clue, if there is one at the Friar’s Heel, will only be given to one of you. If so, I’ll wire you. But it’s possible that we shall find the clue, and get a short cut to what we want.”
“I don’t like it, Hugh,” said Jerningham.
“Ted, old boy, it’s best from every point of view. I don’t want one of you killed – or the lot. And, my dear old lad, they mean business. Supposing you were all killed, from another point of view altogether – where should we be? Ignorant of where Phyllis is, with the game over as far as they are concerned. The whole bunch of us wiped out. The only person left then to finish off is Phyllis. There are such things as silencers for guns, laddie, as we know only too well. No, no: it’s absolutely obvious. We will go first and see what we can find out. If we find out nothing – then you come in. If, on the contrary, we get on their tracks – then you still come in, but in a far sounder strategical position than if you went down now. Because when you arrive they will think the Friar’s Heel is your objective, whereas in reality it won’t be. They will lie up for you there, and you will short-circuit them.”