Matthew glanced at him. "Thank you, James. Do you have any duties to attend to?"
"Yes, sir. Very good, sir." He turned and left.
"That was a little harsh, wasn't it?" asked Charles.
Matthew shrugged. "Yeah, right. Shall we go and look at some graves?"
With coats firmly fastened and collars turned up to protect themselves from the biting wind they set out towards the cemetery. As they neared their destination, Charles became aware that although they were walking in the direction of the sea the sound of the waves appeared to actually diminish as they neared the white fence with its small gate. The phenomenon became even more remarkable as they entered the graveyard itself; once inside, the noise vanished altogether.
"How extraordinary," he commented, "that these tall hedges and trees manage to block out the sound so completely."
Matthew just gave another of his trademark shrugs.
"When I was here the first time," he said, "I thought that perhaps the poem was referring to that large grave at the far end. It has cypress trees, and the flat white slab on top could be described as a sun-bleached stone. I didn't find anything useful though." Inwardly, he was still smarting at the caustic note that he had found waiting for him, but he wasn't going to mention that to Charles.
"Actually," said Charles, "virtually all the trees in here seem to be cypresses. Anyway, let's look round and see if we can find anything helpful."
They separated and began picking their way over the once well-kept but now overgrown and uneven terrain. They peered at tombstones and tried to make out the inscriptions. They looked at the cypress trees and wondered whether it was to a particular one or two that the poem was referring. They trudged back and forth, looking for something - anything - that might give some sort of pointer. At length, all they found was cold and disappointment.
"There's nothing here," said Charles, eventually. "Even if there was something, we're not going to find it by just traipsing about randomly. We need something more precise and specific to go on."
"And it's cold," added Matthew, stating the obvious. "Let's go get some tea."
Back in the library, with their circulation gradually returning, they nibbled on some of Mrs Gillcarey's oaty flapjacks and drank from large mugs of lapsang souchong tea, the rich flavour bringing a re-assuring, comforting feeling, albeit an illusory one, to the situation.
"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.
They sipped - Matthew rather more than Charles - and gazed deeply into the cheerful flames, each lost in their thoughts.
"What are we not seeing?" mused Charles. "It can't be that difficult to spot. What the blazes is it?"
"Maybe we should be focussing on the comment about the painting?" suggested Matthew. "That one has drawn a complete blank so far."
"Yes, perhaps you're right." Charles paused for a moment, then continued. "Ok, how about this? Given that we now know that Lord Alfred copied out, by hand, poems which were not his own in order to provide us with the necessary clues, might he have done a similar sort of thing with his paintings?"
"You mean he might have painted copies of original pictures? Who knows? I suppose it's possible; but, if so, where are these mysterious 'illegal' counterfeits?"
"I suppose the idea is a bit far fetched. It would’ve involved a huge amount of work."
Just then, James came back into the room.
"Will there be anything else this evening, gentlemen?"
"No thank you, James." Then he added, "Oh, on second thoughts, actually, yes there is!"
The butler turned back to face them. "Yes, sir?"
"Given all these secret doorways and disguised keyholes we've been finding, do you happen to know whether there might be some secret hideaway in the house where Lord Alfred kept any of his paintings safely stashed away?"
"Not exactly, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"His Lordship's interest in painting was mainly centred on the collecting of fine works, rather than the creating of them. While you have been walking through the house you will no doubt have seen some of them."
Matthew looked downwards, suddenly feeling less than intellectual. He may indeed have walked past some valuable paintings, but he knew he wouldn't have recognised them for what they were. He knew what the Mona Lisa looked like but that was about it - and even he knew that that was one painting which his dad would not have been able to obtain.
"But," continued James, "on those rare occasions when he was a little less busy it was true that he would sometimes try his hand at producing something himself."
"Do you know where any of these paintings are?"
"Oh yes, sir, but they are not 'stashed away' as you put it. Having gone to the trouble of painting a picture he wanted it to be on display, but -" he paused.
"Please go on."
"Well," and here James gave a gentle laugh, "His Lordship instructed me to hang his paintings only in the darker corridors of the house. I think he was being just a little over-modest, since it is very seldom that we have any visitors; and, in any case, many of his pictures are really quite commendable. I think he felt that perhaps his efforts should not really be compared to those of the great masters."
"I see. Well, if I've learnt one thing since being at Heston Grange, it's that this house is enormous. We'll need your help, James. Could you take us round and show us which pictures were painted by Lord Alfred?"
"Erm...do you mean right now, sir? Is it perhaps just a little on the late side?"
Indeed it was. Charles glanced at the clock and discovered it was already past midnight.
"Good grief!" he exclaimed. "Where does all the time go?"
"Tempus fugit, sir." said James.
"Ok, well perhaps we could have an early breakfast and then be given the grand tour straight after that?"
"Very good, sir."
James gave a respectful inclination of the head, and left.
Charles, drained his glass and stood up, yawning. "I think I'll turn in too. A busy day ahead. See you in the morning."
"Yeah. I’ll be going to bed too, as soon as I finish my port. Sleep well."
Matthew was left alone and re-filled his glass. Deep in thought, he stared into the diminishing fire for quite some time.
Chapter 16
The next morning, Mrs Gillcarey was only a little disgruntled that her two guests refused her offer of second helpings of herb-infused bubble and squeak with hash browns. She clucked with disappointment but to no avail; the two of them were obviously keen to get on and discover whatever they could about Lord Alfred's personal contribution to the art world.
The three-man expedition set forth. Even though the weather today was mild, as they began to enter those regions of the mansion which were explored less frequently, it was reinforced once again to both Charles and Matthew that this was indeed a very old house. The wind could be heard whistling and whining through all manner of nooks and crannies. As they passed certain arched openings, they would feel a cold draught; elsewhere, a lattice window in a decaying frame would suddenly rattle. And everywhere there was the dust, causing Charles to vividly recall the first night of his visit when Lord Alfred had so dramatically destroyed his Will.
At length, after taking numerous turnings along endless passageways, James stopped by a moderately sized canvas in a simple wooden frame. He shone his torch upon it.
"This is one of His Lordship's paintings," he said.
Charles and Matthew leaned forward, trying to get a good view of it despite the surrounding gloom. There did not appear to be anything particularly special about the picture; as the light from the torch moved slowly back and forth it was revealed to be a simple landscape with rolling hills and a few grazing sheep, some nicely depicted cumulonimbus - and a couple of trees in the foreground which they both now knew to be cypress trees.
"Do you suppose that's in any way significant?" asked Matthew.
"Difficult to say, but it looks as though this picture was painted quite
some time ago. Is it likely that it has any direct relevance?"
"Maybe, maybe not, but these cypress trees are making a habit of constantly turning up."
"True. Well, let's keep that in mind for possible future reference. Where's the next one, James?"
"This way, gentlemen."
They set off again, with Charles feeling very glad that they had James guiding them through the intricate network of otherwise unfathomable thoroughfares.
Some time later, James paused by another picture. "This one," he explained, "is of the view out to sea from the promontory not far from here. During a spell of fine weather His Lordship walked each day to a vantage point on top of the cliffs and, as I recall, took a great deal of care with painting the crest of each wave. In the end, he seemed to be rather pleased with the results of his efforts."
This was indeed a fine piece of work. The sunlight glinted off the water and the detail gradually faded most convincingly as the eye scanned upward towards the vanishing point on the horizon.
"But are there any clues here?" prompted Matthew.
"None that I can see," said Charles.
And so the day wore on. They saw painting after painting several of which, it had to be said, were really quite well done; others, perhaps less so - maybe these came from Lord Alfred's early period, Charles joked. But whether any of them served to advance their cause was anyone's guess. This artistic tour was, as it turned out, so long that the intrepid explorers missed out on lunch altogether and mid-afternoon found them back in their usual haunt - the library - this time with cups of Darjeeling and some delightfully gooey chocolate brownies.
"If we ever do manage to solve this mystery," said Charles, licking the delicious crumbs from his fingertips before reaching for his third slice, "the first thing I shall do is increase Mrs Gillcarey's wages!"
“That might not be such a good idea,” Matthew replied. “I can feel those calories settling aready!”
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