Close Quarters

by Michael Gilbert

  ‘All right,’ said Prynne. ‘I give in. But you mustn’t show off more than necessary. Now I think 20 down must be “ilex” – the literal botany meaning. But it implies an “X” at the second of 29 across.’

  ‘But that’s splendid. “Past” signifies “ex” – in the sense of ex-captain. Then “scraps” is a four-letter word, which—’

  ‘“Orts.” “Exorts.” Put it in. We shall soon be finished at this rate.’ On which fatal words a doldrum settled on the puzzle, and both solvers stared at it for ten irritating minutes and made no progress.

  ‘Puzzles often go dead like this in the middle,’ said Trumpington. ‘But, of course, it’s those four blank marginal words which are holding us up. “Solve empirically.” What on earth does it mean? Do you know, I was sure they went in pairs. 4 across and 30 across the same, and 12 down and 14 down the same. But they can’t be. The middle letter of 12 is “N,” whilst 14 starts “R-G,” or should do.’

  Prynne wasn’t attending. He gave a little sigh of satisfaction. ‘I like this game of yours,’ he said at last. ‘I confess it. It gets me. And I think that I am beginning to understand the language. 12 across is “pew” – reference Treasure Island. It doesn’t help much, since we can’t guess 12 down, and the other letters are blank. But I’ve got an idea for 15 down, which ought to help. What about “runner up?” “Second” in a sporting sense.’

  ‘That’s good, really – very good indeed. I’ll write it down. Now what does that give us? Isn’t 30 across going to be an odd word? I don’t believe there is such a—Still, we mustn’t speculate; let’s check up by means of 21 across.’

  ‘Construe it, first.’

  ‘Well, a cipher is “nought” – in other words, the letter “O.” But the clue is cunningly set. It might mean one of two things. A word for “thrust” minus the letter “O” equals a word for “Loll.” Or, alternatively, a word for “Loll” minus the letter “O” to equal a word for “thrust.” In either case we can place the “O” – it’s the second letter. Then we have “-N-E,” and most probably “-NCE” or “-NGE;” “NSE” isn’t a verbal termination. “NNE” is uncommon.

  ‘Some sort of vowel between the “O” and the “N.” “OA” or “OU.” It must be “lounge,” I think. Yes, of course. Take away the “O” and you have “lunge” – to thrust in fencing.’

  ‘Your bird, Colonel. Now I’m going to cheat. Don’t I see a Shakespeare concordance up there? Well, look up “barefaced.” Only four possibles. “Play barefaced” – “I could with barefaced power” – Only one from Hamlet. Listen to this. “They bore him barefaced on the bier.” That’s good enough, isn’t it? Sung by Ophelia. Speaking of Polonius. That explains the sex difficulty. Simple enough when you know how.’

  ‘Blank letters, all of them,’ sighed Trumpington ungratefully. ‘But I own that it’s nice to be right. Now that drunken business in 26 down – that’s another convention. The finished word has to end in “SH,” like a stage drunkard, you know. “Mess” is “confusion.” Make it drunk and it becomes “mesh.” Rather arbitrary, really, like the assumption that all Welshmen turn their initial d’s into t’s, or that all f ’s become v’s in Dorsetshire. That completes that fantastic word at 30 across.’

  ‘Haven’t we been overlooking rather an easy one at 23 across? It says “the confused end of 8 or 6” – we have 8 across, anyway. That ends “ATE.” Then 23 across must be “TEA” – unless it’s just plain muddling of the letters – but that’s hardly playing the game, is it? I mean, the second one must be a word itself, too, mustn’t it? Or don’t you play that convention?’

  ‘Certainly it must. But you can also make “EAT.”’

  ‘Confound it, so you can. The Greek letter “ETA,” for that matter – or would it be spelt with a double “E?”’

  ‘Taking the alternatives as “TEA” and “EAT,” it gives us two possible combinations for 24 down. “E-T,” or “A-T.” Do either of those suggest to you a ladylike flower?’

  ‘I can’t say they do. When is a flower ladylike?’

  ‘Well, cutting out the ladylike, can you think of any flower beginning with those letters?’

  ‘“Aster” – but why the Lady? Oh, of course. Unfair, really, but put it down. That gives us “EAT” for 23 across. 31 across, by the way, must be norm – not that it affects the main issue. Then for our key word at 14 down, we have “R-G-T.”’

  It was at this point that Prynne made a momentous observation.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said slowly, ‘whether perhaps we aren’t meant to take that clue at 14 down and the others quite literally – do you see what I mean? After all, the words “solve empirically” might be taken in two ways. They might be the clue themselves – as, of course, we first assumed that they were – in which case the answer would be something like “guess” or “puzzle out.” Or else they might be instructions to us, as solvers. Meaning that we are to get the “straight clues” first, and then puzzle out what the four key words are by looking at the letters we have got. That’s really what empirically means, isn’t it – trying all possible combinations?’

  ‘I’ve seen something of the sort in Torquemada.’ Trumpington spoke with reverence of the great Inquisitor. ‘You have sometimes whole sentences or stanzas to guess. But in his arrangement of the frame, of course, there are no hidden letters.’

  Then perhaps we can start by guessing 14 down. “R-G-T.” Unless we are embracing the Latin language – and I don’t see any reason to do so – the only word which suggests itself is “right.”’

  ‘And 12 down? “Penal,” or—’

  ‘Don’t be so cautious – it’s “panel.”’

  ‘Right, “panel.”’

  They were both silent for a moment. It sounded all of a sudden that they had taken a long step nearer to the heart of Canon Whyte’s little mystification. Then Trumpington got up and turned the light on. He tried to make his voice sound as matter of fact as possible.

  ‘That’s a very clever suggestion. The right panel of what, I wonder? His own library, perhaps – but that’s panelled all over.’

  ‘Or of his desk?’

  ‘That’s more likely. What became of his desk? I believe his son had it – he must have taken it away with him. I do think that Whyte might have been more explicit.’

  ‘Aren’t we forgetting the other two key words? 4 across and 30 across should tell us all we want to know.’

  ‘Of course; we must finish this, Prynne.’

  ‘We must, and we will, Trumpington. Advance the standards. What do you make of 4 down?’

  ‘Nothing, at the moment. It seems to leave no point of attack – and which Blake?’

  ‘Sexton Blake?’

  ‘The poet, more probably. What about 6 down, then?’

  ‘One thing we have established; it must end in “ATE” if the last three letters are an anagram at 23 across. With the “I” from sliver that gives us four blank letters followed by “IATE.”’

  ‘Well, that’s a likely enough ending, in all conscience. An adjective, like “collegiate” or “branchiate” – or a verb, perhaps – “officiate.”’

  ‘All good sound suggestions – except that they’ve got too many letters.’

  ‘And nothing to do with the clue.’

  ‘True. What about 7 down?’

  ‘Well, I have a feeling, based on many similar subterfuges, that the word “merely” has been put in with intent to deceive – the nucleus of the clue is “relative.”’

  ‘Five letters, and ending in “E.” “Uncle.”’

  ‘Or “niece.”’

  ‘Confound you, yes. It might be “niece.” What a hard world it is. And 10 across is quite incomprehensible.’

  ‘“Archetype of the manifold varieties of existence.” But it does seem to mean something, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s not just sheer gibberish, like “Why is a mouse when it spins?” Now, how would you define an archetype?’

  ‘I shouldn’t. I should look it up. Here w
e are. It means a prototype.’

  ‘Well, that’s very helpful. And a prototype means – don’t tell me. I’ve guessed it. It means an archetype.’

  After this pronouncement a gloomy silence prevailed. Once again it was Prynne, the amateur, who came to the rescue.

  ‘“Idea,”’ he said firmly.

  ‘You’ve had an idea?’

  ‘No. Yes. I mean “idea” is the answer to 10 across. It’s an Aristotelian definition. I knew I had met it somewhere.’

  ‘Are you sure? That’s very remarkable. I don’t wish to look a gift horse in the mouth, but if you’ll pass the dictionary. Yes, indeed. “An image of an external object formed by the mind – notion – thought – product of intellectual action. An archetype of the manifold …” Prynne, that’s absolutely brilliant.’

  ‘Write it in,’ said Prynne. ‘We’re in the straight now. 7 down has got to be “niece,” of course.’

  ‘And 6 down seems to suggest a word now. “-I-IATE,” “-ICIATE,” “-ILIATE,” “-ITIATE.” “Initiate.” That’s right, it must be. Taken in four separate words. “In it I ate.”’

  ‘I don’t wish to damp your ardour, but 4 across doesn’t look any more like a word than 30 across. What letter are you going to suggest between the “I” and the “N?” A vowel – or another “N.” Or a “G” – that gives it a sort of French look, finishing “-IGNE.”’

  ‘There are too many possibilities. We shall have to get 4 down. I feel that it’s the poet Blake that is referred to. I haven’t a copy of his works—’

  ‘I have,’ said Prynne. ‘I’ll fetch it. And we’ll dig it out if it means reading through the whole boiling issue.’

  A moment later the door had slammed behind him.

  When he came back with a fat volume of Blake’s poems, one look at Trumpington’s face told him that he’d had his journey for nothing. ‘Have you got it?’ he cried.

  ‘“Women’s Institute.” I thought of it as soon as you’d left.’

  ‘Of course. Why, it was only last week that we had it – “and did those feet …?” Put it in, anyway.’

  ‘There!’ They stared at the finished product.

  ‘That top word, now. It should be easy enough, with the first letter “F” and the third letter “B.” Where’s that dictionary? I’ll start with the FAB’s. No good. FEB – “Febrific” would do, if niece is wrong. And it means “feverish,” or “producing fever,” which is quite appropriate. FIB – no use. FOB – FUB – nothing at all.’

  ‘Try FYB,’ said Prynne desperately. ‘It must be something … Well, it’s a rotten dictionary, then.’

  ‘This is the only dictionary Whyte ever used.’ Trumpington gazed lovingly at the tattered, dog-eared edition of Chambers’ Twentieth Century – the crossword solver’s vademecum.

  ‘Try that gazetteer.’ The gazetteer produced a number of towns, rivers, inlets, and hills, starting with F-B, but nothing of eight letters to fit the data except “Fabriano,” which they discovered to be a cathedral town (population 23,200) in the neighbourhood of Ancona in Italy.

  ‘And Whyte was never in Italy in his life,’ wailed Trumpington – and broke off short at the sight of Prynne’s face.

  ‘Don’t talk,’ said Prynne simply, ‘and I may remember it. I don’t promise anything, mind you. Somewhere, somehow. Oh, Lord, what a muddled head I’ve got. “Fabriano.” But it’s not a place at all – it’s a person. That’s it. Exhibition of Italian art. Where’s that dictionary of biography?’

  Feverishly he turned the pages. ‘“Fabriano, Gentile da (1348?-1428?) – Italian painter. Born at Fabriano and known after his native town. Painted at, etc., etc. Adorned the Lateran Church with many beautiful frescoes – a series of five beautiful miniature triptyches.” There you are,’ he finished simply.

  In complete silence Canon Trumpington wrote “Fabriano” into the top right-hand corner of the puzzle, and “triptych” into the bottom left-hand corner. Then he got up.

  ‘That must be the one he gave the Dean,’ he said. ‘We’d better go and look at it now. Come on.’

  14

  BEING DEAD, YET SPEAKETH

  ‘Let it be enjoined that those who kill themselves by sword, poison, precipice or halter, or by any other means bring violent death upon themselves, shall not have a memorial made of them … nor shall their bodies be carried with Psalm to burial …’

  ‘Check,’ said Halliday regretfully, ‘and it really is mate this time.’

  ‘Nonsense, Halliday. I can still move back. Oh, your knight, I see. So it is.’ The Dean collected the remaining pieces from the board. ‘We’ll start again, and I’ll take black. You’ve plenty of time for another game, haven’t you?’

  ‘Afraid not. No late choir practice tonight, and that means evening class. Scripture, Second Kings. Such an embarrassing book. I always prepare two chapters ahead. I promise you your revenge tomorrow evening.’

  As Halliday was letting himself out of the front door he saw Pollock and Hazlerigg coming up the path, and forthwith regretted his own conscientiousness. If only he had stayed five minutes longer, he reflected, he might have heard the very latest titbits of news about Parvin – and no one in the Close appreciated early and exclusive news more than Halliday. However, he supposed it would look a bit odd if he turned back again, so he flung the two policemen a reproachful ‘Good evening,’ and trudged off into the darkness.

  ‘Sit down Inspector … a cigarette – and you, Bobby?’

  Business over, status of nephew resumed, thought Pollock, and lit his pipe.

  ‘I asked you to come round here tonight,’ went on the Dean, ‘so that we could talk things over quietly, and see whether something couldn’t be done to make things a little easier for—well—you know what I mean. There’s no need for Mrs. Parvin to suffer unnecessarily …’

  ‘Parvin—’ Hazlerigg was beginning when the maid arrived to build up the fire, and there ensued one of those silences which arise all the world over, when the movements of domestics suspend private conversation.

  ‘I can scarcely believe it even now,’ continued the Dean when the maid, having done her best to put out a perfectly good fire by emptying a scuttle of coal on it, had at last removed herself. ‘Parvin was a man who had, perhaps, a certain weakness for the bottle in his hours off duty; scarcely what one looks for in a verger, but apart from that—’

  ‘I was going to tell you,’ said Hazlerigg patiently, ‘that Parvin—’

  Again he was interrupted. They had not heard the bell, but now the sound of trampling feet in the hall announced the unceremonious arrival of Trumpington and Prynne. One glance at their faces brought all three men to their feet.

  Trumpington was spokesman.

  ‘Something very important has happened,’ he said – and in a quiet voice he explained to them the chain of circumstances which had resulted in the discovery of Canon Whyte’s last message. When he had finished the silence was broken unexpectedly by Hazlerigg.

  ‘Who was Canon Whyte?’

  ‘Why,’ said the Dean guiltily, ‘didn’t I tell you about Canon Whyte? I was sure you’d heard about Canon Whyte. Such a distressing business. He fell from the roof of the cathedral – practically on the spot where Appledown—’

  His voice died away. Pollock thought Hazlerigg was going to explode. But when at last the inspector found his voice its very softness was more explosive than violence.

  ‘Three days,’ he said. ‘Three days, everyone under suspicion of murder, and some of you in actual danger of your lives, and you never thought it worth your while to tell me the one thing that really mattered. Never mind, it can’t be helped now. With your permission, Mr. Dean, we’ll open that triptych.’

  The Dean, feeling obscurely guilty, fetched a paper-knife and prized up the thin matchboarding which formed the back of the right-hand volet of the triptych. Between the wood and the figured panel, and exactly fitting into the cavity, lay a flat envelope of oiled silk, of the type much used by lawyers for th
e preservation of deeds. The Dean removed this, and seeing that it was sealed handed it after a moment’s hesitation to Trumpington.

  ‘I think it was meant for you,’ he said. Trumpington looked from the Dean to Prynne, who was openly grinning; to Pollock, desperately interested, but simulating a polite unconcern; to Hazlerigg, impassive as ever.

  Then, ‘Excuse me,’ he said, as simply as if he had been at his own breakfast-table, and slitting open the envelope he drew out the one sheet of notepaper which it contained – a large sheet, folded twice, and covered back and front with Canon Whyte’s neat handwriting.

  He read carefully for a few moments, gasped, scrutinised a line or two ahead, then said in a choking voice: ‘You’d better all see this. I suppose it’s—I mean to say—’

  He turned to the Dean. ‘Look here, sir, would you read it out to us? It’s addressed to you as well.’

  The Dean looked inquiringly at Hazlerigg, who said, ‘Please do.’ So he took the paper from Trumpington’s outstretched hand, and started to read without more ado in his quiet unemphatic voice:

  ‘Dear Trumpington, and you, Mr. Dean, and others who may be present at these my last obsequies and rites. When I decided to end my life, I was determined on two things. The first, that there should be no shadow of an idea in anyone’s mind that my death was premeditated. This was important for many reasons. Principally, because my dear daughter was about to be married, and my son, may God bless him and help him, was on the point of entering on his career in the diplomatic service. The news that I had destroyed myself might have been disastrous to both of them in a number of easily imaginable ways. I am sure that they will forgive me this innocent deception, should it be necessary to tell them of it.

  ‘Now to my second resolution. It was that the cause of my taking this step, though hidden at first, should eventually be known in the proper quarters (and there alone).

  ‘Faced as I was with this dual problem, you will wonder why I did not employ the device of leaving a message – to be opened at some definite period after my death. The answer is that the mere fact of having done so would have aroused those very suspicions which I was most anxious to avoid. A lawyer, left with such instructions, must, I understand, open a confidential letter if he suspects a breach of the law – for felonia de se, remember, in this enlightened country of ours, is a crime. No. What I wanted was some device by which the message I had to leave might be dispatched, but delayed from reaching its destination – hidden away until the time was ripe – and then falling into the right hands. You will perhaps agree that I showed some little ingenuity in my dismal task.