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Mrs Bantry sat down and groaned.
‘Oh! my poor head. And all the time – Jane Helier, you deceitful girl! Telling us that story the way you did!’
‘I am a good actress,’ said Jane complacently. ‘I always have been, whatever people choose to say. I didn’t give myself away once, did I?’
‘Miss Marple was right,’ murmured Mrs Bantry. ‘The personal element. Oh, yes, the personal element. Jane, my good child, do you realize that theft is theft, and you might have been sent to prison?’
‘Well, none of you guessed,’ said Jane. ‘Except Miss Marple.’ The worried expression returned to her face. ‘Dolly, do you really think there are many like her?’
‘Frankly, I don’t,’ said Mrs Bantry.
Jane sighed again.
‘Still, one had better not risk it. And of course I should be in Netta’s power – that’s true enough. She might turn against me or blackmail me or anything. She helped me think out the details and she professed to be devoted to me, but one never does know with women. No, I think Miss Marple was right. I had better not risk it.’
‘But, my dear, you have risked it.’
‘Oh, no.’ Jane opened her blue eyes very wide. ‘Don’t you understand? None of this has happened yet! I was – well, trying it on the dog, so to speak.’
‘I don’t profess to understand your theatrical slang,’ said Mrs Bantry with dignity. ‘Do you mean this is a future project – not a past deed?’
‘I was going to do it this autumn – in September. I don’t know what to do now.’
‘And Jane Marple guessed – actually guessed the truth and never told us,’ said Mrs Bantry wrathfully.
‘I think that was why she said that – about women sticking together. She wouldn’t give me away before the men. That was nice of her. I don’t mind your knowing, Dolly.’
‘Well, give the idea up, Jane. I beg of you.’
‘I think I shall,’ murmured Miss Helier. ‘There might be other Miss Marples . . .’
Chapter 40
Manx Gold
‘Manx Gold’ was first published in The Daily Dispatch between 23–28 May 1930 as a treasure hunt to promote tourism in the Isle of Man.
Old Mylecharane liv’d up on the broo.
Where Jurby slopes down to the wold,
His croft was all golden with cushag and furze,
His daughter was fair to behold.
‘O father, they say you’ve plenty of store,
But hidden all out of the way.
No gold can I see, but its glint on the gorse;
Then what have you done with it, pray?’
‘My gold is locked up in a coffer of oak,
Which I dropped in the tide and it sank,
And there it lies fixed like an anchor of hope,
All bright and as safe as the bank.’
‘I like that song,’ I said appreciatively, as Fenella finished.
‘You should do,’ said Fenella. ‘It’s about our ancestor, yours and mine. Uncle Myles’s grandfather. He made a fortune out of smuggling and hid it somewhere, and no one ever knew where.’
Ancestry is Fenella’s strong point. She takes an interest in all her fore-bears. My tendencies are strictly modern. The difficult present and the uncertain future absorb all my energy. But I like hearing Fenella singing old Manx ballads.
Fenella is very charming. She is my first cousin and also, from time to time, my fiancée. In moods of financial optimism we are engaged. When a corresponding wave of pessimism sweeps over us and we realize that we shall not be able to marry for at least ten years, we break it off.
‘Didn’t anyone ever try to find the treasure?’ I inquired. ‘Of course. But they never did.’
‘Perhaps they didn’t look scientifically.’
‘Uncle Myles had a jolly good try,’ said Fenella. ‘He said anyone with intelligence ought to be able to solve a little problem like that.’
That sounded to me very like our Uncle Myles, a cranky and eccentric old gentleman, who lived in the Isle of Man, and who was much given to didactic pronouncements.
It was at that moment that the post came – and the letter! ‘Good Heavens,’ cried Fenella. ‘Talk of the devil – I mean angels – Uncle Myles is dead!’
Both she and I had only seen our eccentric relative on two occasions, so we could neither of us pretend to a very deep grief. The letter was from a firm of lawyers in Douglas, and it informed us that under the will of Mr Myles Mylecharane, deceased, Fenella and I were joint inheritors of his estate, which consisted of a house near Douglas, and an infinitesimal income. Enclosed was a sealed envelope, which Mr Mylecharane had directed should be forwarded to Fenella at his death. This letter we opened and read its surprising contents. I reproduce it in full, since it was a truly characteristic document.
‘My dear Fenella and Juan (for I take it that where one of you is the other will not be far away! Or so gossip has whispered), You may remember having heard me say that anyone displaying a little intelligence could easily find the treasure concealed by my amiable scoundrel of a grandfather. I displayed that intelligence – and my reward was four chests of solid gold – quite like a fairy story, is it not?
Of living relations I have only four, you two, my nephew Ewan Corjeag, whom I have always heard is a thoroughly bad lot, and a cousin, a Doctor Fayll, of whom I have heard very little, and that little not always good.
My estate proper I am leaving to you and Fenella, but I feel a certain obligation laid upon me with regard to this ‘treasure’ which has fallen to my lot solely through my own ingenuity. My amiable ancestor would not, I feel, be satisfied for me to pass it on tamely by inheritance. So I, in my turn, have devised a little problem.
There are still four ‘chests’ of treasure (though in a more modern form than gold ingots or coins) and there are to be four competitors – my four living relations. It would be fairest to assign one ‘chest’ to each – but the world, my children, is not fair. The race is to the swiftest – and often to the most unscrupulous!
Who am I to go against Nature? You must pit your wits against the
other two. There will be, I fear, very little chance for you. Goodness and innocence are seldom rewarded in this world. So strongly do I feel this that I have deliberately cheated (unfairness again, you notice!). This letter goes to you twenty-four hours in advance of the letters to the other two. Thus you will have a very good chance of securing the first “treasure” – twenty-four hours’ start, if you have any brains at all, ought to be sufficient.
The clues for finding this treasure are to be found at my house in Douglas. The clues for the second “treasure” will not be released till the first treasure is found. In the second and succeeding cases, therefore, you will all start even. You have my good wishes for success, and nothing would please me better than for you to acquire all four “chests”, but for the reasons which I have already stated I think that most unlikely. Remember that no scruples will stand in dear Ewan’s way. Do not make the mistake of trusting him in any respect. As to Dr Richard Fayll, I know little about him, but he is, I fancy, a dark horse.
Good luck to you both, but with little hopes of your success, Your affectionate Uncle, Myles Mylecharane’
As we reached the signature, Fenella made a leap from my side.
‘What is it?’ I cried.
Fenella was rapidly turning the pages of an ABC. ‘We must get to the Isle of Man as soon as possible,’ she cried. ‘How dare he say we were good and innocent and stupid? I’ll show him! Juan, we’re going to find all four of these “chests” and get married and live happily ever afterwards, with Rolls-Royces and footmen and marble baths. But we must get to the Isle of Man at once.’
It was twenty-four hours later. We had arrived in Douglas, interviewed the lawyers, and were now at Maughold House facing Mrs Skillicorn, our late Uncle’s housekeeper, a somewhat formidable woman who nevertheless relented a little before Fenella’s eagerness.
‘Queer ways h
e had,’ she said. ‘Liked to set everyone puzzling and contriving.’
‘But the clues,’ cried Fenella. ‘The clues?’
Deliberately, as she did everything, Mrs Skillicorn left the room. She returned after an absence of some minutes and held out a folded piece of paper.
We unfolded it eagerly. It contained a doggerel rhyme in my Uncle’s crabbed handwriting.
Four points of the compass so there be
S., and W., N. and E.
East winds are bad for man and beast.
Go south and west and North not east.
‘Oh!’ said Fenella, blankly.
‘Oh!’ said I, with much the same intonation.
Mrs Skillicorn smiled on us with gloomy relish.
‘Not much sense to it, is there?’ she said helpfully.
‘It – I don’t see how to begin,’ said Fenella, piteously.
‘Beginning,’ I said, with a cheerfulness I did not feel, ‘is always the difficulty. Once we get going –’
Mrs Skillicorn smiled more grimly than ever. She was a depressing woman.
‘Can’t you help us?’ asked Fenella, coaxingly.
‘I know nothing about the silly business. Didn’t confide in me, your uncle didn’t. I have told him to put his money in the bank, and no nonsense. I never knew what he was up to.’
‘He never went out with any chests – or anything of that kind?’
