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 read. "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 ensconed 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 tomorrow 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 mo
rning 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!"