Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem - Charlie Cochrane Page 0,22
expertise.”
“That would be more than we could reasonably hope for. To simply establish what happened and so draw a line under the matter would be enough.” Henry looked towards his wife, who raised an eyebrow then nodded.
Was that all? Orlando waited for more to emerge but it didn’t. Was he holding out a vain hope that they’d not yet got to the bottom of this commission?
Chapter Four
Goodnights said, Jonty trudged up the stairs, a tall, dark and handsome Orlando-shaped streak of frustration in his wake.
“I still can’t understand why we’ve been asked in,” Mr Discontented said, once they were in Jonty’s room. “You were right when you said this wasn’t our area of expertise, although I don’t suppose murder was back in 1905. We’ve learned as we went along. But buried treasure…” The roll of the eyes was almost audible. “I know it sounds terribly big headed but our abilities our surely rather in excess of those required to find this blasted thing.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” Jonty pushed the door to, leaving a small gap, in an act indicating look, we have nothing to hide, we’re just talking. “Perhaps there’s more to it than simply laying an old family mystery to rest.”
“That’s certainly the hope I came away with. We’ve been told an awful lot, but I don’t think we’ve been told everything.”
“I’d agree. This drawing a line thing implies that the matter still has repercussions. Maybe Richard’s reputation is still blighted by the suspicion that he invented the whole story. I know I never met this local expert and might be slandering him—can you slander the dead because I assume he’s no longer here, Beatrice referring to him as ‘was’?”
Orlando’s brow creased comically. “It’s too late for you going off on tangents. Out with the slander.”
“I simply think Herron sounded a nasty piece of work and I wouldn’t put it past such a person to spread unfounded rumours. I also wonder if there was a different clue in what Beatrice told us. She genuinely seemed thrilled at the prospect of her grandchildren being involved with re-finding the treasure.”
“Hm.” Orlando sniffed. “What struck me, although I was too polite to ask, is why his lordship hasn’t simply employed an army of men to clear that field over months or years or however long it would take to be absolutely clear about whether the treasure is still there or not. Dig it yard by yard, not a patch untouched, right down through the culvert. All to a sufficient depth to counteract the effect of the landslip.” He lowered his voice. “To put it vulgarly, Henry can’t be short of money, given the extent to which he’s helping the existing archaeological dig.”
“That would be a logical approach, but we know that people aren’t always as logical as you are, old pal.” Jonty grinned, then yawned. “Given our host’s propensity for making a little bit of a story go a very long way, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more to come over breakfast. What if the treasure’s simply a sprat to catch we poor mackerel?”
Orlando, who’d been looking weary, visibly brightened. “And the main issue is actually some suspicion he has about the death of his brother? What if he didn’t really die, but was merely taken off for some reason. The child his mother later saw was actually him.”
“I think the late hour is getting to your brain. In the morning, you’ll realise why that would be an almost impossible thing to work, not least because a bereaved mother would surely have insisted on seeing her son’s body.” Jonty stifled another yawn. “Anyway, I’d like to sleep on things. Perhaps in the morning we’ll have also worked out how we can ask our host whether he’s hiding what he really wants us to investigate.”
“Better you than me asking the question.”
“Of his lordship, perhaps, but what about her ladyship? She likes you.”
Orlando drew himself up to his full height. “Given the choice, I’d rather go into a lions’ den. Goodnight, sweet prince.”
Orlando turned to make his departure when they heard furtive steps outside. He glanced at Jonty, who’d already put his finger to his lips. An elegant lilac coloured envelope shot under the door, after which the footsteps retreated, the person concerned having apparently disappeared from sight by the time Orlando was able to sneak a glance up and down the corridor.
“You’ve got an admirer,” he said, “although I have no idea who it might be.”
Jonty picked up the envelope. “We