Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem - Charlie Cochrane Page 0,51
recent male Byrds, so even if Captain Fitznagel chooses to wear tinted spectacles or sport a beard, we should see enough to establish whether the connection is possible.”
After which they’d be visiting Lord Henry and be able to present a probable solution to both their commission and to the strange matter of Edward’s ghost. If only they could perform the hat trick and settle the matter of Lord Michael’s accident.
***
The meeting at Five Oaks didn’t start auspiciously. William Fitznagel—who did, indeed, have more than a hint of the distinctive Byrd nose—was clearly uneasy at their presence. They’d asked to see him on the grounds that they had been asked to investigate the disappearance of a treasure trove from the Greysands estate many years previously and were trying to talk to anyone who had a link to those days. Interviews with ex-staff had been mentioned in their letter and an intimation made that William Saggers may have known exactly where the stuff had been originally located, his having been informed by Lord Michael several days after the find. It was stretching the truth to almost breaking point but it had gained them entrance.
Perhaps, of course, Fitznagel had already got wind of their investigation—Jonty was fairly sure that he’d been the face at the window when he and Henry had driven past, although he’d not had time to tell Orlando the fact—and was determined to see them in order to give his two penn’orth.
They were offered refreshments, but politely declined them, not wanting to overstay their welcome on any front, then were taken into what was clearly a naval man’s study, given the paintings and artefacts on display.
“Is that a narwhal’s horn?” Jonty asked, in admiration of the object above the fireplace.
“Yes. I didn’t catch the blighter, alas.” Fitznagel indicated two chairs, then took his own behind his desk. “I fear I have little I can tell you. My godfather never told me anything about treasure, although one of my first memories was him saying that Lord Michael had been digging his grounds in search of ancient things. I was quite ill as a small child so could only travel in my imagination and found such things fascinating.”
So the childhood illness sounded genuine. Jonty would probe that. “I knew a chap at school who sounds just like you. Baptised when he was two hours old because they feared he’d not last the night. By the age of five he was running about like any other boy and by fifteen he was holding his own in the scrum with boys two years older.”
That particular boy didn’t exist, apart from in Jonty’s imagination and while he felt a pang of conscience for telling untruths, the instruction never to lie having been drummed into him from the cradle, he was sure Papa would allow it, given the circumstances.
“That could describe me, apart from the rugby. Always preferred cross-country running, myself. Which may seem odd, when you consider my choice of profession.” Fitznagel produced a smile, one that promptly disappeared as he reined himself in again. “As I said, I was too small and too weak to have been involved in any digging on the estate.”
Fitznagel struck Jonty—based on nothing other than the unflinching gaze and tenor of voice—as somebody who, like Mr Stewart, would cleave to the truth wherever possible. He said casually, “But you lived in this house back then?”
“Yes. It was felt the country air would do me good, and so it proved. When I was stronger, my family took the opportunity to travel further afield.”
Orlando, who’d been giving the impression of a coiled spring, could clearly restrain himself no longer. “Sir, as we’ve delved into the mystery of the treasure, other things have come to light, including the distressing matter of Lord Henry’s mother seeing her what appeared to be her dead son’s ghost. It would be misleading in the extreme and an abuse of your hospitality, for us to carry on any pretence in that regard. We believe that you were the child she saw.”
Fitznagel blanched, although he sat firm and steady, as though his desk were the bridge of his ship as he went into battle. “Why should you want to discuss that? I’m not afraid of blackmailers.”
“No, you misunderstand.” Jonty raised his hands as though surrendering his own vessel. “That’s not what we’re here for. Why do we raise the matter? You might call it the intellectual curiosity of the academic, wanting to know if their theory was correct—and