Lessons in Solving the Wrong Problem - Charlie Cochrane Page 0,16

as he and Jonty had speculated, suffered from some mental instability which had caused the hallucinations. Perhaps she had and it was a Byrd secret. Orlando was well aware, from his own family, of the power the brain had over one’s perceptions and actions. He would store that little incident away, in case it became relevant to whatever mystery they were being consulted upon. If they ever got to find out what that was.

Eventually they retired to the drawing room where, over the port, they’d hopefully at last get down to the main mystery, rather than the intriguing but ultimately pointless ones of the ghost child, the ghost cat and why Beatrice continued to favour Orlando over Jonty.

Orlando’s mounting sense of frustration combined with one of unease. While he liked his host, the lady of the house made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. Such a contrast to Mrs Stewart, who may be the wife of a lord but who first and foremost was an affectionate mother and a warm hostess. The fact she had once slapped Orlando’s backside for misbehaving had added, rather than detracted, from the affection he held her in. The sooner they could hear the mystery, the better. Then they could either solve it over the next two days or depart to consider it further in the comfort of their own home, where he would feel at ease.

Their host settled them into deceptively comfortable armchairs, ensured they all had a glass of port, then commenced—at long last—to relate why they’d been invited. “There were three sons in our family. In order, myself, Richard and Edward, whose portraits you’ll have seen on the staircase.”

Orlando nodded. Although the middle brother had only been mentioned sparsely on the tour, the affection in which Henry held him had been evident.

“Richard was a great one for practical jokes—still is, so I pity his staff in Ceylon. I sometimes hear accounts of what he’s getting up to. No malice in him, though.”

Orlando shot a sidelong glance at his hostess, anticipating she’d be wearing a look of disapproval at such shenanigans, but she wasn’t. That was presumably testament to the lack of spite in the jokes he played.

“What sort of things did he—does he—do?” Jonty asked. “There are tricks and there are tricks.”

“Ones intended to baffle rather than humiliate or injure. No sawing through the bottom rung of a ladder or soap crystals in the sugar bowl.” Henry put his fingers to his temple in thought. “Let me give you an example. You’ll have seen a trompe l’oeil?”

“I’ve seen the violin at Chatsworth,” Jonty replied, “among others. Orlando, do you recall Dr Panesar entertaining us with photographs he’d obtained of notable examples of the art?”

“I do. I particularly found forced perspective to be fascinating. Was Richard an artist?”

“Yes. Amateur, of course, because quite another path would be forged for him given his position, but he was and is extremely talented. The triumph of his artistic—and practical joking—career involved a forced perspective painting which he’d secretly been working on for months. He put it behind the glass doors to the summerhouse so when you looked, it appeared that the place had been converted into a hothouse, going back thirty yards and awash with plants. Even from quite close the illusion was maintained.”

“I’d have liked to see that.” The mathematics behind the illusion of depth was enthralling: perhaps this mystery—if they ever got round to being enlightened about it—might involve that. A chap could only hope.

“I’d have been delighted to show it to you, but alas we no longer have the thing. Richard produced it especially for a visit here of the Prince and Princess of Wales. They were so taken with it that we had little choice but to give it to them as a present. Whether they’ve ever caught anyone else with the illusion, or kept it to amuse themselves, I couldn’t say.” The note of disappointment was palpable.

What an asset that would have been to Greysands, not least because of the degree of levity it would bring. One of the evident faults with the house was the degree of importance in which it held itself. What would the house have been like had Richard been the eldest child or, God forbid, have married Helena Forster before Mr Stewart had swept her up?

“If they had employed such a notable optical illusion, I’m sure my father would have known about it,” Jonty said. “He appears to have the most remarkable ability to know what’s going on.”

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