cryptogram
Take heed and be quiet; fear not, neither be fainthearted for the two tails of those smoking firebrands, for the fierce anger of Rezin with Syria, and of the son of Remaliah.Because Syria, Ephraim, and the son of Remaliah, have taken civil counsel against thee, saying,Let us go up against Judah, and vex it, and let us make a breach therein for us, and set a King in the midst of it, even the son of Tabeal:Thus saith the Lord God. It shall not stand, neither shall it come to pass.And all the Kings of the north, far and near, one with another, and all the kingdoms of the world, which are upon the face of the earth: and the King of Sheshak shall drink after them.Therefore, thou shalt say unto them, Thus saith the Lord of Hosts, and the God of wrath: “Drink ye and be drunken, and spue and fall, and rise no more, because of the sword which I will send among you.”
“A curious document!” said Crewe, examining it intently.
“I got it from the dwarf woman,” said Gillett. “She had it hidden away in her sitting-room.”
“I suppose she didn’t want to part with it?”
“She did not. But when I threatened to arrest——”
“Well, I can honestly congratulate you on getting it,” said Crewe. “I have been very anxious to see it. This is the cryptogram that Marsland found on the stairs, and subsequently disappeared from the house. Mrs. Grange secured it before she left the house, after the departure of Marsland and Miss Maynard.”
“That is what I thought, but the dwarf says, ‘No.’ She says that this is the original cryptogram, and that she got it from young Lumsden in order to study it before holding a séance. Lumsden would not part with it until he had made a copy, in case anything happened to the original. Mrs. Grange took the original with her over to Cliff Farm, but it has never been out of her possession since Lumsden gave it to her. She did not see the copy Lumsden made; she did not see it at the house, and does not know what became of it. However, the copy is of no consequence.”
“Oh, isn’t it?” said Crewe. “I would like to know where it went. The cryptogram can be solved just as well from the copy as the original.”
“It probably got blown away and destroyed,” said Detective Gillett. “There was a high wind that night.”
“You might leave this with me for a day or two,” said Crewe, looking at the cryptogram earnestly. “I take an interest in cryptograms.”
“You must take great care of it,” Detective Gillett replied. “I shall want to produce it as evidence at the trial.”
“When you get Brett?”
“Yes. And now let us get back to my story. It was arranged that a séance should be held at the farm on Friday, October 16th.”
“Who was to be there?” asked Crewe.
“Grange and his wife, Lumsden, Brett and Miss Maynard. This young lady has been playing a deep game, as you suggested. I will settle with her to-morrow.”
“And this man, Tom Jauncey, who was shot in the arm, wasn’t he one of the party?”
“No.”
“I thought he might be there to represent the unpaid legatees,” said Crewe.
“I have no doubt that he knew about the séance—that he had heard Brett and Miss Maynard talking about it. Brett was in the habit of visiting the young lady at her home. No doubt Jauncey went out to the farm in order to learn what happened, and see if the money was found.”
“That is much more likely than that he went there to dig in the garden.”
“Let me reconstruct the crime for you, Mr. Crewe. I have got all the threads,” said Detective Gillett eagerly. “The séance was to take place at 6 p. m. on Friday. The dwarf and her husband went over to the place in the afternoon in the motor-boat belonging to old Pedro. They climbed the cliff, and on reaching the farm found that there was no one about, but that the front door was not locked. Lumsden had gone for a walk along the Staveley road to meet Brett, who was to motor over, and he had left the door unlocked, so that, if any of his guests arrived during his absence, they could enter the house and make themselves at home. He was not afraid of thieves going there, for very few people travel along that road on foot. That was the arrangement he had made with the Granges.
“They entered the house, and had a look round the old place. No doubt it occurred to them that if they were thoroughly acquainted with the rooms, and all the nooks and crannies, they would be able to give a more impressive séance. And perhaps they had an idea that in searching round they might find the money without the assistance of the former owner’s spirit, in which case, I have no doubt, they would have helped themselves. They had reached the house about 5 o’clock, and they had not been there half an hour before the storm began to burst, and it got dark.
“It was probably the noise of the rising wind which prevented them hearing Brett’s motor-car, and the first intimation they had that any one had arrived was hearing the front door open. They had closed it when they entered the house, their object being to examine the rooms undisturbed. Brett, thinking there was no one in the house, opened the door with Lumsden’s key. The Granges who were on the top floor did not call out to him, as they had no satisfactory explanation to offer for exploring the house. They saw Brett staggering up the stairs carrying something on his left shoulder. At first they could not make out what it was, as it was dark inside the house. Half-way up the stairs Brett came to a halt to shift his burden, and he turned on an electric torch in order to see where he was. By the light of the torch the Granges saw that Brett was carrying the body of a man. They thought at first that Lumsden had been injured in an accident to the motor-car, but the fact that they heard no voices subsequently—that Brett did not speak aloud—convinces me that you were right, and that Lumsden was dead.
“Brett entered the room on the left of the stairs on the first floor, and was there some minutes—probably getting Lumsden’s pocket-book, and disarranging the papers it contained in the way we saw. Then he went downstairs, and a few moments later the little dwarf, who was leaning over the staircase, saw him moving about below, with the torch in one hand and a bucket in the other. He began washing away the stains of blood in the hall, and on the staircase. He came up the stairs one by one with his bucket and torch, searching for blood-stains, and swabbing them with the cloth whenever he found them. After cleaning the stairs and landing in this way, he went downstairs with the bucket. A minute later he came back to the room which he had first entered, and immediately afterwards they heard a shot. This was the shot fired through the window. No doubt the bullet hit the cherry-tree, and then struck Jauncey in the arm. It seems a strange thing that Jauncey knew nothing about the motor-car at the gate. But of course it had no lights, and Jauncey, intent on spying, did not go up to the front gate to enter the garden. He must have got through the hedge lower down, and made his way across the home field. I must see him about this and ask him.
“After firing the shot Brett went downstairs again, and the Granges saw no more of him,” continued Detective Gillett. “No doubt Brett found Lumsden’s boots in the kitchen, as you said, and after putting them on forced the window downstairs and climbed out. He got into his car and drove off without lights, being very thankful to get away without any one seeing him—as he thought.
“The Granges did not know he had gone, and while they were quaking upstairs, wondering what to do, the front door was opened again and there was a light step in the hall. This was Miss Maynard. She had found the key in the lock which Brett had left there. By this time the storm had reached the farm. There was a high wind with heavy drops of rain. Miss Maynard, unconscious that there was a dead man upstairs, and Grange and his wife on the floor above, lighted the candle on the hallstand, and then took it into the sitting-room, where Brett had got out of the house. She sat down to wait for the appearance of Brett and Lumsden. No doubt the fact that she had found the key in the door convinced her that they were in the outbuildings. According to the Granges’ story, Miss Maynard arrived less than ten minutes after Brett’s final trip downstairs, and about a quarter of an hour after her arrival there came a knock at the front door. This was Captain Marsland.
“The rest of the story we know, from Captain Marsland’s statement to Westaway, the only thing that is wrong with it being his omission of all mention of Miss Maynard. Grange, bending over the stairs to watch, knocked down the picture that made such a crash. When Captain Marsland and Miss Maynard found the body, she knew immediately that Brett must have had something to do with the tragedy, and therefore she asked Captain Marsland to say nothing about her presence there. If he had done so she would have had to give us an account of her movements, and the object of her visit there, and all this would have directed suspicion to Brett.
“Not till half an hour after Grange and his wife heard the door close, when Captain Marsland and Miss Maynard departed, did they venture downstairs. They looked in at the room in which the body had been taken, and by the light of matches they saw the dead man in the chair. They got away from the house as fast as they could. They found the path down the cliff, and while Grange was helping his wife down it his hat blew off. He thought nothing of this at the time. In the old boat-house at the foot of the cliff they found Pedro, who had been sheltering there from the storm. They waited in the boat-house until the storm abated, and about nine o’clock they pushed off in the boat for Staveley, which they were unable to reach until nearly midnight, owing to the rough sea running.
“They decided to say nothing about what they knew, their intention being to keep out of the whole affair. They were afraid that they would be worried a great deal by the police if they said anything, and they were still more afraid that the fact that they had been connected with a murder would ruin their business. In the morning old Pedro was sent over to the landing-place to find the hat Grange had lost.”
“A very interesting story,” said Crewe.
“It is,” said Gillett with pride in his success as a narrator. “And it won’t lose much in dramatic interest when it is unfolded in evidence at the trial. In fact, I think it will gain in interest. What a shock it will be to Brett when he finds that he was seen carrying the body of Lumsden upstairs!”
“You are convinced that Brett was the murderer?” asked Crewe.
“Absolutely certain. Aren’t you?”
“No.”
Detective Gillett stared in surprise at the inscrutable face of the man whose powers of deduction he had learned to look on with admiring awe. Sergeant Westaway, whose legs had become cramped owing to his uncomfortable attitude in a low chair, shifted his position uneasily, and also looked intently at Crewe.
“Then whom do you suspect?” exclaimed Gillett in astonishment.
“Suspect?” said Crewe with a slight note of protest in his voice. “I suspect no one. Suspicions in regard to this, that and the other merely cloud the view. Let us look at the facts and see what they prove.”
“I don’t think you want better proof of murder than that the man who was seen carrying the body of the murdered man subsequently disappears, in order to escape being questioned by the police.”
“It looks what you call suspicious,” said Crewe, “but it is not proof. You assume that Brett is the murderer, but you do not know any of the circumstances under which the crime was committed.”
“Lumsden was walking along the road to meet Brett. They did meet, and in discussing this séance they quarrelled about the division of the money.”
“But why quarrel about dividing the money before the money was found? They already had had some disappointments about finding the money.”
“They may have quarrelled about something else. But why did Brett disappear, and why did he take the body to the farm and endeavour to manufacture misleading clues?”
“I admit that his conduct is suspicious—that it is difficult to account for. But if he is guilty—if he shot Lumsden on the road or when they were driving along the road—why did he take the body to the farm where it was sure to be discovered, as he knew the Granges were to get there by 6 p. m.? Wouldn’t it have been better for him to hide the body in a field or a ditch? That would have given him more time to escape.”
“He took the body to the farm for the purpose of making us believe that the murder was committed there,” rejoined Gillett slowly and positively.
“And then disappeared in order to direct the police suspicions to himself,” said Crewe.
“No doubt he was inconsistent,” Gillett admitted. “But a murderer manufacturing false clues would scarcely be in the frame of mind to think out everything beforehand. The object of leaving false clues was to get sufficient time to escape. Surely, Mr. Crewe, you are not going to say that you believe Brett had nothing to do with the murder—that he is an innocent man?”
“I believe that he knows more about the crime than you or I, and that he disappeared in order to escape being placed in a position in which he would have to tell most of what he knows.”
“And another person who knows a great deal about the crime is Miss Maynard,” said Gillett.
“Yes. I think you have some awkward questions to ask her.”
“I have,” replied the Scotland Yard representative emphatically.
“You might ask her where she got Marsland’s eyeglasses that she dropped down the well. The boots and revolver she got from Brett—or perhaps Brett dropped them there himself on the night of the murder. But the eyeglasses are a different thing.”
“She may have picked them up in the house, or along the garden path. I understand that Captain Marsland lost a pair of glasses that night.”
“He did, but not the pair that were found in the well. The pair that he lost that night he has not found, but the pair you found in the well were in his possession for nearly a week after the murder. He is quite sure on that point, but does not know where he lost them.”
“Of course, he knows that it was Miss Maynard who tried to direct our suspicions to him?” asked Gillett.
“I told him very little, and what I did tell him was for the purpose of satisfying him on a few minor points. That was implied in my promise to you. But he asked about her before I had mentioned her name. He asked if you had seen her.”
“And I suppose he was very indignant with her?”
“No. He took it all very calmly. His calmness, his indifference, struck me as remarkable in one who has suffered from nervous shock.”
“I would like to apologize to him if he is anywhere about—if it is not too much trouble to send for him.”
“Not at all,” said Crewe. He touched the bell, and when the parlour maid appeared, he sent her in search of Captain Marsland.
The young man entered the room a few minutes later in evening dress, and nodded cheerfully to the two police officials. He listened with a forgiving smile to Detective Gillett’s halting apology for having believed that he had endeavoured to mislead the police in the statement made to Sergeant Westaway on the night of the murder.
“Miss Maynard will find that she has over-reached herself,” said Gillett to the young man in conclusion. “I will look her up in the morning and frighten the truth out of her. She knows more about the crime than any one—except Brett. As far as I can see she will be lucky if she escapes arrest as an accomplice.”
“Have you ever considered, Gillett, the possibility of her having been the principal?” asked Crewe.
“No,” said the detective, who obviously was surprised at the suggestion. “Do you think that she fired the shot; that she and Brett are both in it?”
“She fits into the tragedy in a remarkable way—she fits into the story told by the Granges.”
“Yes,” said the detective doubtfully. “She does.”
“Let us attempt to reconstruct the crime with her as the person who fired the shot,” continued Crewe. “Mrs. Grange was to hold a séance at the farmhouse about 6 p. m. Lumsden, Brett and this girl were to be present. Lumsden walked along the road to Staveley in the expectation of meeting Brett, who was to drive over in a motor-car. Miss Maynard, who was a good walker, set out from Ashlingsea. She left early in the afternoon, in the expectation that Brett would be at the farmhouse early. She found no one there and then set out along the Staveley road to meet Brett. He was late in starting from Staveley, and she met Lumsden, who, perhaps, was returning along the road. They decided to sit down for a little while and wait for Brett. Lumsden, who was in love with her, was overcome by passion, and seized her in his arms. There was a struggle in which the revolver that Lumsden carried fell out of his belt. She picked it up and in desperation shot him. A few minutes later Brett arrived in his car. He was horrified at what had occurred but his first thought was to save the girl he loved from the consequences of her act. He lifted the body of Lumsden into the car, and with Miss Maynard beside him on the front seat, drove to the farmhouse. She waited in the car while he carried the body into the house, and took steps for giving the impression that Lumsden was shot by some one who broke into the house. Then he went back to the car, and after giving the girl his final directions bade her a tender farewell. She entered the house and waited in accordance with the plan Brett had thought out. She expected the Granges to arrive at any moment; she did not know they were hiding upstairs. Brett’s plan was that she and the Granges should discover the body. That would clear her of suspicion of complicity in the tragedy. Marsland came to the house, and for Miss Maynard’s purpose he suited her better than the Granges because he took on himself the discovery of the body and, at her request, kept her name out of it to the police. Brett disappeared that night, ostensibly on secret service work. His object was to shield his fiancée by directing suspicion to himself.”
“I don’t think Brett is capable of such chivalry,” said Marsland.
“It is a very ingenious theory, very ingenious, indeed,” said Gillett. “I don’t say that it is absolutely correct, Mr. Crewe, but the reconstruction is very clever. What do you say, Westaway?”
“Very ingenious—very clever,” said the Sergeant. “Only it is no good asking me to believe that Miss Maynard did it; I could never bring myself to believe that she was capable of it. I have known her since she was a little girl. She is the daughter of a highly respected——”
“We know all about that,” said Gillett impatiently. “But lots of highly respectable people commit murder, Westaway. Even among the criminal classes there are no professional murderers. I’ll see this young lady in the morning, Mr. Crewe, and let you know the result. I think I can promise that I’ll shake the truth out of her.”
Detective Gillettcycled across to Ashlingsea the following morning, after spending the night in Staveley as the guest of Inspector Murchison. The morning was clear, the downs were fresh and green beneath a blue sky, and the sea lapped gently at the foot of the cliffs. In the bay the white sails of several small boats stood out against the misty horizon. But Detective Gillett saw none of these things. His mind was too busily engaged in turning over the latest aspects of the Cliff Farm case to be susceptible to the influences of nature.
He reached Ashlingsea after an hour’s ride and decided to call on Miss Maynard before going to the police station. The old stone house and its grounds lay still and clear in the morning sun. The carriage gates were open and Gillett cycled up the winding gravel drive. The house looked silent and deserted, but the shutters which protected the front windows were unclosed, and a large white peacock strutting on the lawn in front of the house uttered harsh cries at the sight of the man on a bicycle.
The bird’s cries brought a rosy-cheeked maidservant to the front door, who stared curiously at Gillett as he jumped off his bicycle and approached her. A request for Miss Maynard brought a doubtful shake of the head from the girl, so Gillett produced his card and asked her to take it to her mistress. The girl took the card, and shortly returned with the announcement that Mrs. Maynard would see him. She ushered him into a large, handsomely furnished room and left him.
A few minutes afterwards Gillett heard the sound of tapping in the hall outside the door. Then the door was opened by the maid who had admitted Gillett, and he saw an elderly lady, with refined features and grey hair, looking at him with haughty dark eyes. She was leaning on an ebony stick, and as she advanced into the room the detective saw that she was lame.
“I wanted to see Miss Maynard,” said Gillett, making the best bow of which he was capable.
“You cannot see my daughter.” She uttered the words in such a manner as to give Gillett the impression that she was speaking to somebody some distance away.
“Why not?”
“She is not at home.”
“Where is she?”
“That I cannot tell you.”
“When will she return?”
“I do not know.”
“But, madam, I must know,” replied Gillett. “Your daughter has placed herself in a very serious position by the statement she made to the police concerning the Cliff Farm murder, and it is important that I should see her at once. Where is she?”
“I decline to tell you.”
“You are behaving very foolishly, madam, in taking this course. Surely you do not think she can evade me by hiding from me. If that is her attitude I will deal with it by taking out a warrant for her arrest.”
“I must decline to discuss the matter any further with you.”
Mrs. Maynard moved towards the bell as she spoke, as though she would ring for a servant to show the detective out of the house. Gillett, seeing that further argument was useless, did not wait for the servant to be summoned, but left the room without another word.
He rode down to the Ashlingsea police station, with an uneasy feeling that his plans for the capture of Brett were not destined to work out as smoothly as he had hoped. It had seemed to him a simple matter then to see Miss Maynard in the morning, “frighten the truth out of her,” ascertain from her where her lover was hiding, and have him arrested as quickly as the telegraph wires could apprise the police in the particular locality he had chosen for his retreat. But he had overlooked the possibility of the hitch he had just encountered. Obviously the girl, in finding that Marsland had not been arrested, had begun to think that her plans had miscarried and had therefore decided to evade making any further statement to the police as long as she could.
Gillett was hopeful that Sergeant Westaway, with his local knowledge, would be able to tell him where she was likely to seek seclusion in order to escape being questioned.
He had not conceived the possibility of Miss Maynard having taken fright and disappeared from the town, because he deemed it impossible that she could have known that he was aware how she had tried to hoodwink the police. Yet that was the news that Sergeant Westaway conveyed to him when he mentioned the young lady’s name.
“She left Ashlingsea by the last train from here last night—the 9.30 to Staveley, which connects with the last train to London.”
“What!” exclaimed the detective. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve let the girl slip out of your hands? Why the blazes didn’t you stop her from going?”
“How was I to stop her?” replied the sergeant, in resentment at the imperative tone in which the detective spoke. “I didn’t get home from Staveley last night until nearly ten o’clock and after looking in here I went straight to bed. The station-master told me about an hour ago that she had gone. She came along just before the train started, and he put her in a carriage himself. He thought it a bit strange, so he mentioned it to me when I was down on the station this morning. I rang up Inspector Murchison in order to let you know, but he told me you’d left for here.”
“She’s gone to warn Brett—she’s in London by now,” said Gillett. “The question is how did she get to know that I was coming over to see her this morning and expose the tissue of lies in her statement to you. How did she get to know that the game was up? You’ve said nothing to anybody, Westaway, about the conversation that took place last night at Sir George Granville’s house?”
“Of course I’ve said nothing,” replied Sergeant Westaway. “She had gone almost before I got back here last night.”
“It beats me,” said Gillett. “Who could have warned her?”
He picked up the telephone book off the office table, and turned its leaves hurriedly. When he had found the number he wanted he took up the telephone and spoke into the receiver.
“Double one eight Staveley, and be quick. Is that Sir George Granville’s? Is Mr. Crewe in? Yes, at once please. Is that you, Mr. Crewe? It’s Gillett speaking. The girl has gone—cleared out. I cannot say: I’ve no idea. What’s that you say? Oh, yes, I’ll telephone to Scotland Yard and tell them to keep a look out for her, but I am afraid it won’t be of much use—she’s had too long a start. But it’s now more necessary than ever that we should act quickly if we hope to lay our hands on the man. I think the first thing to be done is to make a thorough search of the cliff road for the actual spot where the job was done. Oh, you have? By Jove, that’s good! I’d be glad if you’d come with me then, because it’s on your theory that it was done away from the house that I’m working——”
Police Constable Heather entered the office at this point with a message for his superior officer. Sergeant Westaway, divided by anxiety to hear the telephone conversation and a determination that his subordinate should not hear it, imperiously motioned Constable Heather away. But as Constable Heather misunderstood the motion and showed no inclination to depart, Sergeant Westaway hurriedly led him out of the office into the front garden, heard what he had to say, and dismissed him with the mandate that he was on no account to be interrupted again. He then returned to the office, but the telephone conversation was finished, and Detective Gillett was seated in the sergeant’s office chair, looking over a document which Sergeant Westaway recognized as Miss Maynard’s statement.
“Crewe’s going to drive us along the cliff road this afternoon to see if we can locate the spot where Lumsden was shot,” said the detective, restoring Miss Maynard’s statement to his pocket-book and looking up. “I’ve arranged to meet him the other side of the cutting at the top of the farm, and we will drive back along the road in his car.”
“Did Mr. Crewe express any opinion as to who—who had warned Miss Maynard to take to flight?” asked Sergeant Westaway eagerly.
“That was not a matter for discussion through the telephone,” responded Gillett curtly. “I’ll talk it over with him this afternoon. I’ll call for you here, at two o’clock. I’ve several things to do in the meantime.”
They met again at the appointed hour and cycled along as far as Cliff Farm, where they put up their bicycles. Then they walked up the hill from the farm. At the end of the cutting, they saw Crewe’s big white car, stationary, and Crewe and Marsland standing on the greensward smoking cigars. The two police officers advanced to meet them.
“It’s a bit of very bad luck about this girl disappearing, Mr. Crewe,” said Gillett. “What do you make of it? Westaway thinks she may have gone to stay with friends at Staveley, and that her departure at this juncture is merely a coincidence.”
“Miss Maynard would not pay a visit to friends by the last train at night,” said Crewe.
“Then somebody warned her that the game was up and that safety lay in flight.”
“I’m afraid that’s the only reasonable explanation for her disappearance,” replied Crewe. “But who warned her?”
“That’s the point!” exclaimed Gillett. “I have been thinking it over ever since I discovered she had gone, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it must have been that infernal little dwarf or her husband, though what is their object is by no means clear. Who else could it have been? The only other people who know that I intended to unmask her are yourself, Westaway and Mr. Marsland. By a process of elimination suspicion points to the Granges.”
Crewe did not reply. While Gillett was speaking a flash of that inspiration which occasionally came to him when he was groping in the dark for light revealed to him the key by which the jigsaw of clues, incidents, hints, suspicions, and evidence in the Cliff Farm murder could be pieced together. But the problem was one of extraordinary intricacy, and he needed time to see if all the pieces would fit into the pattern.
It was at Detective Gillett’s suggestion that they walked up to the top of the hill, to the headland where Marsland’s horse had taken fright on the night of the storm.
He took Crewe’s arm and walked ahead with him, leaving the sergeant to follow with Marsland. As they went along, he unconsciously revealed the extent of his dependence on Crewe’s stronger intelligence by laying before him the remaining difficulties regarding the case. His chief concern was lest Miss Maynard should warn Brett in time to enable him to slip through the net which had been woven for him. To Crewe’s inquiry whether the London police had come across any trace of him he shook his head.
“No, he is lying low, wherever he is. My own belief is that he has not gone to London, but that he is hidden somewhere in the Staveley district. I shall look for him here, and Scotland Yard is watching his London haunts. He’s a pretty bad egg, you know. We’ve a record of him at Scotland Yard.”
“What has he done?”
“He’s identical with a fashionable rogue and swindler who, under the name of Delancey, kept a night club and a gambling hell in Piccadilly, during the first year of the war. We had reasons for closing the place without a prosecution, and Delancey, instead of being sent to gaol, was allowed to enlist. He returned to England a few months ago, invalided out of the army, where he was known under the name of Powell. Since then he has been employed by the Government in secret service work: mixing with the Germans who are still at large in this country, and getting information about German spies. He was given this work to do because he speaks German so fluently that he can pass as a German amongst Germans.
“I suppose this girl Maynard will try to join him wherever he is,” resumed Gillett, after a pause. “It’s a queer thing, don’t you think, for a well-brought-up English girl of good family to make such a fool of herself over an unmitigated scoundrel like Delancey or Brett, or Powell, or whatever he calls himself? From what I have learnt up at Staveley this girl first met Brett about three months ago. I do not know how they came to know each other, but from her visit to Cliff Farm on the night of the murder I think that Lumsden must have introduced them. There was some bond between Brett and Lumsden which I have been unable to fathom. It is true they knew each other through being in the army together, but that fact doesn’t account for their continued association afterwards, because there was nothing in common between the two men: Brett was a double-dyed scoundrel, and Lumsden was a simple, quiet sort of chap.
“It may have been the attraction of opposites, or, it is more likely that Lumsden knew nothing about Brett’s past,” continued Gillett. “Brett was certainly not likely to reveal it, more especially after he met the girl, because then he would keep up his friendship with Lumsden in order to have opportunities of meeting her at Cliff Farm. She also used to visit Brett at Staveley; they’ve been seen together there several times. Apparently it was Brett’s idea to keep his meetings with this girl as secret as possible, and for that reason he used to see her at Cliff Farm with Lumsden’s connivance. Nevertheless, he was not altogether successful in keeping his love affair dark. On two occasions he was seen walking with the girl on Ashlingsea downs, not far from her mother’s house, and there’s been some local gossip in consequence—you know what these small country places are for gossip.”
“You’ve put this part of the case together very well,” said Crewe.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Gillett laughed complacently. “Of course it was Scotland Yard that fished up all that about Brett’s antecedents. I flatter myself that we do that kind of thing better in London than anywhere: it’s difficult for a man to get rid of a shady past in England. However, I’d be more satisfied with my work if I had Brett under lock and key. What a fool I was not to go straight across to that girl’s house last night after I saw you, instead of waiting till the morning!”
“It wouldn’t have made much difference: I think she was warned by telephone, and probably the person who warned her knew you did not intend to look her up until the morning. If you had altered your plans she would have altered hers.”
“I could have telephoned to have her stopped at Victoria or London Bridge.”
“Not much use,” responded Crewe, with a shake of the head. “She wouldn’t have revealed Brett’s hiding-place.”
“I’d have kept her under lock and key to prevent her warning him,” said Gillett viciously.
“Quite useless. Her detention would have been notified in the press. Brett would have taken warning and disappeared. By the way, Gillett, I’ll be glad if you will refrain from referring to the doubt I formerly expressed about Brett’s guilt. And I must ask Westaway to do the same.”
“I thought you’d come around to my way of thinking,” said Gillett. “It was plain to me that it couldn’t be anyone but Brett. However, you can rest assured I won’t try to rub it in. We all make mistakes at this game, but some don’t care to acknowledge a mistake as candidly as you have done, Mr. Crewe.”
The cliffs rose to a height of three hundred feet at this part of the road, and a piece of headland jutted out a hundred yards or so into the sea—a narrow strip of crumbling sandstone rock, running almost to a point, with sea-worn sides, dropping perpendicularly to the deep water below. Just past the headland, on the Staveley side, the road ran along the edge of the cliffs for some distance, the side nearest to the sea being protected by a low fence, and flanked by “Danger” notices at each end. Crewe pointed out the danger post which had been knocked out of the perpendicular—it was the one nearest to the headland.
Detective Gillett examined it very closely, and when Marsland and the Sergeant joined them he asked Marsland if he could point out to him the exact spot where his horse had taken fright on the night of the storm.
“I think it was somewhere about here, Crewe? It was about here we saw the hoof marks, wasn’t it?”
Crewe measured the distance with a rule he had brought with him from the motor-car.
“A trifle more to this way—about here,” he said at length.
Gillett glanced over the edge of the cliff, and at the white water breaking over the jagged tooth-pointed rocks nearly three hundred feet below.
“By Jove, you can congratulate yourself that you happened to be on the right side of the road,” he said, addressing himself to Marsland. “If you’d gone over there, you wouldn’t have stood much chance.”
“It was purely good fortune, or my horse’s instinct,” laughed Marsland. “The road was so dark that I didn’t know where I was myself. I couldn’t see a hand’s turn in front of me.”
“The marks of the car wheels ran off the road at this point, bumped into the post, and then ran on to the road again.” Crewe traced the course with his stick. “Brett had a narrower escape than Marsland. It’s a wonder that the impact didn’t knock away that crazy bit of fencing.”
“When Brett is on his trial it will be necessary for the jury to visit this spot,” said Sergeant Westaway solemnly.
“We’ve got to catch the beggar first,” grumbled Gillett. “But let’s get along and see if we can hit upon the spot where the murder was actually committed. How far along is it, Mr. Crewe, to where the countryman you talked to saw him pass?”
“A little more than five miles from here.”
“Then somewhere between the two places the murder must have been committed, I should say.”
“I know the place—approximately,” replied Crewe. “I’ve been over the ground several times, and I’ve been able to fix on it more or less definitely.”
“How did you fix it?” asked Gillett curiously.
“I had several clues to help me,” replied Crewe, in a non-committal voice. “Let us get back to the car and I will drive you to the place.”
They walked back to the car and drove slowly along the winding cliff road. About two miles from the danger post the road turned slightly inland, and ran for a quarter of a mile or more about two hundred yards distant from the edge of the cliff. At this point the downs began to rise above the level of the road, and continued to do so until they were above the heads of the party in the car. It was not a cutting; merely a steep natural inclination of the land, and the road skirted the foot of it for some distance. A ragged fringe of beech-trees grew along the top of the bank; doubtless they had been planted in this bare exposed position of the downs to act as a wind screen for the sheep which could be seen grazing higher up the slope.
Crewe pulled up the car and looked about him, then turned his head and spoke to Gillett:
“This part of the road is worth examining. There are several features about it which fit in with my conception of the scene of the crime.”
The four men got out of the car and walked forward, looking about them. Crewe walked a little ahead, with his eyes roving over the rising bank and the trees at the top. Several times he tried to clamber up the bank, but the incline was too steep.
“What are you trying to do?” said Gillett, who was watching his proceedings curiously.
“I am trying to fit in my theory of the crime by actual experiments. If I can satisfy myself that Lumsden was able to climb this bank at some point I believe we shall have reached the scene of the murder.”
“But why is it necessary to prove that?” asked Gillett, in a puzzled voice. “Brett might have met him on the road, shot him from the car which had been pulled up, and then carried the body to Cliff Farm.”
“My dear Gillett, have you forgotten that the bullet which killed Lumsden took an upward course after entering the body? If he had been shot from the car it would have gone downwards.”
“Damn it! I forgot all about that point,” exclaimed Gillett, reddening with vexation.
“Lumsden couldn’t have been shot on the road, either, because in that case the bullet would have gone straight through him—unless the man who fired the shot knelt down in the road and fired upwards at him, which is not at all likely. Furthermore, Lumsden was shot in the back low down, and the bullet travelled upwards and came out above the heart. Therefore we’ve got to try and visualize a scene which fits in with these circumstances. That’s why I have been looking at this bank so carefully. Let us suppose that Lumsden was walking along the road and encountered his would-be slayer. Lumsden saw the revolver, and turned to run. He thought his best chance of escape was across the downs, so he dashed towards the bank and sprang up it. He had almost reached the top when the shot was fired. That seems to me the most possible way of accounting for the upward course of the bullet.”
“I see,” said Gillett, nodding his head. “Brett might have fired from his seat in his car, in that case.”
“Precisely,” returned Crewe. “But the weak point in my argument is that so far we have not reached a point in the bank which is capable of being scaled.”
“A little further along it narrows and is less steep,” said Marsland, who had been listening intently to Crewe’s remarks. “Come, and I will show you.”
He led the way round the next bend of the road, and pointed out a spot where the branches of the trees which formed the wind screen hung down over the slope, which was much less steep. It was a comparatively easy matter to scramble up the bank at this point, and pull oneself up on to the downs by the aid of the overhanging branches.
Crewe made the experiment, and reached the top, without difficulty; so did Gillett. Marsland and Sergeant Westaway remained standing in the road below, watching the proceedings.
The downs from the top of the bank swept gradually upwards to the highest point of that part of the coast: a landmark known as the Giants’ Knoll, a lofty hill surrounded by a ring of dark fir trees, which gave the bald summit the appearance of a monk’s tonsure. This hill commanded an extensive view of the Channel and the surrounding country-side on a clear day. But Detective Gillett was not interested in the Giant’s Knoll. He was busily engaged examining the brushwood and dwarf trees forming the wind screen at the point where they had scrambled up. Suddenly he turned and beckoned to Crewe with an air of some excitement.
“Look here!” he said, as Crewe approached. “This seems to bear out your theory.” He pointed to the branch of a stunted beechtree, which had been torn away from the parent trunk, but still hung to it, withered and lifeless, attached by a strip of bark.
“If Brett shot Lumsden as he was scrambling up the bank, Lumsden might easily have torn this branch off in his dying struggle—the instinct to clutch at something—as he fell back into the road.”
“It’s possible, but it’s not a very convincing clue by itself,” returned Crewe. “It might just as easily have been torn off by the violence of the storm. The thing is to follow it up. If Lumsden was shot at this point the bullet which went through him may have lodged in one of the trees.”
Gillett had begun to search among the scattered trees at the top of the bank very much like an intelligent pointer hunting for game. He examined each tree closely from the bole upwards. Suddenly he gave a shout of triumph.
“Look here, Crewe.”
He had come to a standstill at a tree which stood a few yards on the downs away from the wind screen—a small stunted oak with low and twisted branches. Fair in the centre of its gnarled trunk was a small hole, which Gillett was hacking at with a small penknife. As Crewe reached his side, he triumphantly extracted a bullet which had been partly flattened by contact with the tree.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “What a piece of luck! What a piece of luck!”
He held the bullet in the palm of his left hand, turning it over and over with the penknife which he held in his right. He was so absorbed in his discovery, that he did not notice Crewe stoop and pick up some small object which lay in the grass a few yards from the tree.
Creweand Marsland sat at a table in Sir George Granville’s library with the cryptogram before them. The detective was absorbed in examining it through a magnifying glass, but Marsland kept glancing from the paper to his companion’s face, as though he expected to see there some indication of an immediate solution. Finally he remarked in a tone which suggested he was unable to control his impatience any longer:
“Well, what do you make of it?”
“Not very much as yet,” replied Crewe, putting down the magnifying glass, “but there are one or two points of interest. In the first place, the paper has been cut with a pair of scissors from the fly leaf or title page of an old book—an expensive book of its period, of the late fifties, I should say—but the writing is of much later date. These facts are obvious, and do not help us much towards a solution of the contents.”
“They may be obvious to you, but they are not so obvious to me,” said Marsland, taking the paper into his hands and looking at it thoughtfully. “I suppose you judge the sheet to have been taken from an old book, because it is yellow with age, but why an expensive one of the fifties? And how do you know it was cut out with a pair of scissors? Again, how do you know the writing is of a much later date than the book? The ink is completely faded.”
“The smooth yellow, and glossy surface of the blank side of the paper indicates conclusively that it is the title-page or fly-leaf of a good class book of the fifties. You will not find that peculiar yellow colour—which is not the effect of age—and velvety ‘feel’ in books of a much later date. The unevenness of the cut proves that the sheet was taken from the book with a pair of scissors; haven’t you ever noticed that nobody—except, perhaps, a paperhanger—can cut straight with a pair of scissors? If it had been cut with a knife it might have slanted a little, but it would have been straighter: a knife cut is always straighter than the wavering cut of a pair of scissors directed by the eye. The faded ink proves nothing: inferior ink such as is sold in small village shops—from where the ink at Cliff Farm was probably procured—will fade in a few days; it is only the best ink that retains its original colour for any length of time. But the character of this writing indicates to me that it was written with a particular kind of fine nib, which was not invented till after 1900.”
“Can you make anything of the figures and letters on the paper?” asked Marsland.
“That is where our difficulties commence. We have to ascertain the connection between the figures and the letters and the circle; to find out whether the former explain the latter or whether the circle explains the figures and the letters. If the figures and the letters are a cryptogram we ought to be able to find the solution without much difficulty. The circle, however, is a remarkable device, and it is difficult to fathom its meaning without something to guide us. I thought at first it might have been capable of some masonic interpretation, but now I doubt it. The most likely assumption is that the circle and the lines in some way indicate the hiding place of the money.”
“By geometry?” suggested Marsland, closely examining the circle on the paper.
“I think not. It is hardly likely that the old farmer who concealed the treasure would be versed in the science of geometry. He may have drawn the circle to indicate a certain place where he had concealed the money, and added the two lines to indicate the radius or point where it was to be found.”
“Local gossip declares that the old man hid his money somewhere in the landing-place or old boat-house, where it is covered at high tide, and that his ghost watches over it at low tide to prevent anybody stealing it. There are stories of treasure-seekers having been chased along the sands almost to Ashlingsea by the old man’s ghost. The villagers give the landing place and that part of the coast road a wide berth at night in consequence.”
“I do not think the old man hid his money in the boat-house or landing-place,” said Crewe. “He would have known that the action of weather and tide would make such a hiding-place unsafe. He would look for a safer place. He has almost certainly hidden it somewhere about the farm, and the circle and the letters and figures will tell us where, when we discover their meaning.”
Crewe opened his notebook and commenced to make some calculations in figures. Marsland meantime occupied himself by looking at the circle through the magnifying glass, and in counting the figures in its circumference.
“Perhaps these marks in the circle represent paces,” he said, struck by a new thought. “Suppose, for instance, that the old man measured off a piece of ground with a tape measure fastened to some point which would represent the pivot or centre of his circle. He may have fastened the end of his tape measure to the well pump in the bricked yard, and walked round in a circle holding the other end in his hand, sticking in pegs as he walked. The top figure inside the circle—150—may mean that the circle is 150 yards in circumference. Within the radius of the circle he buries his money, makes a drawing of the circle of figures and the remaining figures to indicate its whereabouts, and then removes the cord and pegs.”
“Ingenious, but unlikely,” commented Crewe. “For one thing, such a plan would need compass points to enable the searchers to take their bearings.”
“North or south may be indicated in the cryptogram—when we discover it,” said Marsland.
“No, no,” said Crewe, shaking his head. “Your idea is based on treasure-hunt charts in novels. My experienceis that in real life people do not go to muchtrouble in hiding money or valuables; they put them away in some chance place or odd receptacle which happens to appeal to them, and where I think they really have a better chance of remaining undiscovered for years than in a more elaborately contrived hiding-place. In the Farndon missing will case, involving one of the largest estates in England, the will was found after the lapse of ten years concealed in the back of a book, where the deceased Lord Farndon had placed it in his latter days, when he imagined himself surrounded by thieves. If you open a large book about the middle it discloses an aperture at the back sufficiently large to conceal a paper, and when the book is closed there will be no sign. Lord Farndon concealed his will in one of the estate ledgers which was in constant use for some time after his death, and yet the will would probably have never been discovered if a mouse had not eaten through the leather back long afterwards, disclosing the hidden parchment.
“In the case of the stolen Trimarden diamond, the thief—a servant in the house—escaped detection by hiding the jewel in a common wooden match-box in a candlestick in his bedroom. The police searched his room, but never thought of looking into the matchbox, and he got away with the diamond. If he had not bragged of the trick in a tavern he would never have been caught. As regards hidden money, people of miserly proclivities who are frightened to put their money into banks prefer a hiding-place under cover to one in the open. A hiding-place in the house seems safer to them, and, moreover, it enables them to look at their money whenever they feel inclined. I knew one miser who used to hide sovereigns in a bar of yellow soap—thrusting them in till they were hidden from view. The treasure of Cliff Farm is hidden somewhere in the farm, and the circle and the cryptogram are the keys. The explanation is hidden in the cryptogram, and I have no doubt that there is a very simple explanation of the circle—when we discover the cryptogram.”
“I remember as a boy at school that we used to have endless fun solving cryptograms which appeared in a boys’ magazine,” said Marsland. “Figures were substituted for letters, and the interpretation of the cryptogram depended largely on hitting on the book from which the figures had been taken. The system was to put down the number of the page, then the number of the line, then the number of letters in the line which would form a word. The key book happenedto be a bound volume of the magazine inquestion: I guessed that, and won a prize. Another form of cryptogram for competition in the same journal was a transposition of the letters of the alphabet. But that was easily guessed, from the repeated occurrence of certain letters used to represent the vowels.”
“I remember those boyish devices,” said Crewe, with a smile. “But true cryptography is more scientifically based than that. Systems of secret writing are practically unlimited in number and variety—and so are solutions. Human nature hates being baffled, and the human brain has performed some really wonderful achievements—at the expense of much effort and patience—in solving systems of cryptography which the inventors deemed to be insoluble. I have a weakness for cryptograms myself, and at one time collected quite a small library on secret writing, from the earlier works by Bacon and Trithemius, to the more modern works by German cryptographists, who have devised some remarkably complicated systems which, no doubt, were largely used by the Germans before and during the war for secret service work. It is astonishing the number of books which have been written on the subject by men who believed they had discovered insoluble systems of secret writing, and by men who have set out to prove that no system of secret writing is insoluble. Even the ancient Hebraic prophets used cryptography at times to veil their attacks on the wicked kings of Israel.”
“How long do cryptograms—the more scientific, I mean—usually take to solve?”
“Some cryptograms can be solved in an hour; others may take months.”
“Do you think that this one will prove very difficult?” asked Marsland, pointing to the Cliff Farm plan as he spoke.
“I cannot say until I have studied it more closely. The solution of any cryptogram depends first on whether you have any knowledge of the particular system used, and then on finding the key. It is quite possible, and frequently happens, that one is able to reconstruct the particular system of secret writing from which a cryptogram has been constructed, and then fail to find the key. A really scientific cryptogram never leaves the key to guesswork, but gives a carefully hidden clue for the finder to work upon; because most cryptograms are intended to be solved, and if the composer of the message left its discovery to guesswork he would be defeating his own ends. This particular cryptogram looks to me to be scientifically constructed; I cannot say yet whether it is possible to reconstruct it and solve it.”
Crewe resumed his scrutiny of the plan, making occasional entries in his notebook as he did so.
Marsland leaned back in an easy chair, lit a cigar, and watched him in silence. The detective’s remark convinced him that there was a wide difference between serious cryptography and the puzzle diversions of his schoolboy days, and he felt that he would be more of a hindrance than a help if he attempted to assist Crewe in his task of unravelling the secret of the hidden wealth whose hiding-place had been indicated by its deceased owner in the symbols and hieroglyphics on the faded sheet of paper. He reclined comfortably in his chair, watching languidly through half-closed eyes and a mist of cigar smoke the detective’s intellectual face bent over the plan in intense concentration. After a while Crewe’s face seemed to grow shadowy and indistinct, and finally it disappeared behind the tobacco smoke. Marsland had fallen fast asleep in his chair.
He was awakened by a hand on his shoulder, and struggled back to consciousness to find Crewe standing beside him, his dark eyes smiling down at him.
“I am afraid I fell into a doze,” Marsland murmured apologetically, as the room and its surroundings came back to him.
“You’ve been sleeping soundly for nearly two hours,” said Crewe, with a smile.
“Impossible!” exclaimed Marsland. He took out his watch and looked at it in astonishment. “By Jove, it’s actually six o’clock. Why didn’t you wake me?”
“What for? I became so absorbed in the old man’s secret that I had no idea of the flight of time till I looked at my watch a few minutes ago. He has evolved a very neat cryptogram—very neat and work-manlike.It was quite a pleasure to try and decipherit.”
“Have you found out anything about it?”
“I believe I have solved it.”
“And what is the solution?” asked Marsland, now thoroughly awake. “Where is the money hidden?”
“Now you are going too fast,” said Crewe. “I said I believed I have solved the secret. In other words, I believe I have hit on the old man’s cryptogram, and the key which solves it, but I have deferred applying the key till I awakened you, as I thought you would like to share in it.”
Crewewent to the table and picked up the plan.
“My first impression was that the circle of figures represented some form of letters of the alphabet arranged on what is called the cardboard or trellis cipher, in which a message is concealed by altering the places of the letters without changing their powers. Such messages are generally written after the Chinese fashion—upwards and downwards—but there is no reason why a circle should not be used to conceal the message. In this case I did not expect to find a message hidden in the circle, but rather, the key to the solution of the letters above the circle, which, I was convinced, formed the real cryptogram.
“The recurring T’s and M’s in the top line seemed to indicate that it was some form of changed letter cipher, complicated by having to be read in connection with the figures in the circle, which represented other letters of the alphabet. The numbers, representing an ascending series from 6 to 89, with one recurring 6, suggested the possibility of this form of cryptogram having been used. The numbers in the centre suggested a sum, which, when done, would throw some light on the arithmetical puzzle in the centre of the circle by division, subtraction, or multiplication.
“I worked for a solution on these lines for some time, but ultimately came to the conclusion that the solution did not lie within them. I am not an arithmetician, but my calculations told me enough to make me realize that I was on the wrong track.
“I next attempted to ascertain if the two mysterious messages—the lines on the top and the circle of figures—were two separate messages read independently of one another. I did not think they were, but I determined to put it to the test. Obviously, if they were, the top line was merely a changed letter cipher, and nothing more. These are usually easy to decipher because of the frequency with which certain letters recur. In English the letter that occurs oftenest is E, then T, then A, O, N, I, then R, S, H; the others in lessening frequency down to J and Z, which are the least used letters in the English alphabet. The recurring letters in our cryptogram are T’s and M’s. Using these as a basis to give me the key, I tried all likely combinations on the changed letter basis, but without success.
“I came back to my original idea that the figures in the circle were the solvent of the line of letters above, and concentrated my efforts in attempting to discover their meaning. I finally came to the conclusion that the figures represented the pages or lines of some book.”
“Like the cryptograms I used to solve when I was at school,” suggested Marsland, with a smile.
“Rather more difficult than that. In that form of cryptogram rows of figures are turned into words once you hit on the right book. This cryptogram is much more ingenious, for it consists of three parts—a line of meaningless letters and a circle of equally meaningless figures, with other figures within it, and some plain English verses of Scripture, the whole probably interdependent. If the circle of figures represented some book necessary to the solution of the whole cryptogram, the first thing to find out was the book from which the figures had been taken. I had not much difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that this book was a large brass-bound family Bible I saw at Cliff Farm.”
“I suppose the texts on the bottom of the sheet suggested that idea to you?” said Marsland.
Crewe shook his head.
“I’ve learnt to mistrust guesswork,” he said. “It would be a jump at random to come to the conclusion that the cryptogram had been drawn on the fly-leaf of a Bible because it contained some Scripture texts. There is no connection between the facts. In fact, it seemed unlikely to me at first that a religious man like the old farmer would have mutilated his family Bible for such a purpose. I was inclined to the view that he had taken a fly-leaf from one of hisLeisure Hourbound volumes, which at the farm range from 1860 to the early seventies—a period of years when this kind of glossy thick paper was much used for fly-leaves by English printers. But while I was examining the sheet through the magnifying glass I detected this mark on the edge, which proved conclusively to me that the cryptogram had been drawn on the fly-leaf of the family Bible. Have a look at it through the glass—you cannot detect it with the naked eye.”
Crewe held the sheet edgeways as he spoke, and pointed to one of the outer corners. Marsland gazed intently through the glass, and was able to detect a minute glittering spot not much larger than a pin’s point.
“I see it,” he said, relinquishing the glass. “But I do not understand what it means.”
“It is Dutch metal or gold-leaf. The book from which this sheet was cut was gilt-edged. That disposes of the volumes ofLeisure Hourand other bound periodicals, none of which is gilt-edged. When I was looking at the books at the farm I noticed only two with gilt-edged leaves. One was the big family Bible, and the other was a large, old fashionedLanguage of Flowers. But this sheet could not have been cut fromThe Language of Flowers.”
“Why not?”
“Because it has two rounded corners. As a rule, only sacred books and poetry are bound with rounded corners. In any case, I remember thatThe Language of Flowersat the farm is square-edged. Therefore the sheet on which the cryptogram has been drawn was cut from the Bible.
“The next question that faced me was how the numbers had been used: they did not represent the numbers of the pages, I was sure of that. The Bible is a book in which figures are used freely in the arrangement of the contents. The pages are numbered, the chapters are divided into verses which are numbered, and there is a numbered table of contents at the beginning of each chapter. Obviously, the Bible is an excellent book from which to devise a cryptogram of numbers owing to the multiplicity of figures used in it and the variety of ways in which they are arranged. I found both a Bible and Prayer Book in the bookshelves, here, and set to work to study the numerical arrangement of the chapters, the divisions of the verses, and the arrangement of figures at the head of the chapters.”
“It was while I was thus engaged that I remembered that at the beginning of the authorised version of the Bible is inserted a table of the books of the Old and New Testaments, the pages on which they begin, and the number of chapters in each. Here was the possibility of a starting-point, sufficiently unusual to make a good concealment, yet not too remote. I turned to the table, and, on running my eye down it, I saw that the Psalms, and the Psalms alone, contain 150 chapters. Now, the first line of central figures in the cryptogram is 150. I was really fortunate in starting off with this discovery, because otherwise I might have been led off the track by the doubling and trebling of the 3 in the second line of central figures, and have wasted time trying to fathom some mystic interpretation of the 9—a numeral which has always had a special significance for humanity: the Nine Muses, the Nine Worthies, ‘dressed up to the nines,’ and so on. But with 150 as the indication that the cryptogram had been composed from the Book of Psalms, it was obvious that the next line of numerals in the centre directed attention to some particular portion of them. As there are not 396 verses in any chapter of the Psalms——”
“Just what I was going to point out,” broke in Marsland.
“Quite so. But it was possible that 396 meant Psalm 39, 6. Therefore I turned to the thirty-ninth Psalm. Verse six of that Psalm reads:
“‘Surely every man walketh in a vain shew: surely they are disquieted in vain: he heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather.’”
“Appropriate enough,” commented Marsland.
“There remained the final 6, under the 396, to be explained, before I was able to start on the table which had been used to build up the cryptogram. The fact that the figures in the outside circle start at 6 indicated that there was some connection between it and the inner 6. I came to the conclusion that the inner 6 meant one of two things: either the designer preferred to start from the number 6 because he thought the figure 1 was too clear an indication of the commencement of his cryptogram, or else he made his start from the sixth letter of the text. I thought the former the likelier solution, but I tried them both, to make sure. The first five figures on the latter solution gave me a recurring Y, which indicated that I was on the wrong track because it was essential there should be no recurring letters. There are no recurring letters in the other key, as the table shows: