The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories Part 8

He represented the Princess surrounded by her court, reclining on a divan. A riot of Eastern color pervaded the picture. The Princess wore a marvelous gown of strange-colored embroideries; her golden hair fell round her, and on her head was a heavy jeweled circlet. Her maidens surrounded her, and Princes knelt at her feet bearing rich gifts. The whole scene was one of luxury and richness.

But the face of the Princess was turned away; she was oblivious of the laughter and mirth around her. Her gaze was fixed on a dark and shadowy corner where stood a seemingly incongruous object: a little grey stone idol with its head buried in its hand in a quaint abandonment of despair.

Was it so incongruous? The eyes of the young Princess rested on it with a strange sympathy, as though a dawning sense of her own isolation drew her glance irresistibly. They were akin, these two. The world was at her feet - yet she was alone: a Lonely Princess looking at a lonely little G.o.d.

All London talked of this picture, and Greta wrote a few hurried words of congratulation from Yorks.h.i.+re, and Tom Hurley's wife besought Frank Oliver to "come for a weekend and meet a really delightful girl, a great admirer of your work." Frank Oliver laughed once sardonically, and threw the letter into the fire. Success had come - but what was the use of it? He only wanted one thing - that little lonely lady who had gone out of his life forever.

It was Ascot Cup Day, and the policeman on duty in a certain section of the British Museum rubbed his eyes and wondered if he were dreaming, for one does not expect to see there an Ascot vision, in a lace frock and a marvelous hat, a veritable nymph as imagined by a Parisian genius. The policeman stared in rapturous admiration.

The lonely G.o.d was not perhaps so surprised. He may have been in his way a powerful little G.o.d; at any rate, here was one wors.h.i.+pper brought back to the fold.

The Little Lonely Lady was staring up at him, and her lips moved in a rapid whisper.

"Dear little G.o.d, oh! dear little G.o.d, please help me! Oh, please do help me!"

Perhaps the little G.o.d was flattered. Perhaps, if he was indeed the ferocious, unappeasable deity Frank Oliver had imagined him, the long weary years and the march of civilization had softened his cold, stone heart. Perhaps the Lonely Lady had been right all along and he was really a kind little G.o.d. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence. However that may be, it was at that very moment that Frank Oliver walked slowly and sadly through the door of the a.s.syrian room.

He raised his head and saw the Parisian nymph.

In another moment his arm was round her, and she was stammering out rapid, broken words.

"I was so lonely - you know, you must have read that story I wrote; you couldn't have painted that picture unless you had, and unless you had understood. The Princess was I; I had everything, and yet I was lonely beyond words. One day I was going to a fortuneteller's, and I borrowed my maid's clothes. I came in here on the way and saw you looking at the little G.o.d. That's how it all began. I pretended - oh! it was hateful of me, and I went on pretending, and afterwards I didn't dare confess that I had told you such dreadful lies. I thought you would be disgusted at the way I had deceived you. I couldn't bear for you to find out, so I went away. Then I wrote that story, and yesterday I saw your picture. It was your picture, wasn't it?"

Only the G.o.ds really know the word "ingrat.i.tude."

It is to be presumed that the lonely little G.o.d knew the black ingrat.i.tude of human nature. As a divinity he had unique opportunities of observing it, yet in the hour of trial, he who had had sacrifices innumerable offered to him, made sacrifice in his turn. He sacrificed his only two wors.h.i.+ppers in a strange land, and it showed him to be a great little G.o.d in his way, since he sacrificed all that he had.

Through the c.h.i.n.ks in his fingers he watched them go, hand in hand, without a backward glance, two happy people who had found heaven and had no need of him any longer.

What was he, after all, but a very lonely little G.o.d in a strange land?

MANX GOLD.

"Manx Gold" is no ordinary detective story; indeed, it is probably unique. The detectives are conventional enough, but although they are confronted with a particularly brutal murder, the murderer's ident.i.ty is not their main concern. They are more interested in unraveling a series of clues to the whereabouts of hidden treasure, a treasure whose existence is not confined to the printed page. Clearly, some explanation is required...

In the winter of 1929, Alderman Arthur B. Crookall had an idea. Crookall was the chairman of the "June Effort," a committee responsible for boosting tourism to the Isle of Man, a small island off the northwest coast of England. His idea was that there should be a treasure hunt, inspired by the many legends of Manx smugglers and their long-forgotten h.o.a.rds of booty.

There would be "real" treasure, hidden about the island, and clues to its location concealed in the framework of a detective story. Some reservations were expressed by members of the committee, but eventually planning began for the "Isle of Man Treasure Hunt Scheme," to take place at the start of the holiday season and run at the same time as a number of other annual events, such as the "Crowning of the Rose Queen" and the midnight yacht race.

But Crookall had to find someone to write the story on which the hunt would be based. Who better than Agatha Christie? Perhaps surprisingly, and for a fee of only sixty pounds, Christie accepted this, her most unusual commission. She visited the Isle of Man at the end of April 1930, staying as the guest of the lieutenant governor, before returning to Devon, where her daughter was ill. During her visit, Christie and Crookall spent several days discussing the treasure hunt, and visited various sites in order to decide where the treasure should be hidden and how the clues should be composed.

The resulting story, "Manx Gold," was published in five installments towards the end of May in the Daily Dispatch, a Manchester newspaper. A quarter of a million copies of the story also were distributed in booklet form to guesthouses and hotels across the island. The five clues were published separately, and as the date on which the first was due to appear in the Dispatch drew nearer, the June Effort Committee appealed to everyone to "cooperate in order to obtain as much publicity as possible" for the hunt. More tourists meant more tourist revenue, and the hunt was also drawn to the attention of several hundred "Homecomers" who had emigrated from the island to the United States and were due to return as honored guests in June. In the words of the publicity at the time, it was "an opportunity for all Amateur Detectives to test their skill!"

In the story, Juan Faraker and Fenella Mylecharane set out to find four chests of treasure, which have been hidden on the island by their eccentric Uncle Myles. To compete with Juan and Fenella, the reader was advised - like them - to equip himself with "several excellent maps, various guidebooks descriptive of the island, a book on folklore and a book on the history of the island."

The solutions to the clues are given at the end of the story.

"Old Mylecharane liv'd up on the broo, Where Jurby slopes down to the wood, His croft was all golden with cus.h.a.g and furze, His daughter was fair to behold.

"O father, they say you've plenty of store, But hidden all out of the way.

No gold can I see, but its glint on the gorse; Then what have you done with it, pray?"

"My gold is locked up in a coffer of oak, Which I dropped in the tide and it sank, And there it lies fixed like an anchor of hope, All right and as safe as the hank."

"I like that song," I said appreciatively as Fenella finished.

"You should do," said Fenella. "It's about our ancestor, yours and mine. Uncle Myles's grandfather. He made a fortune out of smuggling and hid it somewhere, and no one ever knew where."

Ancestry is Fenella's strong point. She takes an interest in all her forbears. My tendencies are strictly modern. The difficult present and the uncertain future absorb all my energy. But I like hearing Fenella singing old Manx ballads.

Fenella is very charming. She is my first cousin and also, from time to time, my fiancee. In moods of financial optimism we are engaged. When a corresponding wave of pessimism sweeps over us and we realize that we shall not be able to marry for at least ten years, we break it off.

"Didn't anyone ever try to find the treasure?" I inquired.

"Of course. But they never did."

"Perhaps they didn't look scientifically."

"Uncle Myles had a jolly good try," said Fenella. "He said anyone with intelligence ought to be able to solve a little problem like that."

That sounded to me very like our Uncle Myles, a cranky and eccentric old gentleman, who lived in the Isle of Man and who was much given to didactic p.r.o.nouncements.

It was at that moment that the post came - and the letter!

"Good Heavens," cried Fenella. "Talk of the devil - I mean angels - Uncle Myles is dead!"

Both she and I had seen our eccentric relative on only two occasions, so we could neither of us pretend to a very deep grief. The letter was from a firm of lawyers in Douglas, and it informed us that under the will of Mr. Myles Mylecharane, deceased, Fenella and I were joint inheritors of his estate, which consisted of a house near Douglas and an infinitesimal income. Enclosed was a sealed envelope, which Mr. Mylecharane had directed should be forwarded to Fenella at his death. This letter we opened and read its surprising contents. I reproduce it in full, since it was a truly characteristic doc.u.ment.

My dear Fenella and Juan, for I take it that where one of you is the other will not be far away. Or so gossip has whispered.

You may remember having heard me say that anyone displaying a little intelligence could easily find the treasure concealed by my amiable scoundrel of a grandfather. I displayed that intelligence and my reward was four chests of solid gold - quite like a fairy story, is it not?

Of living relations I have only four: you two, my nephew Ewan Corjeag, whom I have always heard is a thoroughly bad lot, and a cousin, a Doctor Fayll, of whom I have heard very little, and that little not always good. My estate proper I am leaving to you and Fenella, but I feel a certain obligation laid upon me with regard to this "treasure" which has fallen to my lot solely through my own ingenuity. My amiable ancestor would not, I feel, be satisfied for me to pa.s.s it on tamely by inheritance. So I, in my turn, have devised a little problem.

There are still four "chests" of treasure (though in a more modern form than gold ingots or coins) and there are to he four compet.i.tors - my four living relations. It would be fairest to a.s.sign one "chest" to each - but the world, my children, is not fair. The race is to the swiftest - and often to the most unscrupulous.

Who am I to go against Nature? You must pit your wits against the other two. There will be, I fear, very little chance for you. Goodness and innocence are seldom rewarded in this world. So strongly do I feel this that I have deliberately cheated (unfairness again, you notice;). This letter goes to you twenty-four hours in advance of the letters to the other two. Thus you will have a very good chance of securing the first "treasure" - twenty-four hours' start, if you have any brains at all, ought to be sufficient.

The clues for finding this treasure are to be found at my house in Douglas. The clues for the second "treasure" will not be released till the first treasure is found. In the second and succeeding cases, therefore, you will all start even. You have my good wishes for success, and nothing would please me better than for you to acquire all four "chests," but for the reasons which I have already stated I think that most unlikely. Remember that no scruples will stand in dear Ewan's way. Do not make the mistake of trusting him in any respect. As to Dr. Richard Fayll, I know little about him, but he is, I fancy, a dark horse.

Good luck to you both, but with little hopes of your success, Your affectionate uncle, Myles Mylecharane As we reached the signature, Fenella made a leap from my side.

"What is it?" I cried.

Fenella was rapidly turning the pages of an ABC.

"We must get to the Isle of Man as soon as possible," she cried. "How dare he say we were good and innocent and stupid? I'll show him! Juan, we're going to find all four of these 'chests' and get married and live happily ever afterwards, with Rolls-Royces and foot-men and marble baths. But we must get to the Isle of Man at once."

It was twenty-four hours later. We had arrived in Douglas, interviewed the lawyers, and were now at Maughold House facing Mrs. Skillicorn, our late uncle's housekeeper, a somewhat formidable woman who nevertheless relented a little before Fenella's eagerness.

"Queer ways he had," she said. "Liked to set everyone puzzling and contriving."

"But the clues," cried Fenella. "The clues?"

Deliberately, as she did everything, Mrs. Skillicorn left the room. She returned after an absence of some minutes and held out a folded piece of paper.

We unfolded it eagerly. It contained a doggerel rhyme in my uncle's crabbed handwriting.

Four points of the compa.s.s so there be S and W, N and E.

East winds are bad for man and beast.

Go south and west and North not east.

"Oh!" said Fenella blankly.

"Oh!" said I, with much the same intonation.

Mrs. Skillicorn smiled on us with gloomy relish.

"Not much sense to it, is there?" she said helpfully.

"It - I don't see how to begin," said Fenella, piteously.

"Beginning," I said, with a cheerfulness I did not feel, "is always the difficulty. Once we get going -"

Mrs. Skillicorn smiled more grimly than ever. She was a depressing woman.

"Can't you help us?" asked Fenella coaxingly.

"I know nothing about the silly business. Didn't confide in me, your uncle didn't. I told him to put his money in the bank, and no nonsense. I never knew what he was up to."

"He never went out with any chests - or anything of that kind?"

"That he didn't."

"You don't know when he hid the stuff - whether it was lately or long ago?"

Mrs. Skillicorn shook her head.

"Well," I said, trying to rally. "There are two possibilities. Either the treasure is hidden here, in the actual grounds, or else it may be hidden anywhere on the island. It depends on the bulk, of course."

A sudden brain wave occurred to Fenella.

"You haven't noticed anything missing?" she said. "Among my uncle's things, I mean."

"Why, now, it's odd your saying that -"

"You have, then?"

"As I say, it's odd your saying that. Snuffboxes - there's at least four of them I can't lay my hand on anywhere."

"Four of them!" cried Fenella. "That must be it! We're on the track. Let's go out in the garden and look about."

"There's nothing there," said Mrs. Skillicorn. "I'd know if there were. Your uncle couldn't have buried anything in the garden without my knowing about it."

"Points of the compa.s.s are mentioned," I said. "The first thing we need is a map of the island."

"There's one on that desk," said Mrs. Skillicorn.

Fenella unfolded it eagerly. Something fluttered out as she did so. I caught it.

"Hullo," I said. "This looks like a further clue." We both went over it eagerly.

It appeared to be a rude kind of map. There was a cross on it and a circle and a pointing arrow, and directions were roughly indicated, but it was hardly illuminating. We studied it in silence.

"It's not very illuminating, is it?" said Fenella.