A Six-Letter Word for Death Page 2

  Then, six days after the first letter, the second set of clues arrived.

  “Solved the first two?” asked the elegant sepia flourishes. “One Across will help you to get going.”

  2 DOWN: They say no man achieves this while alive but it’s allowable in one about to die.

  4 ACROSS: Ill? The only alternative is the river.

  10 ACROSS: He’s lit up on the port, followed by a small group of fellows. Then he begins economizing—as indeed he should. (Two words, 4 & 3)

  12 DOWN: Her one lace blue gown is in disarray.

  Henry reached for the telephone, and was soon in contact with Edwin Manciple. He could almost hear the Bishop rubbing his hands with glee at the other end of the line.

  “Wait while I get a pencil… Yes, yes, of course I have the puzzle…was beginning to think the fellow would never send any more… Two Down, did you say? Yes, I have that… yes…yes… I’ll call you back in about a quarter of an hour…”

  Seventeen minutes later, Henry’s telephone rang, and the operator informed him that Bishop Manciple was on the line.

  “Sorry to have taken so long, Tibbett. I had to check one word in the dictionary.” Edwin Manciple sounded almost disbelieving. “Did you know that the word ‘fey’ in Scottish means ‘doomed to die’?”

  “No,” said Henry. “I didn’t.”

  “Well, it does. Had to, of course, but I had to doublecheck it. Well, now I’ve given it away, haven’t I?”

  “Given what away?”

  “Two Down. Begins with F, from Lady Fanshaw—”

  Henry thought for a moment. Then he said, “Call no man happy until he is dead.”

  “Correct. Herodotus.”

  “What does he have to—?”

  “The original Greek author, that’s all. Go on, Tibbett. You’re doing well.”

  Henry went on. “Happiness…fey…licit means allowed…Felicity!”

  “Absolutely right. Got it in one. Now for Four Across. You will see that when you write in ‘Felicity,’ you get a final L in Four Across.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “What’s the alternative to ‘ill?’”

  “‘Well,’ I suppose.”

  “Right. Ill or well.”

  Enlightenment dawned. “The River Orwell!” Henry cried. “I’ve sailed there.”

  “Now,” said the Bishop, “if we are to presume—and I think we must—that all the clues we have been sent so far refer to the names of people, then you should start searching for a lady named Felicity Orwell.”

  “Orwell might mean the river itself,” Henry objected.

  “It might, it might. But Ten Across is also a name.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. An ingenious clue. However, being a sailor, you should be able to solve it. You see that the second word, with three letters, begins with a C?”

  “What has that to do with sailing?”

  “Nothing, Tibbett. Nothing at all. But the first word has.”

  Henry studied the clue. “‘He’s lit up on the port,’” he read.

  “Now, relate that to sailing. What’s lit up on the port?”

  “I don’t know. A bibulous Portuguese…oh, I see what you mean. A port-hand navigation buoy with a light on it.”

  “And what does a lighted buoy do?”

  “Flashes at certain intervals,” answered Henry promptly.

  “And on your chart, it would be marked—”

  “Flashing red! F. Red. Fred!”

  At the other end of the line, Henry heard the Bishop chuckle. “I do believe you’re beginning to enjoy yourself, Tibbett.”

  “I’m beginning to find out how to solve crossword puzzles,” Henry said, “but as for enjoying myself…well, let’s get on with the second word in the clue. Three letters, beginning with C.”

  “Right,” said Manciple, becoming businesslike. “‘Lit up on the port’—we have that. Followed by a small group of fellows. What is a group of fellows?”

  “A band? A fraternity?”

  “Begins with C,” repeated Manciple.

  “Oh—‘company.’ But that’s too long, seven letters.”

  Patiently, Edwin Manciple said, “There’s a well-known abbreviation for the word ‘company,’ Tibbett. And the clue says ‘small.’”

  “Co. C-O . But that’s too short.”

  “Ah, but the clue hasn’t finished yet. Put in the CO. Leaves you one space to fill. ‘Begins economizing.’ The first letter of ‘economizing.’ E. Get it?”

  Slowly, Henry said, “Fred Coe. The name rings a bell.”

  “Of course it does. Frederick Coe is a well-known economist—which explains the rest of the clue. I told you it was ingenious.” The Bishop chuckled. “As for Twelve Down, that’s childishly simple. Alice.”

  “Why Alice?”

  “Never heard the song ‘In her dear little Alice-blue gown’?” The Bishop made a hideous sound, which Henry interpreted as humming. “In crosswords, the word ‘one’ can mean the letter I. Lace in disarray. Scramble those letters, and they make ‘Alice.’”

  “I suppose so,” said Henry. “Okay. We have five names: Lady Fanshaw, W. Cartwright, Felicity Orwell, Fred Coe, and Alice. But what on earth does it mean?”

  “Aha,” said the Bishop. “You’re the detective, Tibbett.”

  “I’m beginning to think,” Henry said, “that I’m the patsy.”

  “Patsy? That’s a woman’s name—”

  “I was talking American,” Henry explained. “What I mean is that I am being made a fool of.”

  “Difficult,” said Edwin Manciple.

  “I know it is, but—”

  “‘It is I of whom a fool is being made.’”

  “Not you—me.”

  “No, no. Not ‘me.’ ‘I.’ But it doesn’t help. ‘Me, of whom they are making a fool,’ No, it seems impossible.”

  “Well, it depends. We don’t know—”

  “Impossible,” repeated the Bishop decisively. “It seems to me quite impossible to avoid ending your sentence with a preposition. Never mind. What was good enough for Winston Churchill is good enough for—what’s that? Yes, yes, Violet, I’m just coming. You remember Violet, Henry? George’s wife. She’s running me down to Cregwell for some shopping…must be off…good-bye for now…keep the clues coming.”

  Henry hung up, and looked at the puzzle with its new penciled-in entries. Lady Fanshaw, W. Cartwright, Fred Coe, Felicity Orwell, and Alice. Two of them undoubtedly real people, even distinguished ones: Lady Fanshaw, the deceased American heiress who married into an aristocratic English family, and the celebrated Professor Frederick Coe. Henry had to admit that the name was unfamiliar to him, but Bishop Manciple had identified him at once. What about the others, W. Cartwright and Felicity Orwell? Real people too? It seemed likely.

  And then came a call from the dock area of East London, where a seaman off a Liberian-registered ship, long suspected of drug running, had been found stabbed to death in a sleazy rooming house, and the unpleasant facts of real life closed in on Henry and Inspector Reynolds.

  Fortunately the dockside murder turned out to be the work of greedy amateurs rather than of their highly professional masters, and Henry was able to make an arrest within the week. It was the following day that he found time to look at his “Crossword Crazy” file, and to his surprise it contained a new document. This was a photocopy of the will of the late Dowager Lady Fanshaw, and one bequest was heavily circled in the green ink Inspector Reynolds always used to emphasize passages in documents for his Chief’s special attention:

  To Dr. William Cartwright of 698B Harley Street, who has contributed so much to the happiness of my later years by restoring to me the inestimable gift of hearing, I give and bequeath the sum of one hundred thousand pounds.

  Although impressive enough, this bequest was insignificant when compared to others in Lady Fanshaw’s will. Five hundred thousand had been left to the doctor who finally had the unpleasant task of helping her as easily and e
thically as he could out from the burden of an incurable cancer and into another and, let us hope, happier world. A hundred thousand each went to her personal maid and her butler, while lesser but still considerable amounts were left to her chauffeur, her hairdresser, and her cook. The residue of the estate, which ran many millions of pounds even after death duties, went to her son and daughter-in-law, the present Lord and Lady Fanshaw. Nevertheless—a motive for murder?

  “Forget it,” Henry said to Derek Reynolds. “A motive for a little spitefulness against Dr. Cartwright.”

  “All the same, sir—”

  “I said forget it.”

  “Well—Frederick Coe is a well-known figure. I could inquire if a Felicity Orwell had ever—”

  “Derek,” said Henry, “you’re an incurable reader of mysteries. All right, as long as you don’t waste the Yard’s time, do as you like.”

  Two days later, Derek Reynolds was back with the answer. “It’s like this, sir. Professor Coe is a famous economist.”

  “I know that.”

  “His wife’s name is Alice.”

  “Oh?” Henry tried not to sound surprised. “So what?”

  Reynolds cleared his throat impressively. “Mrs. Coe—Alice, that is—was born a Miss Orwell. She had a maiden aunt of great age called Felicity. When Miss Felicity Orwell came down with chronic bronchitis, the Coes refused to allow her to go into a hospital, but took her into their own home. They—Mrs. Coe in particular, as I understand—”

  “You understand? From whom?”

  Reynolds went slightly pink. “I have become on good terms with Professor Coe’s secretary, sir. A very charming young lady.”

  Henry grinned. “All right. Not on the Yard’s time, I hope?”

  “Oh, no, sir.”

  “Very well. Go on.”

  “Well, as I was saying, sir, Professor Coe and his wife nursed Miss Felicity Orwell with great devotion all through her last illness, according to…to my source of information. Miss Orwell died last year, leaving the Professor and Mrs. Coe all she possessed, which amounted to a matter of some hundreds of thousands of pounds. I understand that certain other members of the family were bitter over this, Miss Orwell having changed her will only a few weeks before her death. However, what Tracey—that is, my source of information—says is that most of the family thought the Coes deserved all they inherited. After all, they had put up with the old…uh… lady for several months, when nobody else wanted to do anything but shove her into a nursing home.” There was a moment of silence. Then Reynolds said, “Well, that’s two, sir. They tend to go in threes, as you know. I reckon we’ll get another set of clues, which will lead to the same thing.”

  “You mean, living people who have gained by the deaths of certain other people?”

  “Exactly, sir. And this joker—the one with the crossword puzzle—is trying to plant it in your mind that some or all of these people could have been murdered for gain.”

  Henry sighed. “Medical murders are two a penny,” he said, “and just about impossible to prove. If Lady Fanshaw was dying in agony from incurable cancer—”

  “Ah, but the allegation isn’t being made against that doctor, sir. Just against the one who helped her with her deafness.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And Miss Felicity Orwell—well, I had an aunt myself, come to think of it—”

  “Oh, God, Derek,” said Henry. “Spare me your aunts. I always said you were as bad as Jeeves.”

  “All I meant, sir, was that my father and mother took care of this aunt of mine—Sibyl, her name was—for a matter of ten years. It wasn’t that easy. My Aunt Sibyl was what you might call a testy old lady, which is just what Tracey—that is, my source of information—tells me about Miss Orwell. All the same, sir, people can live for a long time with chronic bronchitis. It’s funny that my Aunt Sibyl lived for ten years—a pest to one and all, if you’ll excuse the expression—whereas Miss Coe expired in a matter of three months. Much easier all round, if you follow me.”

  “I follow you like a bloodhound, Derek,” said Henry. “Now go away and write me a report on the Limehouse stabbing incident.”

  “Very well, sir.” Reynolds was poker-faced; but he noticed the small smile that hovered on Henry’s lips.

  The next day, the third set of clues arrived.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “HOW IS THE great expert doing?” inquired the fine italic hand in its sepia ink. “Here we go, then.”

  13 ACROSS: Though singular, she was certainly blue. (See 16 ACROSS) (4)

  5 DOWN: Disorganized raid flew over this frequently in W.W. II.

  10 DOWN: (8)

  16 ACROSS: Each b…(though confused) succeeded in putting an end to unlucky number here.

  11 ACROSS, 6 ACROSS: The savage has lost Ian, but she’s still retained his heart at the end. (11)

  11 DOWN: Let’s hope this little black sheep has 14 and 16.

  14 ACROSS, 16 DOWN: First he’s champion, then he loses the end of a bid—but don’t worry—with this he’s out of trouble. (5)

  9 ACROSS: He holds the keys to everything, of course.

  After these clues, a firm line was drawn across the paper, and under it the italic hand had written: “I won’t worry you with the rest of the clues to unimportant words. You are dealing with something 15 Across (3). The 9 Down is mighty, but don’t underestimate the sword (3). 17 Down: This measure is only half the size of your wife (2). 18 Across: Another of your profession got the affirmative wrong, after this fantasy (4). 19 Across: Tu, you brute (2)?”

  Henry was on the telephone to Cregwell in a matter of minutes. The Bishop sounded quite excited. “That’s the last of them, then. Wait while I get a…Violet!…get me a…you know…a pen or something…and paper…” There was a long silence from the Cregwell end as Henry read out the list of clues. As he finished, Bishop Manciple said, “This is very interesting, Henry. I think I shall run into town.”

  “To Cregwell, you mean?” The Bishop, a well-known eccentric, was often to be seen jogging along the road to Cregwell, dressed in sneakers, running shorts, and a clerical collar. “A man should take sufficient exercise, wear clothing suitable to the activity, but never lose sight of his vocation,” as the Bishop frequently explained to surprised passersby.

  Now, however, he sounded impatient. “No, no. I said Town. London.”

  “I’m sorry,” Henry said. “I misheard the capital T.”

  Edwin Manciple chuckled. “You’re a good fellow, Henry,” he said. “Mausoleum Club, one o’clock tomorrow. Wish you could bring your charming wife, but club rules, you know. Anyhow, the food is inferior in the ladies’ dining room. I look forward to renewing our acquaintanceship in person. Good-bye for now.”

  Henry was careful to be slightly late for his appointment the next day, because, not being a member of the august club to which he had been invited, he wanted to make sure that Manciple arrived ahead of him, and would therefore be able to authorize his immediate entry. He might have known that Edwin Manciple would be censorious.

  “Delighted to see you, Henry,” he said, as Henry entered the lobby. To the porter he added, “This is my guest, Pelham. Mr. Tibbett. He is six minutes late.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship,” replied Pelham dutifully. A lesser man, uncertain whether only an archbishop is entitled to be called “Your Grace” or whether a retired bishop should be referred to as “Your Reverence,” might have dodged the issue with a mere “sir.” But the porter at the Mausoleum knows these things as surely as Charon on his boat on the Styx—and is just as careful about whom he admits, and to where.

  “Well, come in then, no sense dallying about.” The Bishop led the way into the big, comfortable club room. “You’ll take a whisky, I trust? Two whiskies, Harvey, with water and no ice.” To Henry, Manciple added, “Can’t stand these newfangled American ideas. Do you know, you actually have to specify no ice these days?”

  The drinks arrived, and were consumed, accompanied by gossip of Creg
well and the Bishop’s family. Then came an excellent lunch in the dining room, which is still barred to women—even the wives of members. Have to have some privacy, what? Important things to discuss among men. The Prime Minister? Well, that’s rather a different case…a great pity, if you ask me. The Queen? My dear fellow, she is much too well bred to make such a request, which, of course, could hardly be refused. Now how did we get on to this topic? Oh, yes. The crossword puzzle. And abruptly, over the sherry trifle, the Bishop got down to business.

  He produced a very creased piece of paper from his pocket, set his pince-nez firmly on his nose, spread the paper on the table, and said proudly, “There you have it.”

  The puzzle had been meticulously filled in, in the Bishop’s slightly shaky hand.

  “Quite ingenious,” Edwin Manciple remarked generously. “I won’t bore you with the details of all the clues. You see he hasn’t even bothered to give clues for Six, Seven, and Eight Down. The others, I daresay, you’ve worked out for yourself.”

  “I did get Nine Across—Peter—and Eighteen Across—Whim,” said Henry. “Referring to Lord Peter Wimsey, of course. I thought the H was a bit of a cheat,” he added.

  “Well,” said the Bishop indulgently, “he had a difficult task.”

  “He or she,” said Henry. “There’s no sex discrimination when it comes to crossword puzzles.”

  “But—” Manciple began. For once, Henry cut him short.

  “Just what do you mean by difficult?”

  “All those names.” Edwin gestured with his dessert spoon. “The whole gist of the thing consists of names, even you must see that. Any other words formed are incidental—and yet I feel that any of them to which he provided clues probably have some bearing on something.”