While the Light Lasts Read online

  The small pewter snuffbox was hidden on a rocky ledge running in a north-easterly direction from between the middle two cannon–‘between these two–have you got the compass?’–while Juan’s initial suggestion that the clue ‘points to the north-east of the island’ was a red herring.

  ‘Too easy’

  The second snuffbox, apparently constructed from horn, was located on 9 June by Richard Highton, a Lancashire builder. As Fenella made clear to the murderous Dr Fayll, Ewan Corjeag’s dying words ‘D’ye ken–’ are a clue to the whereabouts of the treasure. In fact, they are the opening words of the traditional English song John Peel about a Cumbrian huntsman and, when Juan suggested that ‘Bellman and True’ was ‘the name of a firm that might help us’, he was not referring to the ‘firm of lawyers in Douglas’ mentioned at the beginning of the story but to two of John Peel’s hounds, as named in the song. With these clues, the subject of the ‘torn snap-shot’, which was published as the third clue on 9 June, would not have been ‘very hard to identify’ they were the ruins of the fourteenth-century Peel Castle on St Patrick’s Isle, and curved lines along the photograph’s left-hand edge were the curlicues on the arm of a bench on Peel Hill, which looks down on the castle and under which the snuffbox was hidden. The charabanc journey to Snaefell, the highest peak on the Isle of Man, was a red herring.

  ‘More or less by accident’

  The third ‘treasure’ was found by Mr Herbert Elliott, a Manx-born ship’s engineer living in Liverpool. Mr Elliott later claimed that he had not read ‘Manx Gold’ nor even studied the clues, but had simply decided on a likely area where, very early on the morning of 8 July, he chanced upon the snuffbox, hidden in a gully.

  The principal clue to its whereabouts was hidden in the fourth clue, published on 14 June (the verse beginning ‘In ’85, this place made history’), in which the second word of each line spells out the message:

  ‘85 paces east north east of sacred circle Spanish Head.’

  The ‘sacred circle’ is the Meayll circle on Mull Hill, a megalithic monument a little over a mile from Spanish Head, the most southerly point of the island. The references to an important event ‘in ’85’ and a Spanish chestnut, which from contemporary accounts proved a diversion for many searchers, were false leads. As for ‘Kirkhill Station’, the clue uncovered by Juan, Fenella rightly said that there was no such place. However, there is a village called Kirkhill, and there is also a railway station at Port Erin, where Juan and Fenella had had lunch before starting their search. If a line is drawn from Kirkhill to Port Erin and continued southwards, it eventually crosses the Meayll circle, ‘the exact spot’ identified by Juan.

  ‘A real teaser’

  Unfortunately, as was the case with the clues to the location of the third snuffbox, those for the fourth were never solved. The fifth and final clue, the verse beginning ‘Upon a rock, a sign you’ll see’ was published on 21 June, but on 10 July, at the end of the extended period allowed for the hunt, which had originally been intended to finish at the end of June, the final treasure was ‘lifted’ by the Mayor of Douglas. Two days later, as a ‘sequel’ to the story, the Daily Dispatch published a photograph of the event and Christie’s explanation of the final clue:

  That last clue still makes me smile when I remember the time we wasted looking for rocks with a sign on them. The real clue was so simple–the words ‘sixes and sevens’ in the covering letter.

  Take the sixth and seventh word of each line of the verse, and you get this, ‘You’ll see. Point of (A). Near the light house a wall.’ Seek the point of (A) we identified as the Point of Ayre. We spent some time finding the right wall, and the treasure itself was not there. Instead, there were four figures–2, 5, 6 and 9 scrawled on a stone.

  Apply them to the letters of the first line of the verse, and you get the word ‘park’. There is only one real park in the Isle of Man, at Ramsey. We searched that park, and found at last what we sought.

  The thatched building in question was a small refreshment kiosk, and the path leading past it ran up to an ivy-covered wall which was the hiding-place of the elusive snuffbox. The fact that the letter had been posted in Bride was an additional clue as this village is near the lighthouse at the Point of Ayre, the northernmost tip of the island.

  It is impossible to judge whether or not ‘Manx Gold’ was a successful means of promoting tourism to the Isle of Man. Certainly, it appears that there were more visitors in 1930 than in previous years, but how far that increase could be ascribed to the treasure hunt is far from clear. Contemporary press reports show that there were many who doubted that it had been of any real value and, at a civic lunch to mark the end of the hunt, Alderman Crookall responded to a vote of thanks by railing against those who had failed to talk up the hunt–they were ‘slackers and grousers who never did anything but offer criticism’.

  The fact that islanders were not allowed to take part in the hunt may have been a cause of apathy among the islanders, even though the Daily Dispatch offered the Manx resident with whom each finder was staying a prize of five guineas, equivalent to about £150 today. This may also have accounted for various acts of gentle ‘sabotage’ such as the laying of false snuffboxes and spoof clues, including a rock on which the word ‘Lift’ was painted but under which was nothing more interesting than discarded peel.

  While there has never been any other event similar to the Isle of Man treasure hunt, Agatha Christie did go on to write mysteries with a similar theme. Most obvious of these is the challenge laid down to Charmian Stroud and Edward Rossiter by their eccentric Uncle Mathew in ‘Strange Jest’, a Miss Marple story first published in 1941 as ‘A Case of Buried Treasure’ and collected in Miss Marple’s Final Cases (1979). There is also a similarly structured ‘murder hunt’ in the Poirot novel, Dead Man’s Folly (1956).

  Within a Wall

  I

  It was Mrs Lemprière who discovered the existence of Jane Haworth. It would be, of course. Somebody once said that Mrs Lemprière was easily the most hated woman in London, but that, I think, is an exaggeration. She has certainly a knack of tumbling on the one thing you wish to keep quiet about, and she does it with real genius. It is always an accident.

  In this case we had been having tea in Alan Everard’s studio. He gave these teas occasionally, and used to stand about in corners, wearing very old clothes, rattling the coppers in his trouser pockets and looking profoundly miserable.

  I do not suppose anyone will dispute Everard’s claim to genius at this date. His two most famous pictures, Colour, and The Connoisseur, which belong to his early period, before he became a fashionable portrait painter, were purchased by the nation last year, and for once the choice went unchallenged. But at the date of which I speak, Everard was only beginning to come into his own, and we were free to consider that we had discovered him.

  It was his wife who organized these parties. Everard’s attitude to her was a peculiar one. That he adored her was evident, and only to be expected. Adoration was Isobel’s due. But he seemed always to feel himself slightly in her debt. He assented to anything she wished, not so much through tenderness as through an unalterable conviction that she had a right to her own way. I suppose that was natural enough, too, when one comes to think of it.

  For Isobel Loring had been really very celebrated. When she came out she had been the débutante of the season. She had everything except money; beauty, position, breeding, brains. Nobody expected her to marry for love. She wasn’t that kind of girl. In her second season she had three strings to her bow, the heir to a dukedom, a rising politician, and a South African millionaire. And then, to everyone’s surprise, she married Alan Everard–a struggling young painter whom no one had ever heard of.

  It is a tribute to her personality, I think, that everyone went on calling her Isobel Loring. Nobody ever alluded to her as Isobel Everard. It would be: ‘I saw Isobel Loring this morning. Yes–with her husband, young Everard, the painter fellow.’

  People said
Isobel had ‘done for herself’. It would, I think, have ‘done’ for most men to be known as ‘Isobel Loring’s husband’. But Everard was different. Isobel’s talent for success hadn’t failed her after all. Alan Everard painted Colour.

  I suppose everyone knows the picture: a stretch of road with a trench dug down it, the turned earth, reddish in colour, a shining length of brown glazed drainpipe and the huge navvy, resting for a minute on his spade–a Herculean figure in stained corduroys with a scarlet neckerchief. His eyes look out at you from the canvas, without intelligence, without hope, but with a dumb unconscious pleading, the eyes of a magnificent brute beast. It is a flaming thing–a symphony of orange and red. A lot has been written about its symbolism, about what it is meant to express. Alan Everard himself says he didn’t mean it to express anything. He was, he said, nauseated by having had to look at a lot of pictures of Venetian sunsets, and a sudden longing for a riot of purely English colour assailed him.

  After that, Everard gave the world that epic painting of a public house–Romance; the black street with rain falling–the half-open door, the lights and shining glasses, the little foxy-faced man passing through the doorway, small, mean, insignificant, with lips parted and eyes eager, passing in to forget.

  On the strength of these two pictures Everard was acclaimed as a painter of ‘working men’. He had his niche. But he refused to stay in it. His third and most brilliant work, a full-length portrait of Sir Rufus Herschman. The famous scientist is painted against a background of retorts and crucibles and laboratory shelves. The whole has what may be called a Cubist effect, but the lines of perspective run strangely.

  And now he had completed his fourth work–a portrait of his wife. We had been invited to see and criticize. Everard himself scowled and looked out of the window; Isobel Loring moved amongst the guests, talking technique with unerring accuracy.

  We made comments. We had to. We praised the painting of the pink satin. The treatment of that, we said, was really marvellous. Nobody had painted satin in quite that way before.

  Mrs Lemprière, who is one of the most intelligent art critics I know, took me aside almost at once.

  ‘Georgie,’ she said, ‘what has he done to himself? The thing’s dead. It’s smooth. It’s–oh! it’s damnable.’

  ‘Portrait of a Lady in Pink Satin?’ I suggested.

  ‘Exactly. And yet the technique’s perfect. And the care! There’s enough work there for sixteen pictures.’

  ‘Too much work?’ I suggested.

  ‘Perhaps that’s it. If there ever was anything there, he’s killed it. An extremely beautiful woman in a pink satin dress. Why not a coloured photograph?’

  ‘Why not?’ I agreed. ‘Do you suppose he knows?’ ‘Don’t you see the man’s on edge? It comes, I daresay, of mixing up sentiment and business. He’s put his whole soul into painting Isobel, because she is Isobel, and in sparing her, he’s lost her. He’s been too kind. You’ve got to–to destroy the flesh before you can get at the soul sometimes.’

  I nodded reflectively. Sir Rufus Herschman had not been flattered physically, but Everard had succeeded in putting on the canvas a personality that was unforgettable.

  ‘And Isobel’s got such a very forceful personality,’ continued Mrs Lemprière.

  ‘Perhaps Everard can’t paint women,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Mrs Lemprière thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that may be the explanation.’

  And it was then, with her usual genius for accuracy, that she pulled out a canvas that was leaning with its face to the wall. There were about eight of them, stacked carelessly. It was pure chance that Mrs Lemprière selected the one she did–but as I said before, these things happen with Mrs Lemprière.

  ‘Ah!’ said Mrs Lemprière as she turned it to the light.

  It was unfinished, a mere rough sketch. The woman, or girl–she was not, I thought, more than twenty-five or six–was leaning forward, her chin on her hand. Two things struck me at once: the extraordinary vitality of the picture and the amazing cruelty of it. Everard had painted with a vindictive brush. The attitude even was a cruel one–it had brought out every awkwardness, every sharp angle, every crudity. It was a study in brown–brown dress, brown background, brown eyes–wistful, eager eyes. Eagerness was, indeed, the prevailing note of it.

  Mrs Lemprière looked at it for some minutes in silence. Then she called to Everard.

  ‘Alan,’ she said. ‘Come here. Who’s this?’

  Everard came over obediently. I saw the sudden flash of annoyance that he could not quite hide.

  ‘That’s only a daub,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose I shall ever finish it.’

  ‘Who is she?’ said Mrs Lemprière.

  Everard was clearly unwilling to answer, and his unwillingness was as meat and drink to Mrs Lemprière, who always believes the worst on principle.

  ‘A friend of mine. A Miss Jane Haworth.’

  ‘I’ve never met her here,’ said Mrs Lemprière.

  ‘She doesn’t come to these shows.’ He paused a minute, then added: ‘She’s Winnie’s godmother.’

  Winnie was his little daughter, aged five.

  ‘Really?’ said Mrs Lemprière. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Battersea. A flat.’

  ‘Really,’ said Mrs Lemprière again, and then added: ‘And what has she ever done to you?’

  ‘To me?’

  ‘To you. To make you so–ruthless.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ he laughed. ‘Well, you know, she’s not a beauty. I can’t make her one out of friendship, can I?’

  ‘You’ve done the opposite,’ said Mrs Lemprière. ‘You’ve caught hold of every defect of hers and exaggerated it and twisted it. You’ve tried to make her ridiculous–but you haven’t succeeded, my child. That portrait, if you finish it, will live.’

  Everard looked annoyed.

  ‘It’s not bad,’ he said lightly, ‘for a sketch, that is. But, of course, it’s not a patch on Isobel’s portrait. That’s far and away the best thing I’ve ever done.’

  He said the last words defiantly and aggressively. Neither of us answered.

  ‘Far and away the best thing,’ he repeated.

  Some of the others had drawn near us. They, too, caught sight of the sketch. There were exclamations, comments. The atmosphere began to brighten up.

  It was in this way that I first heard of Jane Haworth. Later, I was to meet her–twice. I was to hear details of her life from one of her most intimate friends. I was to learn much from Alan Everard himself. Now that they are both dead, I think it is time to contradict some of the stories Mrs Lemprière is busily spreading abroad. Call some of my story invention if you will–it is not far from the truth.

  II

  When the guests had left, Alan Everard turned the portrait of Jane Haworth with its face to the wall again. Isobel came down the room and stood beside him.

  ‘A success, do you think?’ she asked thoughtfully. ‘Or–not quite a success?’

  ‘The portrait?’ he asked quickly.

  ‘No, silly, the party. Of course the portrait’s a success.’

  ‘It’s the best thing I’ve done,’ Everard declared aggressively.

  ‘We’re getting on,’ said Isobel. ‘Lady Charmington wants you to paint her.’

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ He frowned. ‘I’m not a fashionable portrait painter, you know.’

  ‘You will be. You’ll get to the top of the tree.’

  ‘That’s not the tree I want to get to the top of.’

  ‘But, Alan dear, that’s the way to make mints of money.’

  ‘Who wants mints of money?’

  ‘Perhaps I do,’ she said smiling.

  At once he felt apologetic, ashamed. If she had not married him she could have had her mints of money. And she needed it. A certain amount of luxury was her proper setting.

  ‘We’ve not done so badly just lately,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘No, indeed; but the bills are coming in rather fast.’

/>   Bills–always bills!

  He walked up and down.

  ‘Oh, hang it! I don’t want to paint Lady Charmington,’ he burst out, rather like a petulant child.

  Isobel smiled a little. She stood by the fire without moving. Alan stopped his restless pacing and came nearer to her. What was there in her, in her stillness, her inertia, that drew him–drew him like a magnet? How beautiful she was–her arms like sculptured white marble, the pure gold of her hair, her lips–red full lips.

  He kissed them–felt them fasten on his own. Did anything else matter? What was there in Isobel that soothed you, that took all your cares from you? She drew you into her own beautiful inertia and held you there, quiet and content. Poppy and mandragora; you drifted there, on a dark lake, asleep.

  ‘I’ll do Lady Charmington,’ he said presently. ‘What does it matter? I shall be bored–but after all, painters must eat. There’s Mr Pots the painter, Mrs Pots the painter’s wife, and Miss Pots the painter’s daughter–all needing sustenance.’

  ‘Absurd boy!’ said Isobel. ‘Talking of our daughter–you ought to go and see Jane some time. She was here yesterday, and said she hadn’t seen you for months.’

  ‘Jane was here?’

  ‘Yes–to see Winnie.’

  Alan brushed Winnie aside.

  ‘Did she see the picture of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she think of it?’

  ‘She said it was splendid.’

  ‘Oh!’

  He frowned, lost in thought.

  ‘Mrs Lemprière suspects you of a guilty passion for Jane, I think,’ remarked Isobel. ‘Her nose twitched a good deal.’

  ‘That woman!’ said Alan, with deep disgust. ‘That woman! What wouldn’t she think? What doesn’t she think?’