‘Next?’
‘Dotterel.’
‘Five hundred and fifty.’
‘I’ve lost you,’ said the man from the department with no name. ‘But if you insist …’
‘I do,’ said Henry.
‘Then your “collared dove” comes next,’ said Ferguson.
‘One hundred and twice fifty,’ said Henry.
‘Twice fifty is a hundred,’ objected Ferguson. ‘Same thing.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Henry, still scribbling. ‘And five hundred.’
‘You’ve still lost me,’ complained Ferguson.
‘Oh, and five hundred and five from the dove.’
‘Then there’s a full stop,’ said Edward Ferguson, adding with more than a touch of irony, ‘or isn’t that important?’
‘That’s your first number then,’ said Henry.
‘I’m not with you,’ said Ferguson.
‘Your first number is the sum of all those I’ve already mentioned,’ said Henry.
He scanned his eye down the figures. ‘I don’t know about you but I make that two thousand, two hundred and sixty-one.’
Edward Ferguson nodded. ‘That would fit although it’s a little higher than we were bargaining for.’
‘Know thine enemy,’ said Henry.
The man opposite leant over and said, ‘And the mallard and the fox?’ Ferguson gave a quick frown, lifted his hand to stay an answer, and said slowly. ‘No, don’t tell me. Would I be right in saying a thousand, two times fifty and five hundred for “mallard”?’
‘You would,’ said Henry. ‘Good man.’
‘Adding ten for “fox”?’ Ferguson twitched the napkin out of Henry’s hand. ‘And our man couldn’t use “waxwing” because it had got an
i
in it as well as the
x
… that right?’
‘Which would have made it six instead of five,’ agreed Henry. ‘And therefore wrong.’
‘The second number comes to sixteen hundred and ten,’ said Edward Ferguson, pushing his chair back and gettingto his feet. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Tyler. I need to be getting back with these figures as soon as possible. They’re important.’
‘So was the 1666, if only we’d realised it,’ said Henry. ‘We were a bit slow there.’
‘Slow? In what way?’
‘Because 1666 is the only number which uses all the Roman numbers – MDCLXVI – and in declining order, too.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘That’s what should have told us we were dealing with a chronogram – that and the fact that your chap is a Latinist.’
‘A chronogram?’
‘Chronograms,’ pronounced Henry Tyler hortatively, ‘usually combine an inscription and a date picked out to be read as Roman numerals, but you can do it with any words and numbers you like … oh, you’re off, are you?’ He turned his head as the waiter approached and said to the man, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ferguson is in a hurry and he’s had to go. He didn’t want a pudding today. Me? Oh, I think I’ll have the apple pie … and while you’re about it, would you bring me another napkin? I appear to have lost mine.’
GOING QUIETLY
He hadn’t meant to kill Pearl. At least, that’s what he told the police.
Afterwards, of course.
No, he insisted, he’d only meant to go along and see her for the last time.
Why? Because there were still one or two things left over from the divorce he wanted to clear up with her, that’s why.
Big things?
No, not big things. Little ones.
Like what then?
Well, he’d have liked her to say sorry.
What for?
For walking out on him like she had.
In what way then had she walked out on him?
Without there being anyone else.
Ah …
On either side, he said pointedly, although he supposed they’d be checking up on that.
They said they would. Routinely.
Although, he agreed readily enough, his solicitor had advised him not to go to see her but you know what solicitors are.
The police agreed that they knew what solicitors were.
Too careful by half, that’s what they were, he sniffed. Besides, they didn’t have feelings like normal men did.
Didn’t lose their rag, he meant, did he? said the police. Like some men
‘Dotterel.’
‘Five hundred and fifty.’
‘I’ve lost you,’ said the man from the department with no name. ‘But if you insist …’
‘I do,’ said Henry.
‘Then your “collared dove” comes next,’ said Ferguson.
‘One hundred and twice fifty,’ said Henry.
‘Twice fifty is a hundred,’ objected Ferguson. ‘Same thing.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Henry, still scribbling. ‘And five hundred.’
‘You’ve still lost me,’ complained Ferguson.
‘Oh, and five hundred and five from the dove.’
‘Then there’s a full stop,’ said Edward Ferguson, adding with more than a touch of irony, ‘or isn’t that important?’
‘That’s your first number then,’ said Henry.
‘I’m not with you,’ said Ferguson.
‘Your first number is the sum of all those I’ve already mentioned,’ said Henry.
He scanned his eye down the figures. ‘I don’t know about you but I make that two thousand, two hundred and sixty-one.’
Edward Ferguson nodded. ‘That would fit although it’s a little higher than we were bargaining for.’
‘Know thine enemy,’ said Henry.
The man opposite leant over and said, ‘And the mallard and the fox?’ Ferguson gave a quick frown, lifted his hand to stay an answer, and said slowly. ‘No, don’t tell me. Would I be right in saying a thousand, two times fifty and five hundred for “mallard”?’
‘You would,’ said Henry. ‘Good man.’
‘Adding ten for “fox”?’ Ferguson twitched the napkin out of Henry’s hand. ‘And our man couldn’t use “waxwing” because it had got an
i
in it as well as the
x
… that right?’
‘Which would have made it six instead of five,’ agreed Henry. ‘And therefore wrong.’
‘The second number comes to sixteen hundred and ten,’ said Edward Ferguson, pushing his chair back and gettingto his feet. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Tyler. I need to be getting back with these figures as soon as possible. They’re important.’
‘So was the 1666, if only we’d realised it,’ said Henry. ‘We were a bit slow there.’
‘Slow? In what way?’
‘Because 1666 is the only number which uses all the Roman numbers – MDCLXVI – and in declining order, too.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘That’s what should have told us we were dealing with a chronogram – that and the fact that your chap is a Latinist.’
‘A chronogram?’
‘Chronograms,’ pronounced Henry Tyler hortatively, ‘usually combine an inscription and a date picked out to be read as Roman numerals, but you can do it with any words and numbers you like … oh, you’re off, are you?’ He turned his head as the waiter approached and said to the man, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Ferguson is in a hurry and he’s had to go. He didn’t want a pudding today. Me? Oh, I think I’ll have the apple pie … and while you’re about it, would you bring me another napkin? I appear to have lost mine.’
GOING QUIETLY
He hadn’t meant to kill Pearl. At least, that’s what he told the police.
Afterwards, of course.
No, he insisted, he’d only meant to go along and see her for the last time.
Why? Because there were still one or two things left over from the divorce he wanted to clear up with her, that’s why.
Big things?
No, not big things. Little ones.
Like what then?
Well, he’d have liked her to say sorry.
What for?
For walking out on him like she had.
In what way then had she walked out on him?
Without there being anyone else.
Ah …
On either side, he said pointedly, although he supposed they’d be checking up on that.
They said they would. Routinely.
Although, he agreed readily enough, his solicitor had advised him not to go to see her but you know what solicitors are.
The police agreed that they knew what solicitors were.
Too careful by half, that’s what they were, he sniffed. Besides, they didn’t have feelings like normal men did.
Didn’t lose their rag, he meant, did he? said the police. Like some men
Similar Books
