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Utting, the junior school. When Bruce’s relations came up one Sunday to take him out to tea Angus had the book ready wrapped up with a note to the eleven-year-old inside plus a fifty pence piece. Would they please pass this on to their son when he came home next weekend? The juniors went home most weekends though seniors never did unless, for instance, one’s grandfather had a ninetieth birthday or one’s sister got married or something.
    The note said to get the book secretly into the drawer under Guy Parker’s bunk in the study Guy shared with nine others – for this was the reality even at Utting. Bruce’s cousin had told him all about it. Weeks went by and Angus heard nothing. For all he knew the cousin might have kept the fifty pee and dropped
Cat Walk
into his study wastepaper basket, if little ones like that had studies. On the other hand, things were much freer and easier at Utting than at Rossingham and the senior houses were very likely not out of bounds to juniors. It might be that the cousin had to do no more than walk openly from Andrade House where he lived into Fleming House which was Guy’s house, and up the stairs. He could do it during prep, for Angus had found out that the Lower Fourth at Utting did their prep in the library, not in their studies.
    The Camerons took the local daily paper as well as
The Times.
It had a circulation not only in the city but across the whole county. That year 14 February fell on a Monday, the first day of Angus’s and Ian’s half-term holiday. They had come home the evening before, having been fetched by their mother. Ian got up early on the Monday and rusheddownstairs to get the
Free Press.
Angus found him sitting at the kitchen table reading page seven which, on 14 February, was devoted entirely to St Valentine’s Day messages.
    Looking over his shoulder, Angus read: ‘Cameron, I.M., Violets are blue, My Valentine is you. Lorna.’ He didn’t think much of that. Ian looked up at him.
    â€˜There’s one for you.’
    â€˜There can’t be.’
    â€˜No kidding. You’re Cameron, Angus H., aren’t you?’
    â€˜There must be lots,’ said Angus.
    â€˜I doubt it.’ Ian pointed out the piece he had himself inserted: ‘Markham, Lorna: I am, you are, love is. I.M.C.’ He seemed proud of it. Angus looked back at the left-hand column where his own name was. ‘Someone must fancy you,’ said Ian. ‘D’you know who it is?’
    â€˜Haven’t the foggiest.’
    â€˜â€œCameron, Angus H.,”’ Angus read, ‘“APTHQ KQUCC BEX UDNQ BT DTTW QEAK UW ODKSDB STNQPT.”’
    It wasn’t signed, or if it was the signature was incorporated in the code. Angus knew who it was, of course. He felt happy. Last year he remembered telling Guy that Ian’s girlfriend Lorna had put a Valentine’s message in the paper and the two of them had teased Ian who at first had tried to pretend the message wasn’t for him. Guy must have thought of that when he was wondering how to thank him, Angus, for the loan of the book in suitably mystifying fashion. Mystifying it was, though. No doubt Guy had used a line from a book to base his code on. That was what they had always done. Angus spent most of the day trying the code on the first lines of all the works he possessed by their favourite authors. It would be a novel of espionage, he was sure of that, and very possibly a novel by Yves Yugall. Angus tried the code on the first lines of
Scorpion Road, Tiger Toll, Monkey Wrench, Tarantula Town
and
Wasp Sting.
Surely Guy wouldn’t have used a line from the middle of the book, would he? After all, he would want his code to be deciphered. He would want to give Angus a hard time of it but he would want his code deciphered in the end.
    Another thing to be taken into consideration was that Guywould only have a limited number of books – that is, works of fiction