the place is littered with bed-linen, who’s going to notice the odd bed?’
Gently puffed hard. ‘I suppose it’s possible . . .’
‘My dear sir, it’s the only credible answer.’
‘So then that Latin tag’ – Gently nodded to the door – ‘would you say it was something spicy from Petronius?’
Bressingham stared at the door. In the course of his checking he had pulled it wide open into the room, and now the outer side was lit by a pale snow-light from the window. The light had revealed lettering. In each of two upper panels were lines of small, embossed capitals. They were probably metal, but blackened by age, and one or two half worn away.
‘Oh, my gosh!’ Bressingham exclaimed.
‘Can you read Latin?’ Gently asked.
Bressingham shook his head. He was gazing at the letters in a sort of gap-mouthed stupefaction.
‘Something about the gate of Olympus being difficult?’
‘Heaven knows . . . don’t ask me!’
‘What’s so surprising about them, then?’
Bressingham gulped. ‘They’re so . . . familiar.’
Inevitably, he had to touch the letters, like a blind man going over braille. Then he slipped a pen-knife from his pocket and gently scraped the patina from one of them.
‘Lead . . .’ He went on shaking his head.
‘You’ve seen them before?’
‘Yes – I’m sure of it. And they give me a queer sort of feeling, like I was walking into the past.’
‘They read like a quotation.’
‘But I don’t know any Latin – not beyond
hic jacet
and
fid. def
. It’s a visual thing . . . my memory’s like that. Oh gosh, if only I could remember!’
He stood frowning fiercely at the letters, as though he could will them to give up their mystery. Then slowly he spelled them out, with an accent that was probably execrable.
‘
Difficilis, cels
– four dashes! –
sera, porta, Olympi, . . . Fit, facilis, fidei, cardine, clave, manu.
’
‘And it means nothing?’
‘Nothing. Except that I must have seen it and taken notice of it.’
‘Then perhaps it’s to do with your business.’
Bressingham stared hopefully for a moment, then gave another shake of his head.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A ND THAT WAS it. All Bressingham’s mental wrestling wouldn’t recall the provenance of the Latin, though he promised to give the matter no rest until he succeeded in tracking it down. Of his identification of the store-room he remained positive, but that, alas, was academic. Orgy-room or linen-closet, it offered no key to Gently’s problem. It was secure; probably it had no other connection with Peachment’s treasure.
Bressingham felt his failure. He smoked a last, despondent Manikin with Gently. From the glum expression on his chubby face you might have thought he’d just lost on a deal.
‘Well, anyway, we’ve debunked the legend.’
His hands, like Gissing’s before him, were filthy. His neat bow-tie had got aslant and the tails of his muffler hung down to his knees.
‘And yet, I’d swear old Peachey was honest. Anything else doesn’t make sense. You just couldn’t picture him doing a job, especially a big one that needed planning.’
Gently grunted. That was certainly out! If Peachment had been a regular villain, the police would have known about him. Collectors of gold coins didn’t leave them around for casual sneak-thieves to pick up.
‘Could they have been dumped on him?’
Yes . . . more likely. Though it still left a great deal to be explained. It argued that the thieves knew Peachment well enough to trust him, while by all accounts, except for his nephew . . .
Gently shrugged. ‘We only know of the two pieces.’
‘Oh, come now!’ Immediately Bressingham perked up. ‘Two pieces like that. You can trust my instinct. They’re only the tip of a fabulous iceberg.’
‘Then where did it come from?’
‘Ah, that’s your problem. But there’s gold around and I can smell it. Perhaps I’m not so good as I think – you can always have a go at the floorboards.’
It was
Gently puffed hard. ‘I suppose it’s possible . . .’
‘My dear sir, it’s the only credible answer.’
‘So then that Latin tag’ – Gently nodded to the door – ‘would you say it was something spicy from Petronius?’
Bressingham stared at the door. In the course of his checking he had pulled it wide open into the room, and now the outer side was lit by a pale snow-light from the window. The light had revealed lettering. In each of two upper panels were lines of small, embossed capitals. They were probably metal, but blackened by age, and one or two half worn away.
‘Oh, my gosh!’ Bressingham exclaimed.
‘Can you read Latin?’ Gently asked.
Bressingham shook his head. He was gazing at the letters in a sort of gap-mouthed stupefaction.
‘Something about the gate of Olympus being difficult?’
‘Heaven knows . . . don’t ask me!’
‘What’s so surprising about them, then?’
Bressingham gulped. ‘They’re so . . . familiar.’
Inevitably, he had to touch the letters, like a blind man going over braille. Then he slipped a pen-knife from his pocket and gently scraped the patina from one of them.
‘Lead . . .’ He went on shaking his head.
‘You’ve seen them before?’
‘Yes – I’m sure of it. And they give me a queer sort of feeling, like I was walking into the past.’
‘They read like a quotation.’
‘But I don’t know any Latin – not beyond
hic jacet
and
fid. def
. It’s a visual thing . . . my memory’s like that. Oh gosh, if only I could remember!’
He stood frowning fiercely at the letters, as though he could will them to give up their mystery. Then slowly he spelled them out, with an accent that was probably execrable.
‘
Difficilis, cels
– four dashes! –
sera, porta, Olympi, . . . Fit, facilis, fidei, cardine, clave, manu.
’
‘And it means nothing?’
‘Nothing. Except that I must have seen it and taken notice of it.’
‘Then perhaps it’s to do with your business.’
Bressingham stared hopefully for a moment, then gave another shake of his head.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A ND THAT WAS it. All Bressingham’s mental wrestling wouldn’t recall the provenance of the Latin, though he promised to give the matter no rest until he succeeded in tracking it down. Of his identification of the store-room he remained positive, but that, alas, was academic. Orgy-room or linen-closet, it offered no key to Gently’s problem. It was secure; probably it had no other connection with Peachment’s treasure.
Bressingham felt his failure. He smoked a last, despondent Manikin with Gently. From the glum expression on his chubby face you might have thought he’d just lost on a deal.
‘Well, anyway, we’ve debunked the legend.’
His hands, like Gissing’s before him, were filthy. His neat bow-tie had got aslant and the tails of his muffler hung down to his knees.
‘And yet, I’d swear old Peachey was honest. Anything else doesn’t make sense. You just couldn’t picture him doing a job, especially a big one that needed planning.’
Gently grunted. That was certainly out! If Peachment had been a regular villain, the police would have known about him. Collectors of gold coins didn’t leave them around for casual sneak-thieves to pick up.
‘Could they have been dumped on him?’
Yes . . . more likely. Though it still left a great deal to be explained. It argued that the thieves knew Peachment well enough to trust him, while by all accounts, except for his nephew . . .
Gently shrugged. ‘We only know of the two pieces.’
‘Oh, come now!’ Immediately Bressingham perked up. ‘Two pieces like that. You can trust my instinct. They’re only the tip of a fabulous iceberg.’
‘Then where did it come from?’
‘Ah, that’s your problem. But there’s gold around and I can smell it. Perhaps I’m not so good as I think – you can always have a go at the floorboards.’
It was
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