Buried Secrets by Anne Barbour

increased tenfold, with every runny-nosed undergraduate in the university having a crack at it. With absolutely no success.”
    “And I suppose Sir Henry is leading the pack of would-be code-breakers.”
    “Yes. It was thought that with his background in letters, it would be Sir Henry who would carry off the prize, but he hasn’t translated so much as a single word. He keeps saying he’s on the right track, and it’s only a matter of time before he reaches his goal, but he’s become such a fanatic on the subject that his credibility has sunk to zero.”
    “Surely a little eccentricity is permissible in a man of his years and background.”
    “It’s gone beyond mere vagary. The fellow’s obsessed. He will talk of nothing but the diary and has blown its importance as an historical document all out of proportion. He hints mysteriously at revelations that will rock the entire conception of Restoration England. He’s even suggested that the real author of the diary is old Charlie himself.”
    “I see.” Cord rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “He is still working on the translation, I take it?”
    “Lord, yes.” Ned paused to relight the pipe, which had unaccountably gone out. “He’s here almost every day, driving the library staff wild with his demands. He requires dictionaries of every sort be brought to him, as well as texts on every code known to the government and the military.”
    “I wonder why he doesn’t work on the manuscript at home. Surely, he has plenty of reference works there.”
    “Ah, there’s another point of friction. He began taking it home with him and keeping it there for days on end. At last, after complaints from the staff, as well as from others having a stab at the translation themselves, young Neville, the master of the college intervened. That would be George Neville. He was appointed three or four years ago. He was only four-and-twenty at the time. He has some influential relatives—needless to say, I suppose. His uncle, Thomas Grenville, a well-known bibliophile, is also interested in the diary. He and Folsome now have some sort of blood feud going, I hear. At any rate, young Neville has prohibited Sir Henry from taking the diary out of the library. The old man has even been limited in the amount of time he can keep possession of it in the building. He was rabid at first, and he’s still pretty miffed, but he seems to have cooled down some now.”
    Cord stared meditatively into the fire. “He said nothing of all this to me when we met. Of course, he was hardly likely to confide in a stranger, but, though he seemed determined to create an atmosphere of portent and mystery, he did not seem unduly frustrated.”
    “Believe me. Cord, the man is to be avoided. I shall say no more on the subject. You still have not told me, by the by, why you suddenly decided to visit a property you’ve owned for what is it, two years?—without evincing the slightest interest in it. The tipstaffs after you, old friend?”
    Laughing, Cord rolled out his tale of a desire for rustication, and the conversation turned to recollections of past misdeeds when they had been hey-go-mad undergraduates themselves. After catching up on the present lives of other of their friends, and having got through the better part of Ned’s wine supply, the two rolled out of the lodgings in search of dinner.
    It was late when Cord returned to Wildehaven. As he crested the hill that brought him into its precincts, he paused and stared into the starlit blackness surrounding him. Would the midnight rider be abroad tonight? Was the intruder, as he surmised, the lovely Miss Gillian Tate, and if so, what was her purpose in these clandestine excursions? Ned had mentioned Sir Henry’s obsession with the Pepys diary. Would the man stoop to stealing the papers that were otherwise denied him? Could his niece be a participant, willing or otherwise, in his nefarious activities?
    The night returned no answers save for the whispering of a