Caroline Minuscule by Andrew Taylor Page A

This is hard to explain to an outsider – what you have to understand is two things: Vernon-Jones’s malice and his penchant for the cryptic. For the first, he knew Lee and I didn’t get on, and it must have tickled him to think that he could intensify our enmity beyond his death – manipulate us from the grave. He told me, and I have no doubt that he told Lee as well, that the value of the stones was well into six figures. A good, substantial motive for competition! Secondly, he was a compulsive puzzle solver, a searcher for devious solutions. He was the sort of person who finished the crossword in the paper before looking at the headlines. He was also an ardent cryptographer and cryptoanalyst; in the last decade of his life, his greatest ambition was to decode the Voynich manuscript attributed to Roger Bacon. Add to this his interest in medieval manuscripts and the fact that he knew that neither Lee nor I had a natural aptitude for puzzles, and you will see where this was tending. He had set us a problem, with a fortune as the prize, and split the clues between us, secure in the knowledge that we would never join forces because one would inevitably try to double-cross the other.
    We can be certain that there is a prize to be won. The Canon was cruel, malignant and cunning, but, to do him justice, he did have a code of conduct of a sort – the code of a crossword compiler: if you pose a question, there must be an answer, or it isn’t fair.
    Now to the present. I was followed back to my hotel tonight – I suppose it was foolish of me to take no more radical action than move from Brown’s to the Bristol when I realized what Vernon-Jones was doing. Habit leads to carelessness. Lee has a man watching my window. No doubt there are more. Lee is always strong on manpower. Unfortunately, I have to go out tonight – a small but urgent piece of business, the omission of which would be personally and financially awkward in the extreme. Lee, either now or later, will try to detain or kill me: the latter, probably – he will feel, as I do, that it would be more productive in the final analysis. He will weigh the certain advantage of a dead competitor (who is, moreover, dangerously well informed about delicate episodes in his past life) against the potential, if rather risky value of my assistance under compulsion. Besides, he’s the sort of person who finds the finality of having someone killed, or doing it himself, reassuring. He may well fail. I’m not on my last legs yet. Sometimes I feel I’m growing too old for this kind of career.
    Well, that’s the position. If you are reading this, I will be dead. And you – if you want, just as you please – can try to get rich quickly in my place. You would have a number of advantages over Lee: you are an outsider and Lee will have no idea of your existence; you are probably better equipped, mentally, than he – your background, etc., is closer to Vernon-Jones’s. It’s up to you, of course. But for God’s sake, take no risks. Lee is not a fool and he’s not too squeamish, either. My advice would be to withdraw at once if you meet him. Don’t even give him time to start wondering about you.
    I must seal all this up and give it to the hotel people. I had no idea I would write so long a letter. I suppose it’s rather like making a will – you don’t want to leave anything out, for obvious reasons.
    One final point. I would burn this letter, if I were you. I know it sounds silly, but its contents shouldn’t be read by the wrong people.
    Yours, if you read this, regretfully,
    James Hanbury.
    Dougal threw the letter on the floor. His mouth was dry with the reading. He swallowed the mug of lukewarm tea and poured himself another. It was nearly dark in the quiet room. He had found it difficult to decipher the last couple of pages, but hadn’t wanted to put the light on. He could hear buses