The Olbas will eventually run out, and the inventions of the aged relatives down in the cellar are unlikely to bring in the funds this crumbling pile so desperately needs . . . so it is back to the treasure hunt for me. Hidden within these walls lies Great Uncle Sebastian’s Fortune. So carefully hidden to avoid it falling into the wrong hands that nobody to date has been able to discover it.  

Great Uncle Sebastian was also an inventor. It runs in the family. Likewise an adventurer, a traveller, a historian and several other activities that I can’t at present remember. His inventions however made his name. He always maintained he owed much of what he knew to yet another of our many ancestors, a certain Titus Gore, who had also been an inventor of no little merit before him. In addition, this Titus Gore pursued the profession of Private Investigator. A most particular kind of Investigator, too : of Things Phantasmagorical. We still have some of his business cards lying about somewhere . . .

(Ah, there's one . . . )

Be that as it may, Great Uncle Sebastian took it into his head to collect all the adventures and anecdotes concerning  Titus Gore – more, he decided to use these tales to lay a trail of clues for the not entirely witless, leading to the Fortune. A veritable treasure hunt. I know this because of the last message he left behind :

‘Dear All, If you are reading this, I am up in the old Attic in the Sky, and will not have got around to telling you where all the jolly moulah is stashed. Well, there are any number of gold-hunters about, so to avoid nasty surprises, I have elected to hide it. You will find it once you start reading my account of Titus Gore. This account is spread about the house, but each tale will lead you, with a little perspicacity, onto the next tale – and the next clue.

‘I fear I have made this needlessly complicated. Too late now. ‘Tis done. Good luck anyway.

Toodle-pip.

Seb.’

Dear Great Uncle Seb. How would we pass the winter evenings otherwise . . . probably at the card tables of Paris, or the Ridotti of Venice. Ah well, to work. On with the search.

The first tale I found quite easily. Uncle Seb sealed his final letter with his own stamp : An S with the head of a serpent at one end and the head of a lion at the other.

What simpler than to go to the main hall, where those old carvings stand on a pedestal, the one of a lion, the other of a huge snake, with an urn lying between them. I felt about inside the urn and found a crackly roll of parchment which I drew out. It was the first tale of Titus Gore.

Titus Gore and the Case of the Undead Housekeeper

The fortunes of Gore and Nightingale are in a steep decline. But there is one flicker of hope. A treasure hunt laid by Great Uncle Sebastian. If we can only puzzle out the hints he left behind in his stories of Titus Gore. So far, one story has been found. Titus Gore and the Case of the Undead Housekeeper. Still trying to work out what clues it holds . . .

I narrowed it down in the end to the three items mentioned, the Crystal Eye, the Golden Feather and the Anubis statuette – there is a large, clear lump of what I imagined always to be glass, sitting in the centre of one of the curio tables. It caught the sunlight poking through the shabby shutters only the other day, and , drawn by it, I began looking over the objects strewn about it – almost immediately came upon a small statue of Anubis, carved out of some dark material. Very grimy and in need of a good clean. While I was handling it I noticed a seam, or hair-line crack around its middle. It seemed only a crack, yet was very regular and straight, so unlikely to be accidental; I applied a very little pressure, twisting it, and I felt it shift in a most intriguing way. One more twist . . and it separated – to reveal a rolled up piece of parchment nestling in its hollow.

I removed it carefully, and have spent all this time ironing it out.

The title running across the top of it reads :  Titus Gore and the Phantom Horse of Hertmond House

Titus Gore and the Phantom Horse of Hertmond House

Titus Gore and the Restless Housekeeper (Deceased)

As I believe has been mentioned elsewhere, I live marooned in the decrepit family home, poring over documents, searching attics, exploring escritoires and bookcases for great uncle Sebastian’s lost inheritance
. . . Only yesterday I came across the following, tied up with green ribbon inside the piano stool, penned in great uncle Seb's spidery scrawl. I have transposed it to see if any clue is hidden within its text . . .
The title is :  Titus Gore and the Restless Housekeeper (Deceased)

Titus Gore rubbed his eyes again.

The clock quite distinctly declared the house to be late, close on midday, yet his housekeeper, that model of punctuality Mrs Slattern, had failed to bombard him with tea and toast at the proper time.

‘Most remiss of her, most,’ he muttered as he staggered from his couch of slumber, throwing his baroque brocade dressing gown about himself and tripping over his Persian slippers.

‘I shall have words with her, when I have time,’ he continued as he made his way to the breakfast room. Everything in its place, however,  the silver Georgian teapot sat steaming on a crisp white linen tablecloth, toast in its toast rack, boiled egg, rashers of bacon in the side dish awaited him. And an envelope, propped up against the teacup, in his housekeeper’s inimitable scrawl.

‘This is to remind you  (as you will no doubt have forgotten) that I am on holiday as of today, for precisely one week, during which period you shall have to fend for yourself.

There is cold pork pie in the pantry, the girl from the Flightly’s place across the road will be along later to prepare your meals.

The greengrocer will make his deliveries tomorrow – be sure to give him exact change only as I have been caught that way before.

  Ta ta for now,

   Mrs S.’

Titus gazed unbelievingly at the missive and addressed the room at large : ‘Of course  remembered it was her holiday. Most definitely.’ He sat down and was about to pour himself some tea when the front door bell rang.

Titus went to the mantelpiece and pulled at the bell rope. He could hear, very distantly, hear it jangling in the kitchen far below where Mrs Slattern held dominion.

He unhooked the speaking tube and spoke down it –‘ Mrs Slattern, the door, if you please.’

The door bell rang again. Titus remembered (yet again) that Mrs Slattern was on holiday for a week rather than five minutes and murmured ‘Drat these holidays’ before sweeping downstairs.

He opened the door to an undersize gentleman in tweeds, bowler hat, a magnificent moustache and a pained expression.

‘Good morning, the name is Savage, Septimus Savage. I have come to consult Mr Titus Gore, private consultant extraordinaire . . .’ and here the gentleman peered at a visiting card he held in his hand ‘. . .in all matters phantasmagorical . . ?’ He gazed inquiringly at Titus who nodded with as much aplomb as he could in dressing gown and slippers.

‘Tea ? Toast ?’ offered Titus, settling down again at his rapidly cooling breakfast.

‘A cuppa would be most appreciated, thank you, Mr Gore.’ Mr Septimus Savage pulled a handkerchief from an inside pocket and dabbed at his face with it, ‘My nerves have been ah, stretched to the utmost limit by recent turn of events.’

‘Yes, you are here to consult me on a matter of inexplicable phenomena ? What is it, them,, footsteps upstairs in the empty guestroom ? Doors opening and shutting for no apparent reason ? Not the ubiquitous clanking of chains, I hope ? I do get quite tired of those . . .’

‘Alas, were that all, I might well have tolerated it, and not bothered you with such trivia,’ replied Mr Savage looking increasingly pained.

Titus Gore raised one interested eyebrow. ‘Sugar ?’

Mr Savage took five spoonfuls.

‘It is my housekeeper. We buried her last Tuesday. Only she won’t accept the fact, keeps turning up at the most awkward moments, and insisting on doing the housework.’

‘Housekeeper ? Deceased but insists on doing the housework. Intriguing indeed. Some mildly obsessive form of zombism.’

‘Really, Mr Gore ? I understood Zombies had little to say for themselves. Instead, Mrs Grouch continues to have strong opinions on everything which she voices very clearly at every opportunity.’

‘That is interesting, certainly. But does she make a good job of the housekeeping ?’

‘Oh, impeccable,’ replied Mr Savage earnestly. ‘Indeed, in that respect her standards are as high as ever they were before.’

‘My dear fellow, what have you to complain about ? A deceased housekeeper who insists on continuing in her duties is surely to your advantage. Think of the money you can save !’

Mr Savage crumpled his handkerchief up and wrung it. ‘She’s joined a union,’ he answered weakly.

‘Ah. My commiserations. But still, I say a valued and trusty servant is hard to find.’

‘And there you bring me to the other dilemma,’ continued Savage anxiously. ‘The thing is, I have no absolute proof – but things have gone missing.’