Manx Gold: A Short Story
Author: Agatha Christie
Date: 1930-05-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery; Crime; Classics
Description: Previously published in the anthologies While The Light Lasts and Other Stories and The Harlequin Tea Set Two cousins, Fenella Mylecharane and Juan Faraker, are engaged. When their eccentric uncle dies, they eagerly return to the Isle of Man for the reading of the will. Having grown up hearing tales of buried treasure on the island, they are excited when the will reveals that their uncle found it. But where?
Publisher: Harper Collins
Rights: All rights reserved

Contents

Manx Gold

About the Author

The Agatha Christie Collection

Copyright

About the Publisher

MANX GOLD

Old Mylecharane liv’d up on the broo.

Where Furby slopes down to the wold,

His croft was all golden with cushag and furze,

His daughter was fair to behold.

“O father, they say you’ve plenty of store,

But hidden all out of the way.

No gold can I see, but its glint on the gorse;

Then what have you done with it, pray?”

“My gold is locked up in a coffer of oak,

Which I dropped in the tide and it sank,

And there it lies fixed like an anchor of hope,

All bright and as safe as the bank.”

“I like that song,” I said appreciatively, as Fenella finished.

“You should do,” said Fenella. “It’s about our ancestor, yours and mine. Uncle Myles’s grandfather. He made a fortune out of smuggling and hid it somewhere, and no one ever knew where.”

Ancestry is Fenella’s strong point. She takes an interest in all her forebears. My tendencies are strictly modern. The difficult present and the uncertain future absorb all my energy. But I like hearing Fenella singing old Manx ballads.

Fenella is very charming. She is my first cousin and also, from time to time, my fiancée. In moods of financial optimism we are engaged. When a corresponding wave of pessimism sweeps over us and we realize that we shall not be able to marry for at least ten years, we break it off.

“Didn’t anyone ever try to find the treasure?” I inquired.

“Of course. But they never did.”

“Perhaps they didn’t look scientifically.”

“Uncle Myles had a jolly good try,” said Fenella. “He said anyone with intelligence ought to be able to solve a little problem like that.”

That sounded to me very like our Uncle Myles, a cranky and eccentric old gentleman, who lived in the Isle of Man, and who was much given to didactic pronouncements.

It was at that moment that the post came—and the letter!

“Good Heavens,” cried Fenella. “Talk of the devil—I mean angels—Uncle Myles is dead!”

Both she and I had only seen our eccentric relative on two occasions, so we could neither of us pretend to a very deep grief. The letter was from a firm of lawyers in Douglas, and it informed us that under the will of Mr. Myles Mylecharane, deceased, Fenella and I were joint inheritors of his estate, which consisted of a house near Douglas, and an infinitesimal income. Enclosed was a sealed envelope, which Mr. Mylecharane had directed should be forwarded to Fenella at his death. This letter we opened and read its surprising contents. I reproduce it in full, since it was a truly characteristic document.

“My dear Fenella and Juan (for I take it that where one of you is the other will not be far away! Or so gossip has whispered), You may remember having heard me say that anyone displaying a little intelligence could easily find the treasure concealed by my amiable scoundrel of a grandfather. I displayed that intelligence—and my reward was four chests of solid gold—quite like a fairy story, is it not?

Of living relations I have only four, you two, my nephew Ewan Corjeag, whom I have always heard is a thoroughly bad lot, and a cousin, a Doctor Fayll, of whom I have heard very little, and that little not always good.

My estate proper I am leaving to you and Fenella, but I feel a certain obligation laid upon me with regard to this ‘treasure’ which has fallen to my lot solely through my own ingenuity. My amiable ancestor would not, I feel, be satisfied for me to pass it on tamely by inheritance. So I, in my turn, have devised a little problem.

There are still four ‘chests’ of treasure (though in a more modern form than gold ingots or coins) and there are to be four competitors—my four living relations. It would be fairest to assign one ‘chest’ to each—but the world, my children, is not fair. The race is to the swiftest—and often to the most unscrupulous!

Who am I to go against Nature? You must pit your wits against the other two. There will be, I fear, very little chance for you. Goodness and innocence are seldom rewarded in this world. So strongly do I feel this that I have deliberately cheated (unfairness again, you notice!). This letter goes to you twenty-four hours in advance of the letters to the other two. Thus you will have a very good chance of securing the first ‘treasure’—twenty-four hours’ start, if you have any brains at all, ought to be sufficient.

The clues for finding this treasure are to be found at my house in Douglas. The clues for the second ‘treasure’ will not be released till the first treasure is found. In the second and succeeding cases, therefore, you will all start even. You have my good wishes for success, and nothing would please me better than for you to acquire all four ‘chests,’ but for the reasons which I have already stated I think that most unlikely. Remember that no scruples will stand in dear Ewan’s way. Do not make the mistake of trusting him in any respect. As to Dr. Richard Fayll, I know little about him, but he is, I fancy, a dark horse.

Good luck to you both, but with little hopes of your success,

Your affectionate Uncle,

Myles Mylecharane”

As we reached the signature, Fenella made a leap from my side.

“What is it?” I cried.

Fenella was rapidly turning the pages of an ABC.

“We must get to the Isle of Man as soon as possible,” she cried. “How dare he say we were good and innocent and stupid? I’ll show him! Juan, we’re going to find all four of these ‘chests’ and get married and live happily ever afterwards, with Rolls-Royces and footmen and marble baths. But we must get to the Isle of Man at once.”

It was twenty-four hours later. We had arrived in Douglas, interviewed the lawyers, and were now at Maughold House facing Mrs. Skillicorn, our late Uncle’s housekeeper, a somewhat formidable woman who nevertheless relented a little before Fenella’s eagerness.

“Queer ways he had,” she said. “Liked to set everyone puzzling and contriving.”

“But the clues,” cried Fenella. “The clues?”

Deliberately, as she did everything, Mrs. Skillicorn left the room. She returned after an absence of some minutes and held out a folded piece of paper.

We unfolded it eagerly. It contained a doggerel rhyme in my Uncle’s crabbed handwriting.

Four points of the compass so there be

S., and W., N. and E.

East winds are bad for man and beast.

Go south and west and

North not east.

“Oh!” said Fenella, blankly.

“Oh!” said I, with much the same intonation.

Mrs. Skillicorn smiled on us with gloomy relish.

“Not much sense to it, is there?” she said helpfully.

“It—I don’t see how to begin,” said Fenella, piteously.

“Beginning,” I said, with a cheerfulness I did not feel, “is always the difficulty. Once we get going—”

Mrs. Skillicorn smiled more grimly than ever. She was a depressing woman.

“Can’t you help us?” asked Fenella, coaxingly.

“I know nothing about the silly business. Didn’t confide in me, your uncle didn’t. I have told him to put his money in the bank, and no nonsense. I never knew what he was up to.”

“He never went out with any chests—or anything of that kind?”

“That he didn’t.”

“You don’t know when he hid the stuff—whether it was lately or long ago?”

Mrs. Skillicorn shook her head.

“Well,” I said, trying to rally. “There are two possibilities. Either the treasure is hidden here, in the actual grounds, or else it may be hidden anywhere on the Island. It depends on the bulk, of course.”

A sudden brain wave occurred to Fenella.

“You haven’t noticed anything missing?” she said. “Among my Uncle’s things, I mean?”

“Why, now, it’s odd your saying that—”

“You have, then?”

“As I say, it’s odd your saying that. Snuffboxes—there’s at least four of them I can’t lay my hand on anywhere.”

“Four of them!” cried Fenella, “that must be it! We’re on the track. Let’s go out in the garden and look about.”

“There’s nothing there,” said Mrs. Skillicorn. “I’d know if there were. Your Uncle couldn’t have buried anything in the garden without my knowing about it.”

“Points of the compass are mentioned,” I said. “The first thing we need is a map of the Island.”

“There’s one on that desk,” said Mrs. Skillicorn.

Fenella unfolded it eagerly. Something fluttered out as she did so. I caught it.

“Hullo,” I said. “This looks like a further clue.”

We both went over it eagerly.

It appeared to be a rude kind of map. There was a cross on it and a circle and a pointing arrow, and directions were roughly indicated, but it was hardly illuminating. We studied it in silence.

“It’s not very illuminating, is it?” said Fenella.

“Naturally it wants puzzling over,” I said. “We can’t expect it to leap to the eye.”

Mrs. Skillicorn interrupted with a suggestion of supper, to which we agreed thankfully.

“And could we have some coffee?” said Fenella. “Lots of it—very black.”

Mrs. Skillicorn provided us with an excellent meal, and at its conclusion a large jug of coffee made its appearance.

“And now,” said Fenella, “we must get down to it.”

“The first thing,” I said, “is direction. This seems to point clearly to the northeast of the Island.”

“It seems so. Let’s look at the map.”

We studied the map attentively.

“It all depends on how you take the thing,” said Fenella. “Does the cross represent the treasure? Or is it something like a church? There really ought to be rules!”

“That would make it too easy.”

“I suppose it would. Why are there little lines one side of the circle and not the other.”

“I don’t know.”

“Are there any more maps anywhere?”

We were sitting in the library. There were several excellent maps. There were also various guide books descriptive of the Island. There was a book on folklore. There was a book on the history of the Island. We read them all.

And at last we formed a possible theory.

“It does seem to fit,” said Fenella at last. “I mean the two together is a likely conjunction which doesn’t seem to occur anywhere else.”

“It’s worth trying, anyhow,” I said. “I don’t think we can do anything more tonight. Tomorrow, first thing, we’ll hire a car and go off and try our luck.”

“It’s tomorrow now,” said Fenella. “Half-past two! Just fancy!”

Early morning saw us on the road. We had hired a car for a week, arranging to drive it ourselves. Fenella’s spirits rose as we sped along the excellent road, mile after mile.

“If only it wasn’t for the other two, what fun this would be,” she said. “This is where the Derby was originally run, wasn’t it? Before it was changed to Epsom. How queer that is to think of!”

I drew her attention to a farmhouse.

“That must be where there is said to be a secret passage running under the sea to that island.”

“What fun! I love secret passages, don’t you? Oh! Juan, we’re getting quite near now. I’m terribly excited. If we should be right!”

Five minutes later we abandoned the car.

“Everything’s in the right position,” said Fenella, tremulously.

We walked on.

“Six of them—that’s right. Now between these two. Have you got the compass?”

Five minutes later, we were standing facing each other, an incredulous joy on our faces—and on my outstretched palm lay an antique snuffbox.

We had been successful!

On our return to Maughold House, Mrs. Skillicorn met us with the information that two gentlemen had arrived. One had departed again, but the other was in the library.

A tall, fair man, with a florid face, rose smilingly from an armchair as we entered the room.

“Mr. Faraker and Miss Mylecharane? Delighted to meet you. I am your distant cousin, Dr. Fayll. Amusing game all this, isn’t it?”

His manner was urbane and pleasant, but I took an immediate dislike to him. I felt that in some way the man was dangerous. His pleasant manner was, somehow, too pleasant, and his eyes never met yours fairly.

“I’m afraid we’ve got bad news for you,” I said. “Miss Mylecharane and myself have already discovered the first ‘treasure.’ ”

He took it very well.

“Too bad—too bad. Posts from here must be odd. Barford and I started at once.”

We did not dare to confess the perfidy of Uncle Myles.

“Anyway, we shall all start fair for the second round,” said Fenella.

“Splendid. What about getting down to the clues right away? Your excellent Mrs.—er—Skillicorn holds them, I believe?”

“That wouldn’t be fair to Mr. Corjeag,” said Fenella, quickly. “We must wait for him.”

“True, true—I had forgotten. We must get in touch with him as quickly as possible. I will see to that—you two must be tired out and want to rest.”

Thereupon he took his departure. Ewan Corjeag must have been unexpectedly difficult to find, for it was not till nearly eleven o’clock that night that Dr. Fayll rang up. He suggested that he and Ewan should come over to Maughold House at ten o’clock the following morning, when Mrs. Skillicorn could hand us out the clues.

“That will do splendidly,” said Fenella. “Ten o’clock tomorrow.”

We retired to bed tired but happy.

The following morning we were aroused by Mrs. Skillicorn, completely shaken out of her usual pessimistic calm.

“Whatever do you think?” she panted. “The house has been broken into.”

“Burglars?” I exclaimed, incredulously. “Has anything been taken?”

“Not a thing—and that’s the odd part of it! No doubt they were after the silver—but the door being locked on the outside they couldn’t get any further.”

Fenella and I accompanied her to the scene of the outrage, which happened to be in her own sitting room. The window there had undeniably been forced, yet nothing seemed to have been taken. It was all rather curious.

“I don’t see what they can have been looking for?” said Fenella.

“It’s not as though there were a ‘treasure chest’ hidden in the house,” I agreed facetiously. Suddenly an idea flashed into my mind. I turned to Mrs. Skillicorn. “The clues—the clues you were to give us this morning?”

“Why to be sure—they’re in that top drawer.” She went across to it. “Why—I do declare—there’s nothing here! They’re gone!”

“Not burglars,” I said. “Our esteemed relations!” And I remember Uncle Myles’s warning on the subject of unscrupulous dealing. Clearly he had known what he was talking about. A dirty trick!

“Hush,” said Fenella, suddenly, holding up a finger. “What was that?”

The sound she had caught came plainly to our ears. It was a groan and it came from outside. We went to the window and leaned out. There was a shrubbery growing against this side of the house and we could see nothing; but the groan came again, and we could see that the bushes seemed to have been disturbed and trampled.

We hurried down and out round the house. The first thing we found was a fallen ladder, showing how the thieves had reached the window. A few steps further brought us to where a man was lying.

He was a youngish man, dark, and he was evidently badly injured, for his head was lying in a pool of blood. I knelt down beside him.

“We must get a doctor at once. I’m afraid he’s dying.”

The gardener was sent off hurriedly. I slipped my hand into his breast pocket and brought out a pocket book. On it were the initials EC.

“Ewan Corjeag,” said Fenella.

The man’s eyes opened. He said, faintly: “Fell from ladder . . .” then lost consciousness again.

Close by his head was a large jagged stone stained with blood.

“It’s clear enough,” I said. “The ladder slipped and he fell, striking his head on this stone. I’m afraid it’s done for him, poor fellow.”

“So you think that was it?” said Fenella, in an odd tone of voice.

But at that moment the doctor arrived. He held out little hope of recovery. Ewan Corjeag was moved into the house and a nurse was sent for to take charge of him. Nothing could be done, and he would die a couple of hours later.

We had been sent for and were standing by his bed. His eyes opened and flickered.

“We are your cousins Juan and Fenella,” I said. “Is there anything we can do?”

He made a faint negative motion of the head. A whisper came from his lips. I bent to catch it.

“Do you want the clue? I’m done. Don’t let Fayll do you down.”

“Yes,” said Fenella. “Tell me.”

Something like a grin came over his face.

“D’ye ken—” he began.

Then suddenly his head fell over sideways and he died.

“I don’t like it,” said Fenella, suddenly.

“What don’t you like?”

“Listen, Juan. Ewan stole those clues—he admits falling from the ladder. Then where are they? We’ve seen all the contents of his pockets. There were three sealed envelopes, so Mrs. Skillicorn says. Those sealed envelopes aren’t there.”

“What do you think, then?”

“I think there was someone else there, someone who jerked away the ladder so that he fell. And that stone—he never fell on it—it was brought from some distance away—I’ve found the mark. He was deliberately bashed on the head with it.”

“But Fenella—that’s murder!”

“Yes,” said Fenella, very white. “It’s murder. Remember, Dr. Fayll never turned up at ten o’clock this morning. Where is he?”

“You think he’s the murderer?”

“Yes. You know—this treasure—it’s a lot of money, Juan.”

“And we’ve no idea where to look for him,” I said. “A pity Corjeag couldn’t have finished what he was going to say.”

“There’s one thing might help. This was in his hand.”

She handed me a torn snapshot.

“Suppose it’s a clue. The murderer snatched it away and never noticed he’d left a corner of it behind. If we were to find the other half—”

“To do that,” I said, “we must find the second treasure. Let’s look at this thing.”

“H’m,” I said, “there’s nothing much to go by. That seems a kind of tower in the middle of the circle, but it would be very hard to identify.”

Fenella nodded.

“Dr. Fayll has the important half. He knows where to look. We’ve got to find that man, Juan, and watch him. Of course, we won’t let him see we suspect.”

“I wonder whereabouts in the Island he is this minute. If we only knew—”

My mind went back to the dying man. Suddenly, I sat up excitedly.

“Fenella,” I said, “Corjeag wasn’t Scotch?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, then, don’t you see? What he meant, I mean?”

“No?”

I scribbled something on a piece of paper and tossed it to her.

“What’s this?”

“The name of a firm that might help us.”

“Bellman and True. Who are they? Lawyers?”

“No—they’re more in our line—private detectives.”

And I proceeded to explain.

“Dr. Fayll to see you,” said Mrs. Skillicorn.

We looked at each other. Twenty-four hours had elapsed. We had returned from our quest successful for the second time. Not wishing to draw attention to ourselves, we had journeyed in the Snaefell—a charabanc.

“I wonder if he knows we saw him in the distance?” murmured Fenella.

“It’s extraordinary. If it hadn’t been for the hint that photograph gave us—”

“Hush—and do be careful, Juan. He must be simply furious at our having outwitted him, in spite of everything.”

No trace of it appeared in the doctor’s manner, however. He entered the room his urbane and charming self, and I felt my faith in Fenella’s theory dwindling.

“What a shocking tragedy!” he said. “Poor Corjeag. I suppose he was—well—trying to steal a march on us. Retribution was swift. Well, well—we scarcely knew him, poor fellow. You must have wondered why I didn’t turn up this morning as arranged. I got a fake message—Corjeag’s doing, I suppose—it sent me off on a wild-goose chase right across the Island. And now you two have romped home again. How do you do it?”

There was a note of really eager inquiry in his voice which did not escape me.

“Cousin Ewan was fortunately able to speak just before he died,” said Fenella.

I was watching the man, and I could swear I saw alarm leap into his eyes at her words.

“Eh—eh? What’s that?” he said.

“He was just able to give us a clue as to the whereabouts of the treasure,” explained Fenella.

“Oh! I see—I see. I’ve been clean out of things—though, curiously enough, I myself was in that part of the Island. You may have seen me strolling round.”

“We were so busy,” said Fenella, apologetically.

“Of course, of course. You must have run across the thing more or less by accident. Lucky young people, aren’t you? Well, what’s the next programme? Will Mrs. Skillicorn oblige us with the new clues?”

But it seemed that this third set of clues had been deposited with the lawyers, and we all three repaired to the lawyer’s office, where the sealed envelopes were handed over to us.

The contents were simple. A map with a certain area marked off on it, and a paper of directions attached.

In ’85, this place made history.

Ten paces from the landmark to

The east, then an equal ten

Paces north. Stand there

Looking east. Two trees are in the

Line of vision. One of them

Was sacred in this island. Draw

A circle five feet from

The Spanish chestnut and,

With head bent, walk round. Look well. You’ll find.

“Looks as though we were going to tread on each other’s toes a bit today,” commented the doctor.

True to my policy of apparent friendliness, I offered him a lift in our car, which he accepted. We had lunch at Port Erin, and then started on our search.

I had debated in my own mind the reason of my uncle’s depositing this particular set of clues with his lawyer. Had he foreseen the possibility of a theft? And had he determined that not more than one set of clues should fall into the thief’s possession?

The treasure hunt this afternoon was not without its humour. The area of search was limited, and we were continually in sight of each other. We eyed each other suspiciously, each trying to determine whether the other was farther on or had had a brain wave.

“This is all part of Uncle Myles’s plan,” said Fenella. “He wanted us to watch each other and go through all the agonies of thinking the other person was getting there.”

“Come,” I said. “Let’s get down to it scientifically. We’ve got one definite clue to start on. ‘In ’85 this place made history.’ Look up the reference books we’ve got with us and see if we can’t hunt that down. Once we get that—”

“He’s looking in that hedge,” interrupted Fenella. “Oh! I can’t bear it. If he’s got it—”

“Attend to me,” I said firmly. “There’s really only one way to go about it—the proper way.”

“There are so few trees on the Island that it would be much simpler just to look for a chestnut tree!” said Fenella.

I pass over the next hour. We grew hot and despondent—and all the time we were tortured with fear that Fayll might be succeeding whilst we failed.

“I remember once reading in a detective story,” I said, “how a fellow stuck a paper of writing in a bath of acid—and all sorts of other words came out.”

“Do you think—but we haven’t got a bath of acid!”

“I don’t think Uncle Myles could expect expert chemical knowledge. But there’s common-or-garden heat—”

We slipped round the corner of a hedge and in a minute or two I had kindled a few twigs. I held the paper as close to the blaze as I dared. Almost at once I was rewarded by seeing characters begin to appear at the foot of the sheet. There were just two words.

“Kirkhill Station,” read out Fenella.

Just at that moment Fayll came round the corner. Whether he had heard or not we had no means of judging. He showed nothing.

“But, Juan,” said Fenella, when he moved away, “there isn’t a Kirkhill Station!” She held out the map as she spoke.

“No,” I said, examining it, “but look here.”

And with a pencil I drew a line on it.

“Of course! And somewhere on that line—”

“Exactly.”

“But I wish we knew the exact spot.”

It was then that my second brain wave came to me.

“We do!” I cried, and, seizing the pencil again, I said: “Look!”

Fenella uttered a cry.

“How idiotic!” she cried. “And how marvellous! What a sell! Really, Uncle Myles was a most ingenious old gentleman!”

The time had come for the last clue. This, the lawyer had informed us, was not in his keeping. It was to be posted to us on receipt of a postcard sent by him. He would impart no further information.

Nothing arrived, however, on the morning it should have done, and Fenella and I went through agonies, believing that Fayll had managed somehow to intercept our letter. The next day, however, our fears were calmed and the mystery explained when we received the following illiterate scrawl:

“Dear Sir or Madam,

Escuse delay but have been all sixes and sevens but i do now as mr. Mylecharane axed me to and send you the piece of riting wot as been in my family many long years the wot he wanted it for i do not know. thanking you i am

Mary Kerruish”

“Postmark—Bride,” I remarked. “Now for the ‘piece of riting handed down in my family’!”

Upon a rock, a sign you’ll see.

O, Tell me what the point of

That may be? Well, firstly, (A). Near

By you’ll find, quite suddenly, the light

You seek. Then (B). A house. A

Cottage with a thatch and wall.

A meandering lane near by. That’s all.

“It’s very unfair to begin with a rock,” said Fenella. “There are rocks everywhere. How can you tell which one has the sign on it?”

“If we could settle on the district,” I said, “it ought to be fairly easy to find the rock. It must have a mark on it pointing in a certain direction, and in that direction there will be something hidden which will throw light on the finding of the treasure.”

“I think you’re right,” said Fenella.

“That’s A. The new clue will give us a hint where B, the cottage, is to be found. The treasure itself is hidden down a lane alongside the cottage. But clearly we’ve got to find A first.”

Owing to the difficulty of the initial step, Uncle Myles’s last problem proved a real teaser. To Fenella falls the distinction of unravelling it—and even then she did not accomplish it for nearly a week. Now and then we had come across Fayll in our search of rocky districts, but the area was a wide one.

When we finally made our discovery it was late in the evening. Too late, I said, to start off to the place indicated. Fenella disagreed.

“Supposing Fayll finds it, too,” she said. “And we wait till tomorrow and he starts off tonight. How we should kick ourselves!”

Suddenly, a marvellous idea occurred to me.

“Fenella,” I said, “do you still believe that Fayll murdered Ewan Corjeag?”

“I do.”

“Then I think that now we’ve got our chance to bring the crime home to him.”

“That man makes me shiver. He’s bad all through. Tell me.”

“Advertise the fact that we’ve found A. Then start off. Ten to one he’ll follow us. It’s a lonely place—just what would suit his book. He’ll come out in the open if we pretend to find the treasure.”

“And then?”

“And then,” I said, “he’ll have a little surprise.”

It was close on midnight. We had left the car some distance away and were creeping along by the side of a wall. Fenella had a powerful flashlight which she was using. I myself carried a revolver. I was taking no chances.

Suddenly, with a low cry, Fenella stopped.

“Look, Juan,” she cried. “We’ve got it. At last.”

For a moment I was off my guard. Led by instinct I whirled round—but too late. Fayll stood six paces away and his revolver covered us both.

“Good evening,” he said. “This trick is mine. You’ll hand over that treasure, if you please.”

“Would you like me also to hand over something else?” I asked. “Half a snapshot torn from a dying man’s hand? You have the other half, I think.”

His hand wavered.

“What are you talking about?” he growled.

“The truth’s known,” I said. “You and Corjeag were there together. You pulled away the ladder and crashed his head with that stone. The police are cleverer than you imagine, Dr. Fayll.”

“They know, do they? Then, by Heaven, I’ll swing for three murders instead of one!”

“Drop, Fenella,” I screamed. And at the same minute his revolver barked loudly.

We had both dropped in the heather, and before he could fire again uniformed men sprang out from behind the wall where they had been hiding. A moment later Fayll had been handcuffed and led away.

I caught Fenella in my arms.

“I knew I was right,” she said tremulously.

“Darling!” I cried, “it was too risky. He might have shot you.”

“But he didn’t,” said Fenella. “And we know where the treasure is.”

“Do we?”

“I do. See—” she scribbled a word. “We’ll look for it tomorrow. There can’t be many hiding places there, I should say.”

It was just noon when:

“Eureka!” said Fenella, softly. “The fourth snuffbox. We’ve got them all. Uncle Myles would be pleased. And now—”

“Now,” I said, “we can be married and live together happily ever afterwards.”

“We’ll live in the Isle of Man,” said Fenella.

“On Manx Gold,” I said, and laughed aloud for sheer happiness.

About the Author

AGATHA CHRISTIE is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star Over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Under Dog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGinty’s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Man’s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Hallowe’en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertram’s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIE® THE HARLEQUIN TEA SET AND OTHER STORIES™ are registered trademarks of Agatha Christie Limited in the UK and elsewhere. All rights reserved.

“Manx Gold” was previously published as part of The Harlequin Tea Set and Other Stories short story collection, copyright © 1997 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition DECEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062302854

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