Best Kept Secret

carefully.’
    After Sir Alan had received the sixteen-page communiqué from Buenos Aires on his ticker tape machine, he’d spent the rest of the morning checking each paragraph carefully. He knew
that what he was looking for would be secreted among the reams of trivia about what Princess Margaret had been up to on her official visit to the city.
    He was puzzled about why the ambassador had invited Martinez to the royal garden party, and even more surprised to discover that he had been presented to Her Royal Highness. He assumed that
Matthews must have had a good reason for flouting protocol in this way, and hoped there wasn’t a photograph filed away in some newspaper cuttings library to remind everyone of the occasion at
some time in the future.
    It was just before midday when Sir Alan came across the paragraph he’d been searching for. He asked his secretary to cancel his lunch appointment.
    Her Royal Highness was gracious enough to bring me up to date on the result of the first Test match at Lord’s
, wrote the ambassador
. What a splendid effort by Captain Peter
May, and such a pity that he was run out unnecessarily at the last minute.
    Sir Alan looked up and smiled at Harry Clifton, who was also engrossed in the communiqué.
    I was delighted to learn that Arthur Barrington will be returning for the second Test in Southampton on Sunday 23rd June, because with a test average of just over 8, it could make all the
difference for England.
    Sir Alan had underlined the words Arthur, Sunday, Southampton, and the number 8, before he continued reading.
    However, I was puzzled when HRH told me that Tate would be a welcome edition at No. 5, but she assured me that no less a figure than John Rothenstein, the director of cricket, had told her,
which had me thinking.
    The cabinet secretary underlined Tate, No. 5, edition and Rothenstein, before he continued reading.
    I shall be returning to London in Auguste, well in time to see the last Test at Millbank, so let us hope by then we’ve won the series of nine. And, by the way, that particular pitch
will need a two-ton roller.
    This time Sir Alan had underlined Auguste, Millbank, nine and two-ton. He was beginning to wish he’d taken a greater interest in cricket when he was at Shrewsbury, but then he’d been
a wet bob, not a dry bob. However, as Sir Giles, who was sitting at the end of the table, had been awarded an Oxford cricket blue, he was confident that the intricacies of leather upon willow were
about to be explained to him.
    Sir Alan was pleased to see that everyone appeared to have finished reading the communiqué, although Mrs Clifton was still making notes.
    ‘I think I’ve worked out most of what our man in Buenos Aires is trying to tell us, but there are still one or two niceties that are eluding me. For example, I’ll need some
help on Arthur Barrington, because even I know the great Test batsman is called Ken.’
    ‘Sebastian’s middle name is Arthur,’ said Harry. ‘So I think we can assume that he will be arriving in Southampton on Sunday June the twenty-third, because Test matches
are never played on a Sunday, and there isn’t a Test ground at Southampton.’
    The cabinet secretary nodded.
    ‘And eight must be how many million pounds the ambassador thinks is involved,’ suggested Giles from the far end of the table, ‘because Ken Barrington’s Test average is
over fifty.’
    ‘Very good,’ said Sir Alan, making a note. ‘But I’m unable to explain why Matthews misspelt addition as edition, and August as Auguste.’
    ‘And Tate,’ said Giles. ‘Because Maurice Tate used to bat for England at number nine, certainly not number five.’
    ‘That also had me stumped,’ said Sir Alan, amused by his own little play on words. ‘But can anyone explain the two misspellings?’
    ‘I think I can,’ said Emma. ‘My daughter Jessica is an artist, and I remember her telling me that many sculptors cast nine editions of their work, which are then stamped and
numbered. And the spelling of Auguste hints at the identity of the artist.’
    ‘I’m still none the wiser,’ said Sir Alan, and from the expressions around the table, it was clear that he was not alone.
    ‘It has to be Renoir or Rodin,’ said Emma. ‘And as it wouldn’t be possible to conceal eight million pounds in an oil painting, I suspect you’ll find it’s been
hidden in a two-ton sculpture by Auguste Rodin.’
    ‘And is he hinting that Sir John Rothenstein, the