treasure. Half a sec, though. What did you read out just now, when we were going through the box? Something about a recipe for New Potatoes. I wonder whether there’s anything in that.”
He rummaged hastily through the pile of recipes.
“Here it is. ‘ To Keep New Potatoes . Put the new potatoes into tins and bury them in the garden. Even in the middle of winter, they will taste as though freshly dug.’ ”
“We’ve got it,” screamed Tuppence. “That’s it. The treasure is in the garden, buried in a tin.”
“But I asked the gardener. He said he’d never buried anything.”
“Yes, I know, but that’s because people never really answer what you say, they answer what they think you mean. He knew he’d never buried anything out of the common. We’ll go tomorrow and ask him where he buried the potatoes.”
The following morning was Christmas Eve. By dint of inquiry they found the old gardener’s cottage. Tuppence broached the subject after some minutes’ conversation.
“I wish one could have new potatoes at Christmas time,” she remarked. “Wouldn’t they be good with turkey? Do people round here ever bury them in tins? I’ve heard that keeps them fresh.”
“Ay, that they do,” declared the old man. “Old Miss Deane, up to the Red House, she allus had three tins buried every summer, and as often as not forgot to have ’em dug up again!”
“In the bed by the house, as a rule, didn’t she?”
“No, over against the wall by the fir tree.”