The Cutting Edge (Lincoln Rhyme #14)(60)

“Helpful,” Rhyme said. And he had a thought of how to best use the information. An idea occurred. He typed out a text and sent it on its way.

The reply arrived almost immediately, proposing a time for a phone call.

Rhyme texted, K, and then said to Cooper, “Mel, write up what Edward found, on the boards, could you?”

Cooper walked to the evidence board and added the new information about Unsub 47 to the list.

A phone hummed and Rhyme watched Ackroyd as he looked at the screen of his iPhone and frowned. Then he typed something in response. There was apparently another exchange. His frown deepened. He looked off, thoughtfully.

The Englishman was aware of Rhyme’s gaze and smiled. “Not about the case. Bit silly, this. Back in London, I’m on a competitive crossword puzzle team. Have you ever done them?”

Seemed like an utter waste of time but Rhyme said only, “No.”

Ackroyd walked close and held the mobile for Rhyme to see. A look at the screen revealed the familiar grid. Some of the blanks were filled in.

“My husband and I…” A moment’s hesitation, then continuing: “He’s on the faculty at Oxford. He and I and two other professors, from Cambridge, are on the team. We’re the Oxbridge Four. Silly, I was saying. But Terrance—that’s my husband—thinks a puzzle helps you stay on your game. His father was a die-hard fan. He did one a day—often the diagramless ones: without the black square telling where the words start and stop. Terrance’s convinced that they kept Dad sharp till the day he died.”

“You competing now?” Rhyme nodded to the phone.

“Oh, no, we’ll have to wait on the tournaments until I’m back home. They’re held in proper venues. Like chess matches. Supervised. So there’ll be no cheating: dictionaries, the Internet. There’ve been scandals, I will tell you. Quite the controversies.” He regarded the screen. “This’s just a way for us to stay in touch. We compete mostly with cryptic crosswords. You familiar?”

“Not really.”

That is, not at all.

“They’re largely a British creation and have appeared in our newspapers for hundreds of years. The creators—we call them ‘setters’ in cryptic crosswords—have a nearly mythical status. They go by one-word pseudonyms like Scorpion or Nestor—two quite famous ones, by the way. The most famous and the one who wrote the rules on cryptics is Derrick Somerset Macnutt, who went by Ximenes.

“Let me explain how they work—you might enjoy this, Lincoln. Cryptics have a grid, similar to regular crosswords, but the clues are word puzzles you have to solve to get the answer, as opposed to just a straightforward clue like ‘wife of George the Third.’ The best setters create clues which are both bloody complicated and absurdly simple.”

Ackroyd’s enthusiasm radiated from his otherwise staid face.

“Now, the clue’s a puzzle, remember. It contains a definition of the answer and other words or phrases to guide you, including letting you know what kind of puzzle it is: Maybe you have to solve an anagram, find a hidden or reversed word, work out what sound-alike words—homophones—mean.” He laughed. “I’m sure this makes no sense. Let me give you an example. Here’s a classic from the Guardian a few years ago, created by a setter named Shed. I’ll write it down because it’s much easier to find the answer by seeing, rather than hearing.”

Ackroyd jotted:

Very sad unfinished story about rising smoke (8)



“Now, the answer will appear on the crossword grid at fifteen down. All right? Good. Let’s get to work. What are we trying to find? See the number eight? That means the answer is an eight-letter word. And the first two words in the clue are the definition of that answer. So, what we need to write on the crossword grid at fifteen down is an eight-letter word meaning ‘very sad.’”

Rhyme had slipped his impatience away and was paying attention. Mel Cooper too had turned and was listening.

Ackroyd continued, “The next word, ‘unfinished,’ modifies the word after it. ‘Unfinished story.’ With cryptics you’re always mistrusting the literal. If the setter says ‘story,’ he means something else, possibly a synonym for ‘story.’” Ackroyd smiled again. “Obviously, I know the answer so I’m short-circuiting the process a bit. I’ll pick the synonym ‘tale.’ And ‘unfinished’ means the last letter is missing. That gives us the letters ‘T-A-L.’ So part of the answer for the clue ‘very sad’ are those letters. You with me?”

“Yes,” Rhyme said, his mind already trying to process the remaining clues.

Cooper said uncertainly, “Uhm, keep going.”

“Let’s go to the last words in the clue, ‘rising smoke.’ That could be any number of things but—trial and error again, and given my foreknowledge—let’s settle on ‘cigar.’ And since this clue is fifteen down, that means ‘rising’ would find the word written backwards: ‘ragic.’ So another part of our answer is the letters ‘R-A-G-I-C.’ Finally—”

Rhyme blurted, “The word ‘about’ means that the letters in one of the clues would be split and put on either side of another clue.”

Cooper said, “If you say so.”

Ackroyd said, with a grin, “No, no, he’s onto it. Brilliant, Lincoln. What’re your thoughts?”