Chapter Twenty Six
Face to Face
“I’d much like to know what your business is ’ere?” demanded the coarse-featured fellow, whose grey bowler hat and gaiters gave him a distinctly horsey appearance. And as he stood in the doorway, he folded his arms defiantly and looked me straight in the face.
“My business is my own affair,” I answered, facing him in disgust.
“If it concerns my wife, I have a right to know,” he persisted.
“Your wife!” I cried, advancing towards him, with difficulty repressing the strong impulse within me to knock the young ruffian down. “Don’t call her your wife, fellow! Call her by her true name – your victim!”
“Do you mean that as an insult?” he exclaimed quickly, his face turning white with sudden anger, whereupon Mabel, seeing his threatening attitude, sprang between us and begged me to be calm.
“There are some men whom no words can insult,” I replied forcibly. “And you are one of them.”
“What do you mean?” he cried. “Do you wish to pick a quarrel?” and he came forward with clenched fists.
“I desire no quarrel,” was my quick response. “I only order you to leave this lady in peace. She may be legally your wife, but I will stand as her protector.”
“Oh!” he sneered, with curling lip. “And I’d like to know by what right you interfere between us?”
“By the common right every man has to shield an unprotected and persecuted woman,” I replied, firmly. “I know you, and am well aware of your shameful past. Shall I recall one incident, that, now you attempt to defy me, you appear to have conveniently forgotten? Do you not recollect a certain night in the park at Mayvill not so very long ago, and do you not recollect that you there attempted to commit a foul and brutal murder – eh?”
He started quickly, then glared at me with the fire of a murderous hatred in his eyes.
“She’s told you, damn her! She’s given me away!” he exclaimed, with a contemptuous glance at his trembling wife.
“No, she has not,” was my response. “I myself chanced to be witness of your dastardly attempt upon her. It was I who succeeded in rescuing her from the river. For that action of yours you must now answer to me.”
“What do you mean?” he inquired, and from the lines in his countenance I saw that my outspoken manner caused him considerable uneasiness.
“I mean that it is not for you to attempt defiance, having regard to the fact that, had it not been for the fortunate circumstance of my presence in the park, you would to-day be a murderer.”
He shrank at that final word. Like all his class, he was arrogant and overbearing to the weak, but as easily cowed by firmness as a dog who cringes at his master’s voice.
“And now,” I continued, “I may as well tell you that, on the night when you would have killed this poor woman who is your victim, I also overheard your demands. You are a blackmailer – the meanest and worst type of criminal humanity – and you seem to have forgotten that there is a severe and stringent law against such an offence as yours. You demanded money by threats, and on refusal made a desperate endeavour to take your wife’s life. In the assize court the evidence I could give against you would put you into a term of penal servitude – you understand? Therefore I’ll make this compact with you; if you will promise not to molest your wife further, I will remain silent.”
“And who the deuce are you, pray, to talk to me in this manner – like a gaol chaplain on his weekly round!”
“You’d better keep a civil tongue, fellow, and just reflect upon my words,” I said. “I’m no man for argument. I act.”
“Act just as you like. I shall do as I think proper – you hear?”
“And you’ll take the risk? Very well,” I said. “You know the worst – prison.”
“And you don’t,” he laughed. “Otherwise you wouldn’t talk like a silly idiot. Mabel is my wife, and you’ve no say in the matter, so that’s enough for you,” he added insultingly. “Instead of trying to threaten me, it is I who have a right to demand why I find you here – with her.”
“I’ll tell you!” I cried angrily, my hands itching to give the impudent young blackguard a sound good hiding. “I’m here to protect her, because she is in fear of her life. And I shall remain here until you have gone.”
“But I’m her husband, therefore I shall stay,” sneered the fellow, perfectly unmoved.
“Then she leaves with me,” I said decisively.
“I’ll not allow that.”
“You will act just as I think proper,” I exclaimed. Then, turning to Mabel, who had remained white, silent and trembling, in fear lest we should come to blows, I said, “Put on your hat and coat at once. You must return to London with me.”
“She shall not!” he cried, unflinchingly. “If my curses could blast yer you’d have ’em thick.”
“Mabel,” I said, taking no notice of the ruffian’s words, but drawing back to allow her to pass out, “please get your coat. I have a fly waiting outside.”
The fellow made a movement as though to prevent her leaving the room, but in an instant my hand was heavily upon his shoulder, and by my face he saw that I was strong and determined.
“You’ll repent this!” he hissed threateningly, with an imprecation, between his teeth. “I know what you are searching for – but,” he laughed, “you’ll never obtain that secret which gave Blair his millions. You think you’ve a clue to it, but before long you’ll discover your mistake.”
“In what?”
“In not uniting with me, instead of insulting me.”
“I have no necessity for the assistance of any man who would kill a helpless woman,” I responded. “Recollect that in this affair you hold aloof from her, or, by Gad! without further ado, I’ll seek the aid of the police, when your past history will prove rather unwelcome evidence of character.”
“Do what you like,” he laughed again defiantly. “By giving me over to the police you’ll only be doing her the worst turn possible. If you doubt me, you’d better ask her. Be careful how you act before you make a fool of yourself and a victim of her.” And with this harsh, hollow sneer he threw himself into the armchair and placed his feet on the fender in an attitude of carelessness and calmly lit a cheap, rank cigar.
“There will be only one sufferer, never fear,” I said meaningly. “And that will be yourself.”
“All right,” he said, “we shall see.”
Then turning I left the room, and meeting Mabel, who stood ready dressed in the hall, whispering a hurried adieu to Bessie Wood, her old schoolfellow, I hurried her out, put her into the station fly, and drove with her back to Chipping Norton.
Even then, however, I could not understand the exact position of that young ruffian, Herbert Hales, or the true meaning of his final ominous words of open defiance.
For the present I had rescued my love from the arrogant, cold-blooded brute and blackmailer, but for how brief a space I dreaded to anticipate. My own position, utterly in the dark as I remained, was one of uncertainty and insecurity. I loved Mabel, but now had no right to do so. She was already the wife, alas! the victim, of a man of low type and of criminal instinct.
Our journey up to Paddington was uneventful, and in almost complete silence. Both our hearts, beating sadly, were too full for mere words. The insurmountable barrier had fallen between us; we were both grief-stricken and heart-broken. The hopeful past had ended, the future was one of dull and dark despair.
On arrival in London she expressed a desire to see Mrs Percival, and as she declined to return beneath the same roof as Dawson, I took her to the York Hotel in Albemarle Street, then, re-entering the cab, I drove to Grosvenor Square, where I informed the chaperon of my lost love’s whereabouts.
Not an instant did Mrs Percival delay in seeking her, and at midnight, accompanied by Reggie, I called again at the hotel, giving her certain injunctions to refuse to see her husband, even if he discovered her, and taking a lingering farewell of her, as we had arranged to leave Charing Cross for Italy by the mail at nine o’clock on the following morning.
Both Reggie and I had arrived at the conclusion that, now I was sufficiently recovered to travel, we should not lose an instant in going out to Tuscany, and investigating the truth regarding that cipher record.
So she bade us both farewell, and urging us not to worry further upon her account, although we did not fail to detect her wild anxiety as to the result of my defiance of her ruffianly husband, she wished us all good fortune and Godspeed in the exciting venture we were about to undertake, with success and a safe return.
Chapter Twenty Seven
The Directions of His Eminence
The green, winding valley of the Serchio looks its brightest and best in the month of May the time of flowers in old-world Italy. Far removed from the great routes over which the English, Americans and Germans swarm in winter, unvisited, unknown and unexplored by any save the simple contadini of the hills, the rippling river winds with tortuous bends around sharp angles and beneath overhanging trees, great cliffs and huge grey boulders worn smooth by the action of the water of ages. In those lonely reaches of the river as it dashes on with many cascades from the giant Apennines to the sea, the brilliant kingfisher and the stately heron are in possession, and live their lives undisturbed by human intrusion. As we walked on, having left the carriage that had brought us up from Lucca at the quaint mediaeval bridge called the Ponte del Diavolo, the rural, quiet and picturesque beauty of the scene became impressed upon us. The silence was unbroken, save for the hum of the myriad insects in the sun, and the low music of the water which at that point is shallow, running over its rocky bed.
On arrival at the Universo in Lucca, my first impulse was to go up to the monastery and see Fra Antonio. Yet so intimate did he appear to be with Blair’s partner, the ex-boatswain Dawson, that we resolved to first explore the spot and take some observations. Therefore at eight that morning we had entered one of those dusty old travelling Tuscan carriages, the horses of which bore many jingling bells, and now, as noon was approaching, we found ourselves on the left bank of the river, counting the four hundred and fifty-six foot-paces as directed by the secret record upon the cards.
To avoid being watched by our driver, to whom we had given instructions to go back to a little wayside trattoria, or eating-house, which we had passed, but who we knew would endeavour to secretly watch our movements, we were at first compelled, on account of the absence of a path, to make a détour through a small wood, rejoining the river bank at some distance further up.
Therefore, as we reached the water, standing amid the high undergrowth that grew upon the banks, we could only look back at the bridge and guess that we were about one hundred foot-paces from it.
Then, tramping steadily forward in single file we pushed our way with difficulty through the tall grass, briars, giant ferns and tangled creepers, slowly onward towards the spot indicated. In places the trees met overhead, and the sun shining through the foliage struck the rippling water with pretty effect.
According to the record the spot must be in the open, for the sun shone upon it for one hour at noon on the fifth of April and for two hours on the fifth of May. It was now the nineteenth of May, therefore the duration of the sunshine would, we roughly calculated, be about a quarter of an hour longer.
In some places the river was open to the sun, while in others, so high were the banks on either side, the light could never penetrate there. From the crevices of the overhanging rocks, mountain pines and other trees had taken root and grown to huge size, bending over until their branches almost swept the stream, while our progress was made slower and more difficult by the unevenness of the bank and the wild tangle of the undergrowth.
One fact was proved – no one had approached the spot for a considerable time, for we found not a twig severed or a leaf disturbed by previous intruders.
At last, after we had climbed high along a rocky cliff that descended sheer into the water, and had calculated four hundred and twenty steps from the old pointed bridge, we suddenly rounded a bend in the river and came upon a space where the stream, still a hundred feet or so below, broadened out, so that it lay open to the sky for forty yards or so.
“It must be here!” I cried in eager anticipation, halting and quickly surveying the spot. “The directions are to descend twenty-four foot-holes. I suppose that means steps cut in the rock. We must find them.” And both of us began to search eagerly, but in that tangled growth we could discover no trace of them.
“The record says that we go down behind where a man can hold himself against four hundred,” exclaimed Reggie, reading from a copy of the transcript which he took from his pocket. “That appears as if the entry is in some narrow crevice between two rocks. Do you see any such likely spot?”
I looked eagerly around but was compelled to admit that I discerned nothing that coincided with the description.
So sheer was the grey limestone cliff, going down to the water, that I approached its edge with caution and then, throwing myself upon my stomach, I crept forward and peered over its insecure edge. In doing so a huge piece of rock became loosened and fell with a roar and splash into the stream.
I took careful observations, but could distinguish absolutely nothing to correspond with what the old outlaw, Poldo Pensi, had recorded.
For a full half-hour we searched in vain, until it became plain that, as we had not measured accurately the foot-paces from the Devil’s Bridge, we were not at the exact spot. We therefore retraced our steps slowly and laboriously through the tangled briars and undergrowth, our clothes suffering considerably, and then restarted from the actual base of the bridge. So completely had we been out of reckoning that at the three hundred and eighty-seventh pace we passed the spot where we had made such minute search, and continuing our way forward we halted at the four hundred and fifty-sixth foot-pace in the top of a high encampment very similar to the other, only wilder and even more inaccessible.
“There seems nothing here,” remarked Reggie, whose face was torn by brambles and was bleeding.
I gazed around and was reluctantly compelled to endorse his statement. The trees were large and shady where we stood, some of them overhanging the deep chasm through which the river wound. Cautiously, we both crept forward, flat upon our stomachs, to the edge of the cliff, taking that precaution as we knew not whether the edge might be rotten, and presently we peered over.
“Why, look!” cried my friend, pointing to a spot about half-way down the deep swirling stream as it came round the sudden bend, “there’s steps and a path leading down just a little higher up. And see! what’s that?”
Chapter Twenty Eight
Describes a Startling Discovery
I looked and saw that upon a kind of natural platform on the rock was built a small stone hut, upon the grey-tiled roof of which we were gazing down.
“Yes, there are the ‘twenty-four foot-holes’ mentioned in the record, no doubt,” I said. “I wonder if anybody lives down there.”
“Well, let’s descend and investigate,” suggested Reggie anxiously, and a few moments later we had struck a narrow track leading from the chestnut wood direct to the roughly-cut steps that went down to a narrow opening between two rocks. Upon the right hand one we found deeply graven an old-fashioned capital E, about a foot long, and passing by it we saw that a rough and perilous track led zigzag down to the small hut, the closed door and small barred window of which caused us the wildest curiosity as to what was within.
Next moment, however, the truth was plain. The front of the little place was pointed, and upon the apex was a small stone cross.
It was a hermit’s cell, like so many similar ancient places of retreat and contemplation in old-world Italy, and an instant later, as we passed the rocks and came cautiously down the path, the door opened, and there issued forth the hermit himself, who, to my surprise, I recognised as no other person than the burly, dark-bearded monk, Antonio!
“Gentlemen,” he exclaimed, speaking in Italian, as he greeted us, “this is certainly an unexpected meeting,” and he indicated the stone bench that ran along the outside of the low little hut, which I saw was so cunningly concealed by the overhanging trees as to be invisible either from the river or from the opposite bank. As we seated ourselves at his direction, he hitched up his faded brown habit beneath his waist-cord and himself sat down beside us.
I expressed surprise at finding him there, but he only smiled, saying —
“You are disappointed at discovering nothing else – eh?”
“We expected to reveal the secret of the Cardinal Sannini,” was my frank response, well knowing that he was in possession of the truth, and suspecting that, with the one-eyed Englishman, he had been partner with Blair.
The monk’s strongly-marked, sunburnt features assumed a puzzled expression, for he saw that we had gained some knowledge, yet he hesitated to make inquiry lest he should betray himself. Capuchins, like Jesuits, are wonderful diplomatists. Doubtless, the monk’s personal fascination was somewhat due to his splendid presence. A man of fine physique, he had a handsome, open face, with clean-cut, powerful features, softened by eyes in which seemed the light of perpetual youth, with a candid, unassuming expression, brightened by a twinkling humour about the lips.
“You have recovered the record, then,” he remarked at last, looking straight into my face.
“Yes, and having read it,” I answered, “I am here to investigate and claim the secret bequeathed to me.”
He drew a long breath, glanced for an instant at both of us, and his shaggy black brows contracted. It was hot where we sat, for the brilliant Italian sun beat straight down upon us, therefore, without replying to me, he rose and invited us into his cool little cell, a square bare room with boarded floor, the furniture consisting of a low, old-fashioned wooden bedstead, with a piece of old brown blanket for coverlet, a Renaissance prie-dieu in old carved oak, black with age, a chair, a hanging lamp, and upon the wall a great crucifix.
“Well, and the Signor Dawson?” he asked at last, when Reggie had seated himself on the edge of the bed, and I had taken the chair. “What does he say?”
“I have no necessity to ask his opinion,” I responded quickly. “By law the Cardinal’s secret is mine, and no one can dispute it.”
“Except its present holder,” was his quiet remark.
“Its present holder has no right to it. Burton Blair has made gift of it to me, and it is therefore mine,” I declared.
“I do not dispute that,” answered the dark-faced monk. “But as guardian of the Cardinal’s secret, I have a right to know the manner in which the record upon the cards came into your hands, and how you gained the key to the cipher.”
I related to him exactly what he wished to ascertain, whereupon he answered —
“You have certainly succeeded where I anticipated that you would fail, and your presence here to-day surprises me. Apparently you have overcome every obstacle, and are now here to claim from me what is undoubtedly yours by right.” He seemed fair-minded, yet I confess I was loth to trust men of his stamp very far, and was therefore still suspicious.
“Before we go further, however,” he said, standing with his hands in the wide sleeves of his habit, “I would ask whether it is your intention to continue the methods of the Signor Blair, who allotted one-eighth part of the money derived from the secret to our Order of Capuchins?”
“Certainly,” I answered, rather surprised. “My desire is to regard in every particular my dead friend’s obligations.”
“Then that is a promise,” he said with some eagerness. “You make that solemnly – you take an oath? Raise your hand!” And he pointed to the great crucifix upon the white-washed wall.
I raised my hand and exclaimed —
“I swear to act as Burton Blair has acted.”
“Very well,” answered the monk, apparently satisfied that I was a man of honour. “Then I suppose the secret, strange as it will strike you, must now be revealed to you. Think, Signore, at this moment you are a comparatively poor man, yet in half an hour you will be rich beyond your wildest dreams – worth millions, just as Burton Blair became.”
I listened to him, scarcely believing my ears. Yet what was the possession of riches to me, now that I had lost my love?
From a little cupboard he took a small, rusty old hurricane lamp, and carefully lit it, while we both watched with breathless interest. Then he closed the door and securely locked and barred it, afterwards placing the shutters to the iron-barred window, so that we were quickly in darkness. Was some supernatural illusion about to be shown us? We stood open-mouthed in expectation.
A moment later he dragged his low ponderous bedstead away from the corner, where we saw that in the floor was a cunningly-concealed trap-door, which, on being lifted, disclosed a deep, dark, well-like hole beneath.
“Be careful,” he cautioned us, “the steps are rather difficult in places,” and holding the lantern he soon disappeared, leaving us to follow him down a roughly-hewn spiral flight of foot-holes in the stone, deeper and deeper into the solid rock, damp and slimy in places where the water percolated through and fell in loudly-sounding drops.
“Bend low!” ordered our guide, and we saw the faint glimmer of this lamp lighting our path along a narrow, tortuous burrow which ran away at right angles and sloped down still further into the heart of the cliff. In places we went through a veritable quagmire of mud and slime, while the close atmosphere smelt foul and earthy.
Suddenly we emerged into a great opening, the dimensions of which we could not ascertain with that one single glimmering light.
“These caverns run for miles,” explained the monk. “The galleries run in all directions right under the city of Lucca and over towards the Arno. They have never been explored. Listen!”
In the weird darkness we heard the distant roaring of tumbling waters far away.
“That is the subterranean river, the stream that divides the secret from all men save yourself,” he said. Then he went forward again, keeping along one side of the gigantic cavern through which we were passing, and we followed, approaching nearer those thundering waters, until at last he told us to halt, and appeared to be examining the rough walls upon which shone great glittering stalactites.
Presently he found a large white mark similar to the letter E on the rock upon the cliff-side, and placed his lantern on the floor.
“Don’t move another step forward,” he said. Then he produced from a hole, where it appeared to be well hidden, a long, roughly-made footbridge, consisting of a single plank, with a light handrail on each side. This he pushed before him while I held the lantern, until he came to the edge of a deep chasm and then bridged it across so that we could pass over.
When in the centre, he held aloft the lantern, and as we peered down a hundred feet we shuddered to see, deep down in the chasm, the rushing flood of black water roaring away into the bowels of the earth, a terrible trap to those who ventured to explore that weird, dank place.
Having passed safely over we again skirted a wall of rock to the right, traversed a long, narrow tunnel and at last emerged into another open space, of the dimensions of which we could gather no idea.
Here the monk set down his lantern in a niche wherein stood several candles stuck upon rude boards and secured between three nails. When they were lit and our eyes grew accustomed to the light, we saw that the chamber was not a large one, but that it was long, narrow and somewhat drier than the rest.
“See!” exclaimed the Capuchin, with a wave of his hand. “It is all there, Signor Greenwood, and all yours.”
Then I realised to my utter amazement that around the walls of the place, piled high, one on the other, were sacks of untanned hide filled to bursting. One pile close to my hand I touched, and found that what was within them was hard, angular and unyielding. There were many small, old-fashioned chests which, from their strong appearance, banded with rusted iron and studded with nails, must, I knew, contain the mysterious riches that raised Burton Blair from homeless wayfarer to millionaire.
“Why, surely this is an actual hoard of treasure!” I cried.
“Yes,” answered Fra Antonio in his deep, bass voice. “The hidden treasure of the Vatican. See,” he added, “it is all here except that portion taken out by the Signor Blair,” and opening one of the massive chests, he held his lantern above and displayed such a miscellaneous collection of golden chalices, monstrances, patens, jewel-embroidered vestments and magnificent gems, such as had never before dazzled my eyes.
Both Reggie and I stood utterly dumbfounded. At first I seemed to be living in some fairy world of legend and romance, but when a moment later the rugged, bearded face of the Capuchin recalled to me all the past, I stood open-mouthed in wonder.
The secret of Burton Blair was disclosed – and the secret was now mine!
“Ah!” exclaimed the monk, laughing, “no doubt this revelation is, to you, an amazing one. Did I not, however, promise you that in half an hour you would become many times over a millionaire?”
“Yes; but tell me the history of all this great wealth,” I urged, for he had cut open one or two of the leathern bags, and I saw that each of them was filled with gold and gems mostly set in crucifixes and ornaments of an ecclesiastical character.