Chapter Thirty Six
Shows the Actual Spot at Crowland
The words, badly faded by the action of the water which had apparently got into the casket during its years of submersion, we made out as follows:
“Ye who hast dared to learn this secret may ye benefit greatly by it. Know ye now also that ye may discover the treasure of our good abbot John of Croylande by means only of this plan I have hereunto drawn.
“Godfrey Lovel, sometime monk at Croylande.”
Below was a rough plan similar to those in The Closed Book, but which needed no second glance to show the exact spot where the abbey treasure lay hidden.
“See?” I cried excitedly. “The secret is at last revealed to us! What is written in The Closed Book was only in order to mislead any curious person who attempted to search. The truth was deposited in this casket by Godfrey before he left Scotland.”
And my three companions bent eagerly, and for themselves slowly deciphered the words after I had repeated them aloud to make certain of no misreading.
“Well, our next step is undoubtedly to go down to Crowland,” Fred remarked. “Let’s get the treasure first, and clear up the mystery afterwards.”
“Certainly,” we agreed in chorus, and then, after placing the Borgia jewels in Fred’s iron safe, we all smoked and discussed our future plans, finally deciding to go up to London again in the morning, as Crowland could be more easily reached from King’s Cross than from Scotland.
Next night, therefore, we arrived in town, Fred and Sammy putting up at the Euston Hotel, and I going home with Walter as his guest. On the morning after our arrival I deemed it wise to pack up the Borgia treasures, all save the poison-ring, the tiny crystal bottle, and the antidote, and deposit them with my banker’s manager, just as I had already placed The Closed Book in safe keeping.
The historic ring that had dealt death so frequently and had enabled the House of Borgia to become the most powerful in Europe, I put with the little bottle in the old velvet-lined jewel case and placed them aside in a drawer in Walter’s writing-table, intending later to take them down to Professor Fairbairn at the British Museum.
Fred Fenwicke had some pressing affairs to attend to in London, therefore it had been arranged not to go to Crowland till the following day.
We were much puzzled regarding the whereabouts of Glenelg and the hunchback, and also wondered whether Selby still remained a prisoner at Threave. The loaded weapon upon him proved that he intended mischief, therefore neither of us expressed much regret at leaving him in such evil case. The silence of his companions was, however, ominous.
While I had been down at the bank Walter had strolled round to Harpur Street, only to find the house still closed. Of Judith’s whereabouts I knew nothing. She had disappeared. Through those weeks I had been living in alarm and dread. Scarcely a day passed without some puzzling incident, and I longed to see my love again and hear a full and frank explanation from her.
I recollected how, when we had parted outside the town of Castle-Douglas, I lingered there speaking gently, making a thousand promises at which she smiled. At last it became imprudent for us to tarry there longer, and as we stood to bid each other farewell, face to face, I saw her eyelids quiver. And then I did not dare to seek her lips.
Yet it was all so strange, so mysterious, such an utter enigma, that I had become overwhelmed by fear and suspicion, bewildered, staggered, and aghast.
I idled away the morning, and about noon I received a note from the woman Bardi, in response to the letter I had sent her, making an appointment to meet me under the clock at Charing Cross Station at three o’clock. I was there to time, and found the dark, neatly dressed figure awaiting me, just as strange, just as mysterious as before.
We walked together down Whitehall and across St. James’s Park, chatting affably in Italian. I put to her a number of questions, but gathered little in response. Her motive puzzled me, for she neither assisted me nor repeated her words of warning.
“I am returning to Italy soon,” she told me. “I suppose you have made up your mind to live here in England in future?”
I responded in the affirmative; and then, halting in the quiet path beside the lake, I tried to obtain from her the identity of the person who induced her to steal my Arnoldus, but she steadily refused to tell me anything.
Just before five o’clock, after giving her tea at Blanchard’s, I took my leave of her, more than ever puzzled. She had fenced with every question, and with the exception of giving me to understand that Judith Gordon was not my friend, she had really told me nothing. Therefore, I resolved to trouble myself no further about her in future. The woman had been proved to be a thief, and therefore unreliable. Yet my sole aim now was to get at the meaning of the bear cub in the window, and the actual motive of the remarkable conspiracy.
On entering the hall in Dover Street I ascended the stairs to the second floor and rang at the door of Walter’s cozy flat. There was no response, and at first it struck me that the faithful Thompson had gone out upon some errand in the immediate neighbourhood. I pressed the electric bell again and again, but there was no sign of life within. Of a sudden, however, I recollected that Walter had that morning given me a latch-key, and taking it from my pocket I let myself in; but judge my dismay when in the small hall quite close to the door I found the white-haired old valet lying half doubled on the carpet, motionless as one dead.
My first idea was that he might be intoxicated; but on bending over him, and drawing his face into the light, I saw that its pallor was deathlike. He seemed to be in a sound sleep.
Then glancing into the sitting-room at the farther end of the passage, I noticed that the drawers of Walter’s writing-table had been broken open and turned hurriedly out on to the floor. The truth next instant was apparent. The old valet had been rendered insensible by callers during our absence, and the place had been ransacked.
I dashed on into the room, and went to the drawer wherein I had placed the ancient jewel case with its strange contents, but found it empty. The ring and the poison had been taken; but what was infinitely worse was that I had left in the cover of the case, where it had been concealed all these years, the plan of the hiding-place of the treasure at Crowland!
I was beside myself with anger and chagrin. Our enemies had ingeniously outwitted us, after all, for that female accomplice had held me in conversation purposely while the search was made, thus showing that they were well acquainted with our success at Threave.
Yet when Walter had locked the box safely in his drawer with the key upon his chain. I had never dreamed that a bold attempt would thus be made to obtain it. Ingenious it was, for, as was afterwards proved, Wyman himself had been called by an urgent telegram to Richmond, which turned out to be fictitious.
At first I was so aghast that I knew not how to act; but, obtaining the assistance of the young valet in service in the flat below, I succeeded at last in getting Thompson round and hearing his story, which was to the effect that about half-past three o’clock two men called, one of them short and the other clean-shaven, tall, and powerful. They inquired for Captain Wyman, and entered the hall on pretext of writing a message on a card. The instant, however, that old Thompson turned his back a handkerchief was clapped over his face and held there tightly until in a few moments he lapsed into unconsciousness.
The description of one man tallied with that of Selby; but the other, who had thin, sandy whiskers, was unknown to me.
As soon, however, as Thompson felt a trifle better, and began to inspect the disorder caused by the intruders, I ran downstairs and telephoned to Fred at the Euston Hotel. The Major was not in; but Bailey, the hall porter, who answered me, promised to give my message to Major Fenwicke or to Captain Waldron, whichever of the two should be first to return.
Therefore I could do nothing but wait. Walter arrived in about half an hour, and was followed five minutes later by Fred and Sammy, all three standing dumbfounded when I explained what had occurred.
The secret venom of the Borgias and the ring were now in the possession of our enemies, and neither of us knew in what way it might be used against us. They had also secured the secret of the Crowland treasure, for they would undoubtedly find the piece of parchment behind the loose top of the case. It had fallen out in my hand, and would do so in theirs.
Selby’s action was certainly a bold bid for fortune, and showed conclusively that he was aware of our success in Scotland, the theft being committed no doubt in the belief that the jewels discovered were in my friend’s rooms. My intuition to place them in the bank only a few hours before was certainly a fortunate one.
The woman Bardi was still acting in concert with the conspirators, and the fact that Walter had been called to an appointment at Richmond by a telegram signed by a friend showed how ingeniously and swiftly it had all been worked.
“Well,” exclaimed Fred, gazing around the disordered sitting-room, “our policy seems quite clear. First, we should go down to Crowland and prevent any investigations being made there; secondly, we will arrest Selby for assault and theft the next time we meet him; and, thirdly, we must at all hazards regain possession of the ring and poison, for we can’t tell what atrocious assassinations these people will not commit now they have a poison so subtle, so deadly, and so impossible of detection.”
“Yes,” I cried. “Think of what possession of such a secret compound means! They might contrive to use it upon us at any moment by sending us an envenomed letter, by placing it on the knob of an umbrella or walking stick, by impregnating our gloves, our hats, or any object left about, just as the Borgias used it in the old days.”
“It certainly isn’t a very bright prospect,” remarked Waldron. “I’d rather face a revolver than a secret poison. I’ve seen too much of poisoning in India. We in the police know something about it.”
Old Thompson was thoroughly unnerved by the drug; therefore, it being decided that we should all four go down to Crowland by the last train, Walter gave him leave to shut up the flat and go over to see his married daughter at Hackney Wick.
A telegram to Frank, the ostler at “The Angel,” at Peterborough, brought the carriage to meet us at the station by the ten-thirty train from London, and by midnight we were comfortably installed at “The George,” at Crowland, the inn which to Walter and myself was already full of memories.
We had telegraphed to the rector, and he called upon us, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour. Sitting together in the private room, I briefly related to him our success in Scotland, and how we had discovered the actual plan of the spot where the treasure lay concealed.
My words at once filled Mr Mason with eager interest; but when I told him of our irreparable loss his spirits fell and he shook his head and sighed. I explained the dastardly manner in which the thieves had drugged my friend’s valet, and our determination to give Selby into custody.
Then, while we were discussing the possibility of using the ground plan of the abbey given me by Professor Fairbairn, Fred suddenly interrupted us as he took something from his pocket-book, saying:
“It’s true we’ve lost the plan we discovered at Threave; but on the night of our return to Crailloch I thought it would be advisable to take a copy of it, so I made a rough tracing. Here it is.” And he opened a small piece of foreign notepaper to our view, disclosing an accurate copy of the stolen plan.
He received a chorus of praises for his foresight, and Mr Mason expressed his eagerness to commence excavations at once, in order to forestall the others. He had not yet demanded back the books found by Lord Glenelg, having waited to confer with us as to the present advisability.
Upon the table we compared the tracing given us by Fairbairn with the copy of old Godfrey’s plan made by Fred, and Mr Mason recognising the points where we were of course in ignorance, we came, after a long and careful examination and comparison, to the conclusion that the wealth of the abbey as enumerated in The Closed Book was concealed at a spot nearly a mile from the abbey, in the centre or the Great Postland Fen, in a field which was on his own property – for he was squire of the place, as well as rector – about midway between Thornbury Hall and the Decoy Farm. The position of St. James’ Bridge and the ancient stone cross at Brotherhouse were both shown, as well as the old Asen Dike and the Wash-bank at Cloot. The plan showed that the old abbot was crafty enough to carry the treasure sufficiently far into what must at the time have been a dangerous quagmire, wherein none dare venture who knew not the way, but which has of course since been drained and reclaimed by the building of banks and cutting of dikes in all directions. Mr Mason told us that the whole of the district shown on the plan was until the end of the sixteenth century a dismal, unhealthy swamp, the sparse inhabitants of which were fever-stricken, and the spot where the treasure was apparently concealed was in the deepest part of the basin, and in all probability a treacherous bog purposely chosen in order to defeat any efforts of Southwell’s soldiers.
The allegation in The Closed Book that gold and silver objects had been sunk in the fish pond was no doubt in order to mislead, for, after all, it was not likely that the abbot should make so little attempt to effectively conceal what he wished to rescue from sacriligious hands.
“Depend upon it, gentlemen, we’re on the right track at last,” declared the rector decisively. He was an archaeologist himself, and was eager to see our splendid find of gems, just as he was eager to recover the long-lost treasure of the Abbot John.
The measurements on the plan which had so cunningly been concealed were given in paces from St. James’ Bridge, about a mile to the south-east of the abbey, and Mr Mason suggested that having regard to the fact that Selby and his companions had the original plan in their possession, we should lose no time in going to the spot.
I glanced at my watch, and found it to be a quarter-past one in the morning.
Fred drew the blind aside and discovered that it was not a particularly dark night, although heavy rain-clouds had drifted across the moon. The suggestion to fix the spot was a good one, although it was arranged that as the land was Church property, and there was no reason for secret search, the excavations should be carried out on the morrow.
Together, the five of us, having borrowed two lanterns from the hotel keeper, left the house, and under the guidance of Mr Mason passed down the road beside the rectory, skirted the north wall of the abbey, and then out upon the broad, flat high road, past the dilapidated windmill, and on to St. James’ Bridge, where we took another road eastward, flat, hedgeless, uninteresting like the first, and running straight as an arrow towards our destination.
Presently the rector halted and pointed out a distant clump of trees looming in the darkness as Thornbury Hall, while to our left lay the Decoy Farm. Beneath the uncertain rays of the lamp he carefully examined the plan again, and then led us through a gate into a large field sown with fen-potatoes, which we crossed carefully in the darkness for fear of falling into the dikes which in that country separate one field from another. At last we found the boundary, and discovered a single plank which gave access to the next field, with a crop of potatoes like the first. Then, having counted his paces carefully from the roadway, his face always turned to Thornbury Hall, he suddenly halted, saying:
“The actual spot is here, or within a few feet. According to the plan, it is one hundred and eighty-six paces due south towards Thornbury from the road anciently known as Guthlac’s Drove – the road we have just left.”
We lowered the lanterns, and groping about, examined the ground. The crop had certainly not been disturbed. We stamped just as we had done at Threave, but there was no hollow sound in the heavy fen clay.
“My suggestion is that we should send Barrett, the town policeman, to keep guard upon the place till morning, and then commence operations,” said Mr Mason at last. “We shall recognise the spot by yonder old willow tree.”
This suggestion we acted upon, and when we turned in an hour later the constable, Barrett, was keeping vigil in that lonely field, wondering no doubt the reason why the rector had found him on his beat on the Eye Road and posted him away in that unfrequented spot.
Chapter Thirty Seven
In which I Enter the House of Mystery
While we sat at breakfast next morning the constable, with his hand bound up and suspended in a black scarf from his neck, was brought to us by Mr Mason, and asked to report upon the result of his observations.
“Well, gentlemen, I met some rough customers last night,” exclaimed the man through his brown beard. “All was quiet till the abbey clock ’ud just struck three, when I heard the sound of wheels, and a trap came up the road from the direction of Brotherhouse Bar. There was no light on it, and I heard it stop just opposite where I was on duty. Three men and a woman got down, and lit a lantern, and took out some spades and picks, therefore I crouched down and watched. Two of the men were tall, and the third, who carried the lamp, was short, and looked as though he were deformed, while the woman was slim and young, and dressed in dark clothes. I heard one man say, ‘This must be the place. That house over there is Thornbury Hall. I recollect it is marked on the Ordnance map we looked at in the train. And there’s Decoy Farm! Now, one hundred and eighty-six paces due south. This way;’ and he led them into the field and continued straight across to the dike, over the plank, and then half-way across the next field, where we halted close to the old willow stump. ‘This is the place!’ he exclaimed, little dreaming that I was so near. ‘It’s quite a long way off the spot we tried before.’ ‘Are you quite certain of the distance and the direction?’ inquired the other man, in response to which the first speaker quoted some kind of direction which he seemed to know by heart. The short man made some observation in a foreign language, but I didn’t understand what he said.”
“And what did you do?” I demanded eagerly.
“Well, the moment the four of them started to dig up the potatoes, I slipped out from behind the willow stump and demanded what they were up to. My sudden appearance upset their little game at once; but one man, the tallest of them, was inclined to be defiant when I ordered them off, telling them that the land was the property of the ecclesiastical commissioners, and that they would be prosecuted for trespass. He struck at me with the pick-axe he carried, whereupon I took out my truncheon, and next instant I saw a flash and found myself wounded in the hand. The fellow had used a revolver on me! This sudden action called forth the condemnation of his three companions, who declared that to fire on the police was highly dangerous. Then, all three, fearing that the shot had raised an alarm, threw down their tools and made their way back to the trap as quickly as they could, being followed by the cowardly fellow who had fired at me. I rushed after them, although my hand pained me badly; but they succeeded in getting clear away. Then I came back to Crowland and called up the doctor, who took the bullet out of my hand. I had a very narrow escape, gentlemen,” added the rural constable. “I wonder what those people were up to?”
Mr Mason and Fred Fenwicke exchanged glances; but no one satisfied Barrett’s curiosity.
“You see I couldn’t well distinguish the face of the ruffian who fired at me,” he said, in response to my inquiry; “but I heard the woman address him as Selby.”
The woman! Could it have been Judith who had accompanied them, or was it Anita Bardi?
Barrett presently left to report the incident by telegraph to his inspector at Spalding, and the rector took counsel with us. A bold attempt to search had evidently been made, and had only been abandoned by the ill-advised action of one of the party. Although the constable had been the victim of a dastardly outrage it had certainly been fortunate that we had marked out the spot and set watch upon it. Our enemies had made wrong calculations at Threave by not having noted the second clause of the instructions; but here, with the aid of the plan, they had certainly hit upon the exact spot designated by the monk Godfrey.
Mr Mason had gone out to obtain assistance in our work of excavation, which we decided should commence at once, when a telegram was brought to me which showed that it had been handed in at King’s Cross Station, and read as follows:
“Come to Grosvenor Street. Most important. Must see you immediately. If I am not at home go to Harpur Street; but if you desire to fulfill your promise to help me, do not lose an instant – Judith.”
My first impulse was to read the telegram aloud; but my companions, being in ignorance of my intimate friendship with her, I resolved to keep my own counsel.
“I have to return to London at once,” I announced, crushing the message in my hand. “You fellows will continue the search, and I will return tonight if possible.”
“Private business?” queried Sammy, who had lit his morning cigarette airily, and stood with his hands deep in his trouser pockets, regarding me with some attention.
I responded in the affirmative; and, turning, told the maid to order a trap at once to take me to Peterborough Station.
Thus I was compelled to absent myself from the work of excavating in that low-lying fen field a mile beyond the abbey; and at half-past twelve o’clock I alighted from a hansom in Grosvenor Street, and, running up the broad flight of steps to the big portico, rang the bell.
“Yes, sir, her ladyship is expecting you,” was the footman’s response to my inquiry; and without further ceremony he conducted me through the fine hall, filled with magnificent trophies of the chase, and up the wide staircase to a small room on the first floor, wherein, white and haggard, she rose quickly to greet me.
“Oh, Mr Kennedy!” she gasped when the man had closed the door. “I’m so glad to see you safe and well!”
“Why Mr Kennedy?” I asked half-reproachfully.
“Well, Allan, then,” she said, smiling. “But we have no time to lose,” she went on. “I fear that something terrible has occurred; but exactly what, I don’t know.”
“How do you mean? Explain,” I urged excitedly.
“You probably know what occurred down at Crowland last night!” she said. “They obtained the parchment plan, and at once determined to search for the treasure known to be hidden there; but a policeman discovered them and they shot him.”
“I know,” I responded. “And what occurred afterwards?” That was the first time she had mentioned the search for treasure, in any of our talks.
“They returned to London – all three of them.”
“And the woman?”
“What woman?” she inquired, looking me straight in the face.
“The woman who was with them,” I said meaningly, recollecting that her own telegram had been sent from King’s Cross Station.
“I know nothing of her,” was the response. “I’m speaking of my father, Selby, and the hunchback. They returned to London at seven this morning – to Harpur Street.”
“Well?”
“I went there at nine o’clock, but found the house still closed, and could make nobody hear, although I know they entered there about eight o’clock. The blind is now up, and the bear cub is in the window,” she added hoarsely. “There is death in that house!”
“Death! Is that the meaning of that strange sign?” I gasped. “Do you really suspect that some tragedy has been enacted?”
“Yes,” she cried hoarsely. “I fear so. I’ve been there three times this morning and can make nobody hear. Oh, Mr Kennedy, you do not know the awful secret – the terrible – ”
But she stopped herself, as though she feared to tell me all the truth.
“Is it that you fear for your father’s sake?” I inquired, a new light suddenly dawning upon me.
“Yes,” she cried, her white trembling hand upon my arm. “I do fear. Will you go with me to Harpur Street?”
“Most willingly,” I said. “But if you fear a tragedy had we not better seek aid of the police?”
“The police?” she gasped, her face blanching in an instant. “Ah, no! Let us see for ourselves first. The police must know nothing – you understand. We must not arouse suspicion. I know they have returned, because at eleven last night, after they had left for Crowland, all the blinds were down, whereas now one blind is up and the sign is in the window.”
I saw that she was nervous and agitated, and that her suspicions were based, upon some secret knowledge. She believed that some hideous tragedy had occurred in that house of mystery in Harpur Street, and invoked my aid in its elucidation.
“You will not blame me,” she said in a hard voice. “I am culpable, I know, but when you have heard everything and are aware of the extraordinary circumstances which have brought me to what I am, I know you will forgive me and look leniently upon my shortcomings. Promise me you will,” she implored in deep earnestness, taking my hand in hers.
I promised, then she rushed into another room for a moment, and reappeared in hat and jacket. We drove quickly to that short, dismal street in Bloomsbury, and on approaching the house I saw that the dingy Venetian blinds were all down save at that window where showed the mysterious sign.
Having dismissed the cab, we both ascended the dirty, neglected steps, and rang. The bell clanged loudly somewhere in the regions below; but no one stirred. I was in favour of calling an inspector from the nearest police station and telling him of our suspicions, but she would not hear of it.
“No?” she cried, terrified at my suggestion. “The police must know nothing – nothing at all. If they did, then I myself must suffer.”
Her words were, to say the least, very curious. “No,” she went on, “we must try and get in ourselves – force the door or something.”
To force a door of that strong, old-fashioned character was difficult, I saw. The latch, too, was a patent one, with a well-known maker’s name on the keyhole cover – nearly new. To force a front door in a public street in the broad light of day without attracting attention is well-nigh impossible; therefore, instructing her to wait patiently where she was, so as not to arouse suspicion of the neighbours, I waited my opportunity, and then got over the locked gate and went down the steps to the kitchen door in the basement. That, too, was securely fastened; but on examination of the window it struck me that the shutters were only closed to and not bolted. Therefore, I called to my love to go back into Theobald’s Road and purchase a chisel, a glazier’s diamond, and a putty-knife, and bring them to me as soon as possible.
She obeyed at once, and until her return I crouched down beneath the front steps in a spot where the passers-by could not see me. On her return, a quarter of an hour later, she dropped down the tools to me as she walked past the house to the other end of the street.
The door resisted all efforts, therefore I presently turned my attention to the window, at last succeeding in unlatching it with the putty-knife, working back the bolt of the shutters and crawling inside the dirty, dismal kitchen.
At that moment Lady Judith had ascended the steps to the front door; and, groping my way in the semi-darkness up the stairs, I gained the wide old-fashioned hall, and, after some difficulty with the complicated lock, opened the door to her.
Then, together, we went forth to ascertain what mystery that closed and gloomy place contained.