The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

Chapter Twenty Six
A Discovery in Harpur Street

At two o’clock that afternoon we were back in Dover Street, utterly fagged out by our long night watch among the rank grass and nettles of the damp fenland.

It seemed certain that the quartette had returned to London by the early train from Thorney or from Peterborough, and had carried back with them the manuscripts they had found; therefore, curiosity prompted Wyman to go forth about four o’clock, in order to try and discover something regarding Lord Glenelg’s movements.

When we parted in Piccadilly I went on to the British Museum, for I had been wondering if anything might be preserved there that would give me an accurate ground plan of Crowland Abbey before its dissolution. If only I could get that I should be able to fix the exact spot where the carp ponds once existed.

Professor Dawson Fairbairn, assistant keeper of the manuscripts, had, in the days before my self-exile from London, been one of my personal friends. He was perhaps the first authority upon palaeography in Europe, one of the founders of the new Palaeographical Society, and an expert upon Latin and early English manuscripts. A man of middle-age, he was by no means the dry-as-dust professor one would readily associate with such an unattractive study as the deciphering of mouldy vellum rolls. On the contrary, he was a short, stout, round-faced man, of merry demeanour, whose eyes blinked at one good-humouredly through his pair of circular gold-rimmed spectacles.

I found him in his room, busy deciphering a half-effaced page of an illuminated manuscript, but he placed aside his work to greet me. While in Italy I had had a good deal of correspondence with him regarding several rare documents that I had succeeded in finding, and more than one of which I had sent for his inspection and opinion. Of these we commenced to chat.

I did not care to show him The Closed Book, for various reasons. The secret it contained was my own, and I wished to preserve it to myself, for I recollected that he was an expert himself and could read that difficult script at the end of the volume as easily as I could a printed page.

“I am just now taking an interest in the history of Crowland Abbey,” I said presently. “Do you know of anything in the collections that would give me an adequate description of the monastery as it was in the early sixteenth century?”

“Crowland Abbey! How strange!” he ejaculated. “This codex I have been examining evidently came from there. It was sent to me for my opinion, along with several others, by Lord Glenelg, only a couple of hours ago. All the manuscripts undoubtedly once belonged to that abbey.”

“Lord Glenelg has been here?” I exclaimed.

“No – not personally. He sent them by a queer little old Italian with a humpback. I’ve met the old fellow before somewhere, only I can’t think where. Abroad, most probably, when I’ve been buying for the Museum. He’s something of an expert.”

“His name is Graniani,” I said. “But did his face recall to you any particular incident?”

“No, only I felt that I disliked him.”

“Lord Glenelg was, I thought, abroad.”

“So did I,” was the great expert’s reply. “I was very surprised to receive these from him,” and he pointed to a pile of heavily bound volumes on the table, those very manuscripts that we had watched unearthed a few hours before. “They’ve evidently been kept in a very damp place, for they’re half ruined and effaced.”

“You received no explanation concerning them?”

“None. Only it seems such a curious coincidence that you should come and inquire for references to Crowland just at a moment when we have this important discovery of the abbey’s liturgical and other books.”

“I found a reference to it by a monk named Godfrey in a manuscript I purchased in Italy recently, and it has aroused my interest,” I explained.

“A reference to it by Godfrey?” he echoed, looking up at me quickly through his spectacles.

“Have you actually found the missing Arnoldus?”

“It is an Arnoldus,” I responded; “but why do you ask? What do you know of it?”

“I know, my dear Mr Kennedy, that if you have really rediscovered the book I mean, you hold the secret of the hidden treasure at Crowland,” was his reply.

“But what is known of the treasure?” I asked eagerly.

“All that is known is contained in an old pocket-book belonging to this monk Godfrey now in the Harley Collection. I’ll send for it,” and, turning up one of the huge bound catalogues, he noted its number upon a slip of paper and sent one of his assistants for it.

The young man returned with a small squat volume, much-worn, bound in a cutting from an ancient antiphonarium, and secured by a small bronze clasp.

“You will see that the book is full of useful recipes, domestic accounts, a calendar of saints’ days, and memoranda of all kinds. Among the latter is the entry to which I refer.” And he opened it at a page wherein a slip of paper had been inserted.

There, sure enough, was an entry in Latin, in the same well-known hand as that upon the envenomed pages of The Closed Book. Freely translated, the memorandum was as follows:

“I, Godfrey Lovel, now monk of the Certosa of Florence, and once a brother of the Order of St. Benedict, at Crowland, in England, am about to die, and have therefore written a full account of my life and adventures, and have also given full directions for the recovery of the abbey treasures, so that the secret shall not be altogether lost. I have plainly told also where the emeralds of my lady Lucrezia are concealed. All this will be found clearly written in my Arnoldus, which I have now concealed in a place of safety. Let him who seeks to know the secrets beware! He will grasp the hand of Death midway.”

There was nothing else, so the professor informed me: only that single entry – a few rough, ill-written lines which told that the treasures of the abbey were actually concealed, and that the secret of their whereabouts was contained in the Arnoldus that had so curiously fallen into my hands.

Was it any wonder that his curiosity was at once aroused, or that he sought to know what I really had discovered?

“It is true that I am in possession of the missing manuscript,” I said; “but, unfortunately, one folio of it is missing – the very folio which gives definite instructions for the recovery of the hidden treasure. At present I am unable to make investigations because I cannot find any plan of the abbey, the cloister court, and adjacent buildings. It is to ask your assistance in this matter that I’ve come to you today, although I would also ask you, as a favour, to regard the matter at present as entirely confidential, for I do not wish anyone to know that I’m engaged upon a treasure hunt.”

“I shall, of course, respect your confidence entirely, Mr Kennedy,” the professor said; “and if I can be of any assistance in the matter I shall be delighted. It would be a grand thing to recover the treasures of Crowland. There must be a good many valuable things among them, for the place was one of the wealthiest of the Benedictine houses.”

“Well,” I said, “do you happen to know of any existing plan or any written description of the monastic buildings?”

He reflected deeply, taking off his glasses and carefully wiping them.

“At the moment I really cannot think of anything,” was his quiet rejoinder, “at least of nothing more than what has already been published in the various histories. You have, of course, seen them?”

I responded in the affirmative, whereupon he promised to make investigations and look through various catalogues, a work which I knew would mean considerable study and research.

I learned further from Professor Fairbairn that he knew nothing of the man Selby, although he was, of course, on friendly terms with Lord Glenelg, who, as a bibliophile, was frequently at the Museum when in London.

“It is evident from these manuscripts,” I said, indicating them, “that his lordship is making some careful investigations; therefore I wish that my inquiries should be absolutely secret from him – you understand?”

“Perfectly,” was his reply. “I am quite as much interested in the Crowland treasure as you must be, therefore I will commence tomorrow to search for the particulars you desire, and will write you. Are you only in London temporarily, or have you returned permanently?”

“I’m staying with my friend Captain Wyman the traveller, at 14A Dover Street. A letter directed there will find me.”

“Has not the other portion of the entry here struck you as curious?” he said, pointing again to the open page of the old monk’s note book. “This reference to ‘my lady Lucrezia’s emeralds.’ Can ‘Lucrezia’ actually be Lucrezia Borgia, and the emeralds those historic ones which we know were in his possession about 1506?”

I affected ignorance. What could I do in the circumstance? I had asked the professor’s assistance regarding the Crowland ruins, but the other matter I intended to keep entirely secret. In a few days I would go north to visit Fred Fenwicke, in Galloway, and make investigations for myself. Therefore I replied:

“I know nothing of the jewels. Yet it really seems probable that Godfrey, if he had lived in Florence, might have known the notorious Lucrezia Borgia of poison fame.”

“And that warning about meeting death hand to hand – what can that mean?”

“Oh! the old fellow’s way of trying to frighten the inquisitive, I suppose,” was my response. Then, when I had thanked him for his promise, we took a turn down the long gallery where the English manuscript charters are exhibited in glass cases to the public, and at the door he bade me farewell, repeating his intention to assist me in every way possible, and expressing a hope that, as reward, he might have sight of the long-lost Arnoldus.

Until Professor Fairbairn could complete his search we could only wait, the good rector taking care that no further theft was committed.

To search at Crowland before being in possession of a plan of the fabric as it was originally, and the buildings surrounding it, appeared to be a useless proceeding. Though Wyman and myself were both convinced of the existence of the treasure there, we were not at all certain of our measurements from the grand altar, nor of the exact position of the filled-up fish ponds. Therefore, if we could obtain any plan showing the position and extent of the cloister court, the monk’s parlour, the refectory, and the chapter house, all of which must have once existed, the position of the fish ponds would certainly also be shown, and thus assist us very materially.

Again, suppose that on the day and hour appointed for taking measurements at the castle of Threave the sun was hidden by the clouds? Should we be compelled to wait another year before our measurements could be taken with sufficient accuracy?

This fear haunted me as I wandered through Bloomsbury towards Harpur Street, a sudden desire having seized me to examine again the exterior of that mysterious house. It struck me that a watch should be kept upon that smooth-faced fellow Selby, by which means we might be enabled to foil any attempt to filch the treasure from us.

As I halted at last at the corner of Theobald’s Road and looked down the short, sad street, I saw it was deserted; therefore I strolled along it on the opposite side to the house in question, just as I had done on that well-remembered night after my long chase across Europe.

As I lounged past, pretending to be utterly disinterested, I glanced up at those two dingy first-floor windows. What met my gaze there held me bewildered and speechless.

Chapter Twenty Seven
If you Knew the Truth

At first I could scarce believe my own eyes. In the window, just as I had seen it on that fateful night, was the stuffed bear cub, and behind the smoky panes was a pale, haggard face peering forth wistfully, yet cautiously, as though in expectation of the passing of some person to whom the signal would convey a meaning, a face upon which anxiety and terror were betrayed – the countenance of the woman I had so suddenly grown to love.

In an instant, at sight of me, she drew back and was lost to view, there remaining only that curious yet fatal sign that conveyed so much to the person or persons for whom it was exhibited.

The house presented the same dingy, neglected appearance as before, the steps uncleaned and covered with pieces of paper and wisps of straw, the jetsam of the street. The shutters of the basement were still closed, and upon the area gate was a stout chain and heavy padlock. It was a roomy yet depressing place, more depressing than any other in the whole of Bloomsbury, a strange air of mystery pervading it from basement to attic.

My first impulse was to ascend those neglected steps and inquire for Lady Judith; but, on reflection an instant later, the fact that she had withdrawn so quickly from the window made it evident that she did not wish me to discover here there – that, indeed, she was in Selby’s house in secrecy.

She had evidently been watching long and vigilantly for some person she expected would pass for the purpose of receiving the sign. The intent, anxious look upon her countenance told me this. But instead of the person she was looking for, I, the least expected, had suddenly come upon the scene and detected her. Her mouth had opened as her eyes met mine, and I knew that a cry had escaped her as she had fallen back behind the dusty curtains.

She was still watching me most probably, therefore I did not glance up again, but merely walked on as leisurely as before, and turned the corner out of Harpur Street.

I stood for some minutes deliberating whether it were policy to go boldly to the house and inquire for her. What could I lose by so doing? Little – very little. What could I gain? A few minutes’ chat, perhaps, with the woman who, although she held herself so aloof from me, was nevertheless always in my thoughts.

I was determined to get at the bottom of the mystery of that secret sign; therefore, without hesitation, I drew a long breath, turned again into Harpur Street, and, ascending the steps, rapped loudly at the door.

The place sounded hollow, as a half-empty house always does. But there was no response.

I listened attentively at the door, but the roar of the traffic over the granite in Theobald’s Road prevented my hearing anything distinctly. Nevertheless, my quick ear caught sounds of whispering within. A door somewhere in the hall was closed and locked, and then I heard a man’s low, gruff voice exclaim, “Not yet – not yet, you fool!”

All was silent again, and I waited in patience for a couple of minutes longer. Then I gave another sounding rat-tat-tat that rang through the hollow house.

Again there was a movement in the hall, and softly footsteps crossed the linoleum, which was comparatively new, I felt sure, by its stickiness. Somebody was whispering; then a few seconds later the chain was withdrawn, and the door was opened half-way by Mrs Pickard, the little wizened old lady in black cap and dress, the same who had crossed the Channel bearing The Closed Book to England.

Fortunately she did not recognise me, so I inquired, “You have a lady named Gordon here? She has just recognised me from the window. Will you ask her whether she will see me for a few moments, as I wish to speak with her on a rather important matter?”

“She has noticed you,” was the little old woman’s reply, “and she’s just putting on her hat. She’ll be down to speak with you in a few moments, if you’ll wait,” and she admitted me to the hall, which was covered with a cheap black-and-white oilcloth, and showed me to the dining-room, which overlooked the street – a big, old-fashioned apartment, very dingy, with ceiling and walls smoke-grimed, and furnished in an inexpensive and tasteless style, which bore “hire system” marked upon it as plainly as though the chairs and tables were ticketed “easy payments taken.” The carpet was one of those Kidderminster squares that always appear in hire-system furnishing, and the furniture was of veneered walnut, covered with dark-green plush. There was no overmantel, no sideboard, nothing, indeed, to give it the slightest air of comfort. The room somehow looked as though it had only just been furnished, and that with some motive, for it was evidently not the dining-room in use.

After making a tour of inspection, I stood before the empty old-fashioned grate, listening intently. There were footsteps in the room above – the drawing-room – but no other sound. The dismal outlook, the utter cheerlessness of the room, the sooty curtains waving slowly at the half-opened window, added to the atmosphere of gloom which pervaded the interior even to a greater extent than the exterior. It was certainly a house of mystery.

Once I thought I heard renewed whisperings in the hall; but only for a moment, then all was silent again.

At last the door opened, and there appeared my pale-faced love, neatly dressed in black, with a small toque that suited her admirably, and a bodice that showed off her figure to perfection. Her sombre attire heightened the pallor of her countenance, yet, as she approached me with a sweet smile and outstretched hand, I saw that she possessed a marvellous self-control.

“Only fancy your recognising me, Mr Kennedy!” she cried. “I’m so glad. You left Sheringham suddenly, and no one knew where you had gone.”

“I, too, have been wanting to meet you again,” I said, “and believed you to be still at Saxlingham.”

“I returned to town yesterday,” she answered. “But if we are to talk, had we not better go for a walk?” she suggested. Then she added, in a low, confidential whisper, “There are eager ears here.”

Nothing loath to escape from that house of mystery, I agreed to her proposal, and she let me out, after considerable trouble with a very complicated lock, which I noted could not be undone by anyone unacquainted with its secret – another suspicious circumstance.

Outside, we turned towards Theobald’s Road, and I walked beside her in the hazy glow of the London sunset, full of admiration of her beauty, her grace, and her sweetness of expression.

As we walked towards Oxford Street I told her of my desire to be, if not in public, then in secret, her friend.

“But why?” she asked, opening her splendid eyes widely.

“Because – well, because I believe we shall be good friends some day,” I said lamely, for it was on the tip of my tongue there, in that crowded street, openly to declare myself.

“We are good friends now, otherwise I would not be out walking with you here,” she remarked.

“Exactly; but there is still a stronger reason,” I said. “You will recollect that when I met you on that path across the cliffs you confessed to me your unhappiness – that in your heart there lies concealed some terrible secret which has driven you to despair, and which – ”

“My secret?” she gasped, looking at me suddenly with the same expression of terror I had seen upon her face on that wet night in Harpur Street. “Who told you of my secret?”

“No one,” I said quietly. “But to me the truth is apparent, and it is for that reason that I desire to stand your friend. You recollect you spoke of your enemies, who were so strong that they had crushed you. Will you not let me render you assistance against them; may I not act on your behalf? You surely can trust me?”

I asked her the reason of her visit to that house of mystery and the meaning of the symbol of the bear cub, but she hesitated, just as she had done before. Ah! how blind is man to the beginning of any series of great consequences!

All our previous conversation passed through my mind like a flash, and I saw how utterly I had failed to convince her of my good intentions in her interest.

The curious breach between father and daughter was inexplicable, just as much as their secret presence in London or their association with that dingy house in Harpur Street.

“I know that in ordinary circumstances the small knowledge you have of me would cause you to hesitate to allow me to become your confidential friend,” I went on in deep earnestness. “But these circumstances are surely extraordinary ones. You are in distress, threatened by enemies who terrorise you, and are driving you to despair; and I believe I am also right in suggesting that you possess no friends?”

She had grown paler, and I knew my words made an impression upon her. We were then walking in the crowd of Oxford Street, and I was compelled to bend and speak confidentially to her, lest others might overhear. Surely that great busy thoroughfare was a strange place in which to court a woman’s love! But love is always one of life’s ironies. Many are the world’s wonders; but surely Honour, Conscience, and Love are the three greatest. They will never be explained, and never cease to be bewildering. Of such are the source and the end of what is wonderful in our life – the sea and the shower, the aggregate whereof is in God and the atom in man.

I saw from her countenance, and knew from the trembling of her hand, that she would confide in me if only she dared. The mystery of it all was maddening. My natural intuition told me that she was not averse to my companionship, yet the mention of her secret – whatever it was – caused the truth to arise before her in all its hideousness, holding her transfixed by the crisis that she knew must inevitably ensue.

“It is true,” she sighed at last. “I am in sore need of a friend; but I fear your help is impossible. Indeed, if our friendship were known to certain persons it would place me in a position of even graver peril.”

“Then your enemies would be mine,” I remarked quietly. “This is as it should be. But why would my association with you place you in peril? I don’t understand.”

“Oh!” she cried, “I cannot explain. I would tell you everything if I could – everything. But I cannot, for your sake as well as for my own.”

“For my sake?” I echoed. “Would knowledge of it affect me so gravely?”

“I fear it would,” was her reply. “It is best that you should remain in ignorance.”

“But believe me, I cannot bear to think of you utterly friendless as you seem to be,” I went on earnestly. “Why do you not let me be your friend in secret?”

“Because if you were my friend it would be necessary for you to know the whole truth before you could help me. Yet, in my present position, I can explain nothing. If I did, it would be fatal to me – and perhaps to you also.”

“You are so very mysterious, Lady Judith!” I said. “Cannot you be more explicit? What you tell me only excites my curiosity and interest.”

“I can tell you nothing more – absolutely nothing,” she said, quite calm again. “I am unfortunately a victim of certain strange and incredible circumstances; that is all.”

“But why are you so averse to my friendship?” I demanded. “I assure you that I will do my utmost to serve you if you will accept me as your friend.”

“I do not doubt it. I can only regret that our friendship is debarred,” she answered.

“Why debarred?”

“Because of circumstances which, as I have already told you, I am unable to explain. Besides, I have long ago read in the newspapers that you reside abroad. I could not think of keeping you here in England on my account.”

“I intend to live in England for the future,” I hastened to assure her. “In fact, I’m on the lookout for a home at an easy distance from London, and in the meantime I am the guest of my old schoolfellow and friend, Captain Wyman, of whose recent explorations in Central Africa you may have heard.”

She shook her head slowly, and in a low, mechanical voice, almost as though speaking to herself, said, “I cannot see why you should be so ready to sacrifice everything for my sake. It is far best if we part now, never to meet again. It will be best for both of us, Mr Kennedy, I assure you. Remember, once and for all, that our friendship is forbidden.”