The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

Chapter Thirty Two
The Major Makes a Statement

While the rest of the party examined the dungeon, I clambered over the ruins, and ascended by the winding, broken stairway to the summit. I walked with Wyman across the weedy, neglected ground beyond the dried-up fosse, reconstructing the stronghold in imagination by the position of the broken barbican.

Over the self-same ground the unfrocked monk of Crowland had wandered with his companion in misfortune, the monk Malcolm. We looked back at the gateway of the castle, so high up that it was on a level with the second floor. Through that, the only exit from the castle, old Godfrey had fled with his fair charge across the drawbridge, over the island to the river, and across the narrow temporary bridge, then existing, to the shore – away back to safety in England, leaving Lucrezia’s casket, with its precious contents, safely hidden.

The long, straight shadow veered round slowly; and by four o’clock, when the party carrying the empty baskets and picnic accessories strolled back to the spot of embarkation, it had shifted a considerable distance from the spot where I had driven in the stake.

Everyone pronounced the picnic a distinct success. It was an entire novelty to go to that historic spot, unvisited from one year’s end to another, and certainly to us it had been a very interesting experience. We had taken certain observations which would, later on, be of the greatest use to us.

The ferrying back of the party, in twos, by Sammy Waldron and Bertie Sale, was fraught with just as much hilarity as the arrival. The old boat was declared to be leaky, for it now had a quantity of water in it, compelling the ladies to hold their skirts high and place their feet out of the way of the wash. On the first trip Bertie “caught a crab,” owing to the absence of blade to his oar, and the remainder of the rowing was done Indian fashion, the craft, being rudderless, always taking an erratic course. Time after time they crossed and recrossed, until there remained only Fred Fenwicke, Walter, and myself. All of us embarked at last, and, with triumphant shouts, set a course toward the opposite shore; but ere we had gone far we ran deep into a submerged mud bank, and notwithstanding our combined efforts for nearly half an hour, beneath the derisive cheers of the rest of the party, we remained there.

One desperate effort, in which Sammy broke his oar in half, resulted in our getting clear at last, and slowly we continued across to the opposite bank, being greeted with mock welcome on our return from that perilous voyage, during which the vessel had been so long overdue.

Together we walked in a straggling line back to our brake, which we left at the farmhouse of Kelton Mains, and at the invitation of Mr Batten we drove back into the clean, prosperous little town of Castle-Douglas and took tea with him, after inspecting his pictures; for, in addition to being a well-known archaeologist, he was an amateur artist of no small merit. True to his promise, he lent me a collection of valuable books dealing with Threave, and then, in the glorious sunset, we set out on our long drive back through the Glenkens to Crailloch, the cyclist contingent going on ahead. Fred Fenwicke was of the latter party, and both he and a friend named Gough, curiously enough, had punctures within a hundred yards of each other, and had to be picked up by us.

Ten days of merriment went by. One night, dinner was as usual a merry function, but the ladies being tired, retired early, while the men idled, gossiped, and played billiards. Connie’s boudoir adjoined the billiard-room, and I was sitting there alone with Fred, about half-past one, preliminary to turning in, when, looking me straight in the face, he said:

“Look here, Allan! What’s your game over at Threave? I watched you that afternoon, and saw you poking about and counting your paces. I was on the top of the castle wall and looked down on both of you when you thought yourselves unobserved.”

For the moment I was somewhat taken aback, for I had no idea we had been watched, nor that we had aroused his suspicions. When a man is in search of hidden treasure he does not usually tell it to the world, for fear of derision being cast upon him, therefore I again naturally hesitated to explain our real object.

But he continued to press me; and, being one of my oldest and most intimate friends, I called in Walter, and, closing the door again, explained briefly the explorations we intended to make, and how I had gained the knowledge of the hidden casket.

He listened to me open-mouthed, in amazement, especially when I described the deadly contact of those forbidden pages, and the attempt made by Lord Glenelg and his companions to find the treasure of Crowland Abbey.

“Lord Glenelg, did you say?” Fred remarked when I mentioned the name. “I know both him and his daughter Lady Judith Gordon. We first met them in Wellington, New Zealand, three years ago. He has a shoot up at Callart, in Inverness, and curiously enough they’re both coming here to stay with us on Saturday.”

“Coming here?” I gasped. “Lady Judith coming here?”

“Yes. Pretty girl, isn’t she? I’d be gone on her myself if I were a bachelor. Perhaps you are, old chap.”

I did not respond, except to extract a strict promise from my host to preserve my secret.

“Of course I shall say nothing,” he assured me. “Father and daughter are, however, a strange pair. It’s very remarkable – this story you’ve just told me. I don’t half like the idea of that bear cub being shown in the window in Bloomsbury. There’s something uncanny about it.”

I agreed; but all my thoughts were of his lordship’s motive for coming there. Like myself, he had shot with Fred before, it seemed, and my host and Connie had, last season, been his guests for a week up at Callart. In Scotland, hospitality seems always more open, more genuine, and more spontaneous than in England.

“Of course, Glenelg is something of an archaeologist, like yourself,” Fred said; “but if what you say is true, there seems to be some extraordinary conspiracy afoot to obtain possession of certain treasure, which, by right, should be yours, as the purchaser of this remarkable book. I must admit that Glenelg and his daughter have been both to Connie and myself something of mysteries. When we were in town last Christmas, Connie swore she saw Lady Judith dressed in a very shabby kit coming out of an aerated bread shop in the Fulham Road. My wife stopped to speak, but the girl pretended not to know her. Connie knew her by that small piece of gold-stopping in one of her front teeth.”

“But why should she go about like that?” I asked.

“How can I tell? They were supposed to be away in Canada, or somewhere, at the time; they’re nearly always travelling, you know. We came home with them on the Caledonia the first season we met them.”

“They’re mysteries!” declared Wyman bluntly. “The girl is, at any rate.”

“What do you know of her?” inquired Fred eagerly.

But Walter would not satisfy us. He merely said:

“I’ve heard one or two strange rumours – that’s all.”

I was torn by conflicting desires: the desire not to meet his lordship beneath that roof, and the all-impelling desire to be afforded an opportunity of more intimate friendship with that sweet, sad-hearted woman whom I adored.

Fred Fenwicke was just as interested in the strange circumstances as we were, and promised at once to do all in his power to assist us. I knew him to be a man of sterling worth, whose word was his bond, and whose friendship was true and continuous. Equally with Walter Wyman, he was my best friend, and, with the exception of keeping back the fact that I loved Lady Judith, I was perfectly frank with him, telling him the suggestion that had crossed my mind – namely, that it would perhaps be as well if I left Crailloch before his lordship’s arrival.

“Why?” asked the Major at once. “Does he know that you are making this search?”

“I suppose he does,” Wyman replied. “He evidently knows that The Closed Book has been in Allan’s hands, and that he has deciphered it.”

Fred remained thoughtful for a moment, then said:

“But it may be that he’s coming here with the same object as yourself – to see Threave and make investigations. If that’s so, I’d go over to Castle-Douglas, and stay at the ‘Douglas Arms’ – a very comfortable hotel. You’d then be right on the spot.”

“Yes,” I said; “that’s what we will do. And, meanwhile, you will watch his lordship’s movements for us, won’t you?”

“Of course,” laughed Fred, now entering thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, for the excitement of a treasure hunt appealed to his vigorous nature.

Our plans were, however, quickly doomed to failure; for next morning, at breakfast, Fred announced to us that Lord Glenelg had written from Edinburgh to say that urgent family affairs called him to Paris, and that, consequently, neither he nor his daughter could come to Crailloch just at present.

The very wording of the letter, which he read to those at his end of the table, was to us suspicious, that his lordship had learned that we were Fred Fenwicke’s guests, and on that account feared to come. This idea I put later to Fred himself, and he entirely coincided with my opinion.

“They’re mysterious, very mysterious, old fellow,” he said. “I don’t half like the idea of those people you told me about – the hunchback and the other fellow – who are behind them. Yet, on the other hand, Lord Glenelg is a man well-known, with a very high reputation when he was in Parliament, ten years ago. He was an Under-Secretary, if I recollect aright.”

“But what is their game, do you think?”

“Their game at Crowland was to find the hidden treasure of the abbey,” he answered, “and they may probably try the same thing at Threave.”

“That’s exactly what we’ve feared,” chimed in Walter. “I believe they are in possession of some further fact, of which we know nothing. There’s a conspiracy against Allan, too, the nature of which we are at present in ignorance.”

“But why?” I asked, recollecting all the curious events of the past, and remembering my conversation with that strange woman in black who had so ingeniously stolen the Arnoldus.

Wyman shrugged his shoulders, saying:

“It is never any good inquiring into the motives of either man or woman. The cleverest man can never gauge them accurately.”

“Well,” remarked Fred Fenwicke, “the move in this case is undoubtedly the recovery of the treasure.”

“But the treasure, if it exists, is mine!” I said. “I purchased the book and deciphered the secret. Therefore I may surely make investigations with profit to myself?”

“You may make investigations, but without profit, I fear, so far as Threave is concerned,” was Fred’s calm reply.

“I don’t understand you,” I said. “The book was offered to me at a fair price, and I purchased it. Whatever I found within I may surely use to my own advantage?”

“Observing, of course, the law of treasure-trove,” was my host’s remark.

“Of course.”

“Then whatever you find must either go to the Crown or to the lord of the manor.”

“You mean Colonel Maitland?”

“No, I mean Lord Glenelg,” my friend said.

“Why Lord Glenelg?” I demanded quickly.

“Because, according to the Glasgow Herald this morning, he has purchased both the island and castle from Colonel Maitland, so, whatever is found on that property undoubtedly belongs to him.”

Chapter Thirty Three
Will the Sun Shine?

Fred took from his study table the Glasgow Herald of that morning, and there, sure enough, was a paragraph stating that the Earl of Glenelg had purchased the historic castle of Threave, together with the islands, from the laird, Colonel Maitland. The Gordons had been connected with the property since the seventeenth century, it was stated, hence the purchase by the Earl.

“Curiously enough,” observed Fred Fenwicke, “Maitland’s solicitors are my own: Burton, Brooks, and Co, of Union Street, Glasgow. From them I could get to hear the actual situation.”

“Wire them in the morning, and ask if the property is really sold. The papers often get hold of news of that sort prematurely,” I said, clutching eagerly at the last straw, for our enemies had certainly forestalled us by this purchase, which, if actually effected, upset all our plans. If Lord Glenelg had paid for the property then the Borgia emeralds could never be ours.

Fred proposed to wire, and at noon that day Wyman and I were in the express travelling towards Euston.

For some days yet it was impossible to follow the old monk’s directions for the discovery of the spot at Threave; therefore, with the prospect of the Crowland treasure being revealed, we eagerly went on the following day to the British Museum and were closeted with the professor.

“I had no idea that this most interesting document existed,” he said, as he sat at his table and unfolded to our gaze a dark old parchment, whereon was a large but rather roughly drawn plan, very similar in style to those in The Closed Book.

“You will see here,” he said, pointing to an inscription in a small Gothic hand underneath, “that it was prepared by Richard Fosdyke, the celebrated architect, by the order of John Welles, the last abbot. From the difference in the drawing on the north side, it was apparently intended to make certain additions to the monastery buildings; but having compared it with the ground plan of the present ruins, it is proved that the abbey was dissolved before the work was carried out.”

“It is the exact positions of the fish ponds that we are very desirous of ascertaining,” I said. “What is your opinion?”

“There can be but one. They are here,” and he pointed to two squares drawn at some distance at the north-east of the abbey church, and in an exactly opposite direction to the written record of old Godfrey. “This square of buildings enclosed the cloister court,” the expert went on, “and here you see is the chapter house, the refectory, and the mausoleum, all of which have now disappeared.”

Then he took out a plan of the present ruins, and we compared the two carefully, being surprised at the wide ramifications of the original abbey and the extent of the outbuildings.

I inquired if it were possible to have a tracing of it, when our friend the professor took from a drawer a large sheet of tracing-paper upon which he had already had a copy made. This he gave to me, expressing pleasure that he had been of any service to us in our investigations.

“I am myself intensely interested in the work you have undertaken,” he said. “If you really hold Godfrey Lovel’s Arnoldus then you may, after all, be successful in discovering both the abbey treasures and the Borgia emeralds.”

“That is exactly what we are trying to do, but unfortunately we are not alone in it.”

“You mean that the Italian hunchback has discovered something?”

“Why, has he been here since my last visit?”

“He was here all day yesterday. He has in his possession some curious plan or other.”

My companion suggested that we should go that very evening to Crowland, place the plan before our good friend Mr Mason, and commence investigations in an open and straightforward manner. This course we adopted, and arranged to leave for Peterborough by the Leeds express.

At five o’clock, however, the Captain returned to tell me that he had received an imperative call from Paris, and must be away for several days. As there was nothing to be done until the seventeenth, his absence made no difference with our plans, though I found my patience sorely tried by the long wait. I employed the time in searching the British Museum for more detailed accounts of Threave, but without success. Within less than a fortnight Wyman had rejoined me, and we were making plans for a leisurely trip back to Scotland when I received a telegram from Fred Fenwicke that accelerated our plans. It ran:

“Come back tonight without fail. Go on to Castle-Douglas, and put up at ‘Douglas Arms.’ Will meet you there tomorrow morning.”

At ten o’clock on the following morning we were back again in Scotland, breakfasting in a cozy room in that old-fashioned hotel, the “Douglas Arms,” at Castle-Douglas, and anxiously awaiting Fred Fenwicke.

We had spent a comfortable if rather warm night in the sleeping-car from Euston, and both of us being constant travellers, neither felt the fatigue of the long railway journey. The urgency of Fred’s message caused us the greatest anxiety, and as we sat there together our eyes were watching the window for his arrival.

Outside, the long, broad street, the principal thoroughfare of the town, was already filled with the August sunshine, the roadway almost as white as those glaring roads of Italy, the sky almost as blue as it was in my once-loved Tuscany.

We had engaged that room for ourselves, for there seemed to be a party of London holiday-makers staying in the hotel; at least so we judged them to be by the gorgeous tweeds of the men and the tourist kit of the women. Loud laughter rang in the corridors of the quiet, eminently respectable place, and before the door was a coach upon which the party were slowly settling themselves for a drive through the beautiful Glenkens.

At last, just as the coach drove away, and the old post-house settled down to its normal quiet, Fred Fenwicke opened the door and closed it quickly after him.

“I’m glad you fellows have come,” he said in quick excitement. “There’s something strange going on here. Yesterday I was cycling through here, and while passing down the road along Carlingwark Loch, the same road by which you drove the other day, I overtook Lady Judith. She was walking slowly, talking with an old hunchback.”

“A hunchback?” I cried. “Then it must be Graniani.”

“He was Italian, that’s all I know. I didn’t wait to acknowledge her because the fact struck me as very curious, and I thought it would be best if she were unaware that I had discovered her. So I ran on here, and on inquiry found that the lady, who had given the name of Miss Fletcher, had arrived on the previous day, and that the old Italian, who had signed his name in the visitors’ book so badly that it could not be read, had arrived that morning.”

“And they are both here! I wonder why?” I asked, amazed.

“Well, I suppose their visit has some connection with the search they intend to make over at Threave,” Fred said. “At any rate, I thought it best that you should be on the spot, and watch what was happening.”

“But the sale of the island?”

“Brooks wired me yesterday that the contract is signed, but the money is not yet paid over. The sale is to be completed on the sixteenth of September.”

“Ah, Lord Glenelg, too, evidently thought of the change in the calendar. Well, we must take our chances of a clash with him. Today is the fifteenth. On the day after tomorrow, at three-thirty, we ought to be at Threave and take our observations by the sun.”

“But suppose it’s a wet day?” suggested Fred, always practical.

“Ah! suppose it is?” I echoed. “Then all our chance may melt away from us.”

Half an hour later, while the Major and the Captain strolled along to have a chat with Mr Batten, at the office of the British Linen Company, of which he was manager, I excused myself and remained behind.

Scarcely had they gone when Graniani passed the window with Selby, both well-dressed and presenting a prosperous appearance. They were speaking in Italian, in order, I suppose, that those who overheard should not understand their conversation. But I knew from the hunchback’s gesticulations that he was excited by some untoward event.

Judith was undoubtedly alone; therefore I rang for the waiter and sent him with my card to “Miss Fletcher.”

Five minutes later she entered the room half-timidly, as though fearful of detection. Her hand trembled, her face was pale, and I saw that she was in a highly nervous condition.

“I had no idea you were here, Mr Kennedy,” she gasped. “What brings you here?”

“I am here to be near you, Lady Judith.” I answered, holding her small white hand. “You are still in distress. How may I help you?”

“How can you help me?” she echoed. “By leaving here at once. If you remain you will imperil your life. Ah! you don’t know the terrible risk you are running.”

“But why are you here?” I demanded. “I believed you were in Edinburgh.”

“I am not here of my own free will,” she said slowly. “It is because I am compelled.”

“Compelled! By whom?”

“By your enemies, Allan. Ah! heed me – do heed me, and get away from here at once.”

“Why may I not remain as your protector?” I demurred.

“Because I need none; for me there is no protection,” and she trembled as she stood before me.

“Where is your father?”

“I don’t know,” she responded. “Some strange events have happened since we met last.”

“But you still trust me, dearest?” I cried passionately, bending until my lips touched hers lightly. They were cold, and her features seemed like marble.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I still trust you, Allan. My only fear is for your safety, not for mine. Recollect that we are dealing with people who are desperate – who will stick at nothing in order to gain their own sinister ends.”

The thought of that weird sign in Bloomsbury crossed my mind, and I fell to wondering.

“If you reciprocate my love, dearest, it is all that I desire in life,” I said quietly, in deepest earnestness. “You are in peril, you have told me, and I am your protector. You tell me nothing, because a silence is imposed upon you.”

“Ah, Allan! I dare not tell you. If I did, you – even you – would hate me; in years to come even you would detest my memory. With me life is now short; but even though surrounded by a thousand perils and pitfalls, I am nevertheless happy because I know that I shall die loved by one upright and honest man.”

“Die?” I echoed. “Why do you always speak of death being imminent? This is a mere morbid foreboding. You should rid yourself of it, for it surely isn’t good for you.”

“Ah?” she sighed bitterly, “you do not know, Allan, or you would not think so.” Then, a moment later, she turned to me and implored me to leave Castle-Douglas and return to London.

This I refused to do, though I said nothing of the presence of Graniani or Selby, for even now I was not quite convinced whether she were playing me false. If Judith were really my friend, if she really loved me as I hoped, why was she not a little more plain and straightforward? It was this fact that still held me in a turmoil of suspicion. My passion for her increased, but my position seemed somehow very insecure.

That a deep and impenetrable mystery surrounded her was apparent; but she seemed determined upon increasing it instead of giving me some clue to its elucidation, however slight.

I suggested that we should walk out of the town and talk, but at first she refused. She evidently feared that those two men might encounter her in my company, although to me she pleaded a headache. The whole affair was so queer and unconventional that I myself became more bewildered.

At length, however, I induced her to go for a stroll, allowing her to chose the way. She evidently knew the direction in which the hunchback and his companion had gone, for she took the road that led across the town and around the end of the beautiful loch towards Whitepark, where we presently struck a quiet, unfrequented path, whereon we strolled slowly in the shadow of the trees.

Since we had last met she and her father had been in Aberdeen, Glasgow, and Edinburgh, and she had left him two days ago at the County Hotel, in Carlisle. He had told her that he was leaving for London that night, and had instructed her to go on to Castle-Douglas and await a letter from him. She was still waiting for it. That was the reason she was there.

She made no mention of the two men also there, beyond her remark about my enemies being desperate ones.

For fully a couple of hours we wandered, heedless of where our footsteps led us, for she seemed thoroughly to enjoy that bright, fresh land of hills, streams, and lochs. In those sweet moments of peaceful bliss beside my love I forgot all my suspicion, all the mystery, all the desperate efforts that I was making to combat those who intended to filch from me the secret that was mine.

Many were our exchanges of affection as we lingered in that leafy glen, where deep below a rippling burn fell in small cascades with sweet, refreshing music. I saw that she wished to tell me everything, but was compelled to silence. I knew only that she loved me, she trusted me, but that she feared for my personal safety.

At last she expressed a wish to return, and with lingering footsteps we went towards the pointed spires of the town that lay beside the loch beneath our feet. Sweet were her words; sweet indeed was her personality, and sweet her almost childlike affection.

We parted at the entrance to the town, so as not to be seen together; and although I groaned beneath that weight of anxiety and uncertainty, I verily trod on air on my way back to the “Douglas Arms.”

Wyman and Fred had not returned, therefore I went along to Mr Batten’s, where I found them entertained to luncheon, and took my seat in the vacant place at the table. Our host was, I fear, puzzled at the reason of our sudden decision to spend a few days in his town, yet we told him nothing, fearing to arouse local interest in our search.

At three o’clock we went back to the “Douglas Arms”; but judge our dismay when the “boots” informed us that “Miss Fletcher” had left the hotel hurriedly, in company with “the hunchback and another gentleman,” and had departed by the half-past two o’clock train – the express for Carlisle and the south.

“Well, that’s a strange move,” remarked Walter, when he heard of it. “I suppose Lady Judith got to know we were here, and cleared out rather than run the risk of meeting us.”

“Yes,” said Fred reflectively. “Very curious. I wonder what their game really is? You’ve forestalled them over the investigations at Crowland without a doubt; but I fear they are just a trifle too ingenious for us at Threave. I’ve ascertained that at Grierson’s, the ironmonger, the hunchback and another man gave orders for several new picks and spades to be sent to Kelton Mains, that farmhouse through which we pass to get to Threave. They were sent there today.”

“Well,” I laughed, “they may be useful to us the day after tomorrow if they are not claimed. My belief is that those men never anticipated that we should follow them so closely.”

“But will the sun shine?” queried Walter Wyman, gazing moodily out into the empty street. “That’s the question.”