The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

Chapter Thirty Four
The Red Bull of the Borgias

The seventeenth day of September – the day upon which the sun would lead us to the discovery of the buried casket – dawned grey and overcast.

The instant I awoke I rushed to my window and looked out upon a sunless scene. Dark rain-clouds were everywhere, and my heart sank within me at the prospect of a wet and dismal day. The previous day we had spent in making careful inquiries in the neighbourhood regarding the reappearance of our enemies, whom we expected might try and take us by surprise. The only fact we could fathom was that Grierson, the ironmonger, had sent the tools to Kelton Mains, and been paid for them by a money order posted at Dumfries; but the farmer at Kelton knew nothing of them, it seemed, but had received them expecting someone sent by the laird to call for them. We had written a line to Sammy Waldron, at Crailloch, overnight, and expected him to cycle over during the morning. He would, of course, be excited over what was occurring, for he knew nothing except that Fred, his host, was away on some mysterious errand.

When I came down, rain was falling, and the greyness of the morning was certainly mirrored in the faces of all three of us.

”‘Rain before seven, shine before eleven,’” remarked Walter, trying to cheer us; but we ate our meal almost in silence, until Sammy, hot and covered with mud, burst in upon us.

“What in the name of fortune does all this mean?” he cried, surprised to find Walter and myself. “I thought you two fellows had returned to town. The whole house is on tenter-hooks regarding Fred’s whereabouts. I got your note at seven-thirty, and slipped away without any breakfast and without a word to anyone except Connie.”

“Look here, Sammy!” exclaimed Fred, “we’re going this afternoon to do a bit of secret digging – after a buried treasure.”

“Buried treasure!” he echoed, and he burst out laughing. “Sounds well, at any rate. I’m always open to receive a bit of treasure from any source.”

“Well, we want you to help us to dig. It is believed to be over at Threave.”

“What! the old ruin we went to the other day?” Sammy exclaimed. “Better buy a new pair of oars, old chap, if you don’t want the whole crowd of us shipwrecked.”

The suggestion was a good one; and, although the weather was so much against it, Sammy presently went forth, purchased a pair of heavy second-hand oars, and stowed them away in the bottom of a light wagonette which we had hired at the hotel to take us to Kelton later in the day.

Sammy was just as excited as we were, and entered as keenly into the spirit of the thing. Like Fred, he never did anything by halves. He was a man with muscles like iron, and possessed the courage of a lion, as proved by the many tight corners he had been in during the Indian frontier wars of the past fifteen years or so. As a shot, Sammy Waldron was only equalled by his host, Fred Fenwicke; but, while the latter’s form showed best among the grouse, Sammy was pre-eminently a hunter of big game, who sent presents of bears and tigers to his friends, instead of pheasants and grouse.

The morning wore on. A long council of war was held, but the rain did not abate.

Not indeed until we sat down to luncheon at twelve did the weather clear, and with it our spirits rose again. At half-past one the clouds broke and the sun came forth fitfully. Then all four of us, eager to investigate, and not knowing what difficulties were before us, mounted into the wagonette and drove out along the winding road to Kelton Mains.

On descending, a surprise awaited us, for when we asked for the tools sent there from Grierson’s the farmer told us that three gentlemen, one a deformed man, had arrived there the day before, claimed the picks and spades, and had crossed to the island and been occupied in digging until it was dark.

The trio of investigators might still be on the island for aught we knew.

This was certainly disconcerting, and we walked through the fields to the water’s edge full of expectancy. We, however, found the old boat moored in its usual place, which showed that the party had returned to shore. Therefore we embarked, eager to take observations and follow the directions laid down, even if we were not that day able to make investigation.

Sammy took one oar and I the other, and very soon the keel ran into the mud bank of the island, and the grey, dismal old castle, with its “hanging stone,” towered above us. In an instant all four of us sprang ashore, the boat was moored, and we started off in the direction of the great ruin. Fortunately the sun was now shining brightly, and there, sure enough, lay the long, straight shadow across the wet grass in our direction.

I looked at my watch and found it a quarter-past three. In fifteen minutes we should be able to follow accurately the directions.

Suddenly, to our dismay, we saw, as we approached the point where the shadow ended, that a great hole had been dug in the immediate vicinity. We rushed forward with one accord, and in an instant the truth was plain – investigations had already been made!

The hole was a deep one, disclosing a flight of spiral stone steps which led to a subterranean chamber, the dungeon, perhaps, of some building long since effaced. At any rate, it showed that the excavators had hit upon some underground construction, the nature of which we knew not. The tools had been left there unheeded, as though the trio had departed hurriedly.

“That’s curious!” Wyman cried to me. “Read old Godfrey’s instructions aloud to us.”

I took out of my pocket a book in which I had made a note of the exact wording, and read to my companions as follows:

“DIRECTIONS FOR RECOVERING THE CASKET.

“Go unto the castle at 3:30, when the sun shines, on September 6th, and follow the shadow of the east angle of the keep, forty-three paces from the inner edge of the moat.”

Sammy then measured the paces, and found they were, as specified, forty-three.

I again glanced at my watch. It was just half-past three.

“Then, with the face turned straight towards Bengairn, walk fifty-six paces,” I said, reading from the record.

Sammy took his bearings, and was starting off when I heard a footstep on the grass behind me, and, turning suddenly, found myself face to face with the man Selby, who, until that moment, had evidently been hiding in the ruins, watching us.

“By what right are you here?” he demanded.

“By the same right as yourself?” was my response. “What right have you to challenge us?”

By the man’s dark, smooth face I saw he meant mischief.

“I have been left in charge of this property by its owner,” the man declared. “You have no right to land here without his permission, therefore I order you to return to the shore.”

“Ho! ho!” cried Sammy, in quick defiance, “those are fine words, to be sure. I fancy you’d better remain quiet, or we shall have to be very unkind to you.”

“What do you mean?” the big fellow cried in a bullying tone.

“I mean that we aren’t going to be interrupted by you,” was Sammy’s cool rejoinder. “If your friends have gone away and left you alone, like Robinson Crusoe, on this island, it isn’t our concern. The laird of this place is still Colonel Maitland, and you have no authority here whatever.”

“I forbid you to take any observations,” Selby shouted, his fists clenched as though he would attack us. “And as for that man there,” he cried, pointing to me, “he’d best get away before my friends return.”

“Now that’s enough,” cried Sammy. “We don’t want any threats;” and, before Selby was aware of his intention, the other had seized him by the wrists and was calling to us to secure him with the cord I had carried from the boat. He cursed and struggled violently, but in the hands of the four of us he was quickly bound and rendered powerless, much to his chagrin. He commenced shouting, whereupon I took out my handkerchief and gagged him tightly with it. Then, on his refusal to walk, we all four carried him into the roofless castle and there bound him to a big iron ring that we found in one of the walls, and thus made him our prisoner.

It was the only way. The fellow intended mischief, for we found in his pocket a loaded revolver. Having relieved him of that, we left him there, secured in a spot where he could not observe our movements.

Without loss of time we returned to the place we had marked, and the athletic Sammy, laughing over Selby’s utter defeat, set his face towards the distant mountain of Bengairn and walked fifty-six paces, all three of us walking beside him to check is measurements.

“Seek there,” I read from my notes, “for my lady Lucrezia’s treasure is hidden at a place no man knoweth.” Then, omitting several sentences, I came to the words: “Item: How to discover the place at Threave: First find a piece of ruined wall of great stones, one bearing a circle cut upon it as large as a man’s hand. Then, measuring five paces towards the barbican, find – ” And there the record broke off.

“Look?” cried Fred, pointing to a small piece of ruined wall about a foot high cropping up out of the tangled weeds and nettles. “Those are evidently the stones, and yet you’d never notice it unless it were pointed out.”

We all four rushed to the spot he indicated, and, on tearing the weeds away, there, sure enough, we discovered that one of the large moss-grown moor-stones bore a circle cut upon it about the size of one’s palm.

“Five paces towards the barbican!” cried Walter. “One – two – three – four – five! Here you are?” and he stamped heavily upon the grass. “Why,” he exclaimed, “it’s hollow!”

We all stamped, and sure enough there was a cavity beneath.

With Fred, I rushed off to the hole dug by our enemies, and, obtaining their tools, brought them back. Although the record in The Closed Book was carried no farther, it was evident that some opening lay underneath where we stood.

As the excavation made by our enemies was three hundred yards away, in an opposite direction, we concluded that they had only deciphered the first portion of the directions and not that final or unfinished sentence in the record, a page of which was missing.

Without further ado, however, we seized pick and spade, and commenced to open the ground at the spot where it sounded hollow. At a depth of about two and a half feet, through stone and rubbish, we came upon a big flat slab, like a paving-stone.

Was it possible that the historic emeralds of Lucrezia Borgia were actually hidden beneath? Our excitement knew no bounds, especially so as Selby had loosened his gag, and we could hear him shouting and cursing in the distance. We had, however, no fear of his shouts attracting attention, for the spot was far too lonely, and his voice would not reach the river bank, so broad was the stream.

With a keen will we all worked, digging out the earth from around the slab until at last I drove the end of a pick beneath it, and, using it as a lever, succeeded in raising the huge flat stone sufficiently to allow the insertion of a crowbar. Then, all bending together, we raised it up, disclosing a deep, dark, cavernous hole which emitted the damp, earthy smell of the grave.

“Who’ll go down with me?” asked Fred.

“I’ll go presently,” volunteered Sammy, “when the place has had a bit of airing. There’s foul air there, I expect. Perhaps it’s a well.”

Fortunately we had provided ourselves with two hurricane lanterns, and one of these I lit and lowered into the hole by a string. It remained alight, showing us, first, that the air was not foul; and, secondly, that the place was not a well, but a small stone chamber, the floor of which was covered with broken rubbish, and that the walls were black with damp and slime – not at all an inviting place in which to descend.

Fred was the first to let himself down, and, taking the lantern, he disappeared.

“I say,” he cried a minute later, “it isn’t a chamber. It’s a kind of low tunnel – a subterranean passage!”

The announcement caused us even increased excitement; and, while Sammy and I let ourselves down to join Fred, we arranged that Walter, armed with Selby’s revolver, should remain on the surface and so guard against any trickery on the part of the man who was our prisoner. It would, we knew, be easy enough to trap us like rats while we were down there.

“Wait till we come back, Walter!” I cried, and then, with my lamp, followed my two companions into the narrow burrow which ran down a steep incline in a southerly direction. Fred went first; but so dark was the way and so blocked in parts by fallen stones that our progress was very slow. We remembered that in such places of secret communication there were often pitfalls for the unwary; hence the caution we exercised.

We had pursued our way for, as far as we could judge, nearly a quarter of a mile, Sammy and Fred joking all the while, when the passage gave a sudden turn and commenced to ascend. This alteration in its direction struck me as curious, because, up to that moment we had walked in an absolutely straight line. But as I turned aside to follow my friends a small touch of colour on the wall attracted my attention; and, halting, I held up my lamp to examine it.

It was a crude drawing of a bull, outlined roughly in paint that had once been scarlet, but was now nearly brown, owing to the action of time and damp.

“Look?” I cried, almost beside myself with excitement. “Look! The red bull of the Borgias! The casket is concealed here!”

Chapter Thirty Five
What we Found at Threave

The bull passant gules of the Borgias was certainly a significant sign, deep there in the bowels of the earth, so far from the scene of the Borgias’ forgotten triumphs.

My two companions were beside me in an instant, and both agreed that the bull placed there was a signal to the person who gained the secret of The Closed Book – an invitation to search at that spot.

All three of us closely examined the rough stones with which the low tunnel was arched; but none of them showed signs of having been disturbed. The passage had, without doubt, been constructed by the Black Douglas as a secret means of ingress and egress to his stronghold, and most probably all trace of it had been lost in the day of Godfrey Lovel. He and his friend Malcolm had perhaps rediscovered it, and old Godfrey had there ingeniously hidden the precious casket which he had brought from Italy, and which had for years previously been concealed in the fish pond at Croyland, or Crowland, as it is now spelt.

The position in which the bull had been drawn showed that it was placed there to attract the eye of the person possessing the secret. To any other it would convey nothing. Yet, although we searched hither and thither, high and low, we discovered no cavity nor any place where the casket was likely to be concealed.

Presently, after full half an hour’s search, Fred discovered upon the flat surface of a stone some little distance further up the tunnel the numeral “15” marked in the same paint, and evidently put there by the same hand as that which had drawn the bull – only with one of those queer sixteenth-century fives like a capital N turned the wrong way about.

“Can this mean that the place is fifteen paces off?” I queried.

“Or it may be fifteen stones away,” suggested Sammy, starting at once to count them. “Why, look!” he cried a few moments later; “here’s a stone that’s been removed at some time or other.” It was a block about two feet long, and when I rushed forward and touched it, it moved beneath my hand.

Without a second’s hesitation I grasped it, and with all my might tugged it out of me wall, allowing it to fall to the ground with a heavy thud, Sammy being compelled to step aside quickly.

Then, plunging my hand deep into the cavity behind, I felt something and pulled it out, with a loud cry of joy, which was echoed by my two companions.

It was the long-lost casket!

About a foot and a half long, ten inches in height, and six broad, it was covered with stout old untanned leather, the lid being curved and studded with nails. The lock was an antique, and therefore a complicated one, no doubt; but having no key, we at once set to work to force it open with the short crowbar which I had carried down there. So stoutly made was that ancient box that had seen so many vicissitudes and hid in the mud of the abbey fish pond at Crowland for many years, that for some time I could not manage to force it open; but after several trials, in the dim, uncertain light, I at length succeeded in wrenching up the lid, and there found within several old jewel cases which, on being opened, were found to contain those wonderful emeralds which were the most valued treasures of the Borgias.

We handled them gingerly, at my suggestion, not knowing whether those faded, velvet-lined old cases might not be envenomed with poison of the Borgias, like the vellum leaves of The Closed Book.

The jewels we examined were, however, magnificent in their antique gold settings. Three collars of wonderful green gems, each emerald the size of one’s thumb nail, and each set separately to form drops, were the first ornaments we drew forth – emerald collars of which we knew the world had never seen the equal. Several bracelets, pairs of earrings, and pendants were also among the collection; one emerald, unset, and evidently the greatest treasure, being almost the size of a pigeon’s egg – a truly marvellous set of gems, the like of which none of us had ever before set eyes upon.

There were eight small cases in all, seven of them as full of jewels as they could hold, while the eighth contained that which, in the day of Lucrezia Borgia, was more powerful and potent than the mere possession of wealth – a small sealed bottle of rock crystal and a larger phial of greenish Venetian glass, the latter containing a thick dark-brown fluid.

This latter discovery interested my companions, who were much puzzled by it. But I knew the truth, and told them so. That tiny crystal bottle contained the actual secret venom of the Borgias, given by Lucrezia to old Godfrey, and the dark-brown fluid was the antidote.

The secret poison of the Borgias was no longer a legend. We had it actually in our possession!

I put my hand again into the cavity, while Sammy raised a lamp to peer within. But there was nothing else.

With our precious find stowed in our pockets we at last moved up the incline, in order to explore the full extent of the subterranean passage. The casket itself interested me; and, handing my lantern to one of the others, I carried the heavy old box, which through those centuries had contained treasure worth a king’s ransom. Then, delighted with our success, we pushed forward and upward, finding the air fresher nearly every foot we progressed, until at last, nearly three-quarters of a mile from the point we had descended, the tunnel went suddenly upwards, and we found farther progress barred by a huge oaken door strengthened by a kind of network of iron battens securely bolted on to it.

We tried it, but it would not budge. It was very strongly secured on the other side, and all our efforts to open it proved futile.

Having battered upon it and used our crowbar to little effect, we heard a frightened and muffled voice on the other side demanding who and what we were.

“Let us out, old chap?” I shouted. “Can’t you open the door? Who are you?”

“My name’s John Kirk,” was the man’s hoarse answer. “Where are you, and who are you?”

“There are three of us. We’ve been along an underground passage, and this is the end of it. Where are we?”

“This is the old dairy in Threave Mains. Wait a bit, and I’ll get the master.”

“Threave Mains?” cried Fred. “Then we’ve passed right under the Dee into Balmaghie! You can see the Mains from the castle – an old white house about three-quarters of a mile away. I hope the master, whoever he is, will let us out of this very soon.”

We did not have to wait long; but the fact was that some old panelling in the ancient part of the building, now used as a dairy, had first to be taken down, and then the door was revealed and opened, letting us out once again to the light of day.

Truth to tell, we were nothing loath to breathe the fresh air once more; and the dirty and disreputable figures we cut as we emerged, I think, filled the good farmer with some suspicion. We told him of our explorations underground, not mentioning the treasure, of course, whereupon the old man said, in his broad Galloway dialect:

“I’ve heard talk of a passage under the river to the castle, but I thought it was only a fable. I had no idea it ended in this wall.”

“Well,” said Sammy, “you go down and have a smell round yourself. You’ll find it interesting. You won’t want a boat in the future to get over to the island.”

Whereat we all laughed, and after examining the old oak panelling, and coming to the conclusion that the dairy was originally the most ancient part of the house, we gave the farmer a trifle to repay him for the removal of the woodwork, and departed, carrying the jewels, in their cases, secreted in our pockets, and leaving the unfortunate Selby still a prisoner on the island, with Walter guarding him. One thing was at least reassuring – namely, that the casket, having been discovered beneath the bed of the river, could be claimed by neither of the owners of the property on either side.

In the lightest of spirits we joined the high road at the Black Bride Burn, and hurried along for a mile to the Bridge of Dee, where we knew we could obtain a boat to fetch Walter off the island. This was done, and while Fred and Sammy rowed back upstream, I idled on the wayside railway station close to the river, the whole of the jewels being transferred to my care, while the old casket had been wrapped in a newspaper we had picked up by the roadside.

The farmer at Threave Mains had looked askance at the old box until, in order to satisfy him, I showed that it was empty. He had no use for empty boxes, he said, laughing; but he was not aware of its precious contents then in our pockets.

I had a long wait at the railway station; but about six o’clock my companions returned, bringing Walter with them. The latter had feared, as we did not return, that some accident had happened to us, and had been amazed to find Sammy and Fred, afloat, hailing him.

Selby was still at the place where we had secured him, bound hand and foot, shouting and cursing until he was hoarse, and uttering all kinds of threats against us. But we had secured the historic jewels of the notorious Lucrezia, and now intended to make the best of our way to Crailloch. With that intention, therefore, we tidied ourselves as well as we could, and walked on to Dildawn, the fine estate of our host’s good friend, Charlie Phillips, and there borrowed a conveyance to take us home, a distance of about fourteen miles as the crow flies.

So disreputable our appearance, so mysterious our movements, not to mention the absence of guns or game bags, that our friend’s curiosity was aroused; but we merely explained that we had been out for a day’s excursion and got stranded, the railway being of no use to us. He gave us some whisky, smiled knowingly, but was much puzzled.

“My opinion is that you fellows have been up to some trick or other that you oughtn’t to have been,” was his remark as we drove away.

“All right, old chap,” shouted Fred; “we’ll tell you all about it some day.” And the smart pair of bays swung away down the drive.

We agreed to say nothing to anyone, not even to the rest of the party at Crailloch. At present, in view of our forthcoming investigations at Crowland, it was not judicious to make any statement. We had forestalled our enemies at Threave, and for the present that was sufficient.

Our tardy and unexpected return gave rise to a good deal of comment, as may be imagined. The ladies of the party were soon around Sammy imploring him to tell them the reason of our mysterious movements, and many questions were put to Fred by the men. But to all we were dumb. We had been visiting friends was all we explained.

“Friends!” exclaimed Jack Handsworth, sucking at his cigar. “Been down a drain somewhere, by the look of your clothes,” a remark that was greeted with considerable laughter.

That night, after the others had retired, the four of us held a secret sitting in Fred’s study, where we examined our find, and discovered it to be more remarkable and important than we had believed it to be. The emerald collars were magnificent; but, besides what I have already enumerated, there was a magnificent Byzantine cross of diamonds, containing in the back the relic of St. Peter, which is known to have been the property of Lucrezia’s father, the Borgia Pope. In the Vatican archives are several mentions of it; but on the death of Alexander VI it unaccountably disappeared, having been given, no doubt, to his golden-haired daughter. There was a heavy gold bracelet, too, in the form of a serpent, and several fine rings. One, in gold, was engraved with the sacred tau, believed in the Borgia era to guard the wearer against epilepsy; another, of agate, carved with an image of St. John the Divine, which was worn in those days as a protection from venom; and in a third was set a piece of toadstone or bufonite – the fossil palatal tooth of the ray fish Pycnodus– the most potent periapt against black magic.

The most interesting of all, however, was a beautiful ring of gold niello, of the fourteenth century, with a hollow bezel or sharp point pierced by two tiny holes, which had undoubtedly been used to contain poison. It was quite easy to see that this ring, if charged with the deadly liquid, could be used with fatal effect in a hand-grasp with an enemy – a curio of world-wide interest, the actual poison-ring of that veneficious bacchante Lucrezia Borgia, which had caused the death of so many unsuspecting and innocent persons, from cavaliers in Ferrara to cardinals in Rome.

I turned it over in my hand and felt the sharpness of that fine needle-point. Surely the controversy regarding the venom of the Borgias would now be set at rest forever.

The crystal perfume bottle, with its few drops of that deadly cantarella poison, I held to the light and examined carefully, as well as the antidote – both presents given to Godfrey by Lucrezia herself, with instructions how to use them.

I was in the act of replacing both bottles in the old jewel case, with its faded lining of purple velvet, when I noticed the top of the lining was loose, and on touching it it fell away and a small folded piece of damp-stained parchment came into my hand.

There was faded writing upon it in Godfrey’s erratic script, and the words I deciphered caused my heart to leap.