The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

I returned in the cab to Wyman, and then lost no time in following out my quest by going out to Hammersmith.

I found my friend, a loosely built, heavy-jawed man of middle-age, sitting in his upstairs office; and when I entered he rose to welcome me warmly. Then, on telling him that I had come to seek his advice, he settled himself at his plain writing-table to listen.

The story I related interested him just as much as it had Wyman; but now and then he pencilled a note upon the sheet of paper he had instinctively placed before him. I related the whole facts from first to last, concealing nothing. The secret poisoning appealed to him, clever detective that he was, for every man attached to Scotland Yard will tell you that a good many more people die in London of poison annually than ever doctors or coroner’s juries suspect.

“Now, what I want is to get my property back again without these people knowing,” I explained at last.

“I quite see,” he said. “If they knew you had followed them up so quickly it might put an end to their game without you ever knowing what their motive has been. Yes, you want that book back at all costs, but in a secret way. You can easily lay information before the magistrate; and I could, on that, go and search for the stolen property. But that’s hardly your game, Mr Kennedy. We must use methods a trifle more – well, artistic, shall we call it?” and his big face broadened into a grin.

“Well now, what do you suggest?” I asked.

But, instead of responding, he asked me for a detailed description of the rare and interesting volume. Then, when I had given it to him, he raised his eyes from the paper whereon he had made some memoranda, and with a mysterious smile asked:

“Would you be willing to leave the affair entirely in my hands, Mr Kennedy? I have an idea that I might, with the assistance of a friend, be able to get hold of the book without this person Selby knowing that it has gone back into your possession. If I attempt it, however, you must not be seen anywhere in the vicinity. Any observation kept upon the old lady or upon this fellow Selby must be done by your friend, Captain Wyman. Would you be inclined to act under my directions and lie low until I communicate with you?”

“Certainly,” I answered, although not yet understanding his point.

“If there is a conspiracy, you’ll very quickly be spotted if you remain hanging about Harpur Street,” he said. “I think, if you’re prepared to pay a sovereign or two, that I can get hold of the book for you. Only it will have to be done secretly; and, in order that you should not be suspected of regaining possession of it, you must go away into the country and wait until you hear from me. We don’t want them to suspect anything, otherwise we may not be able to solve the mystery of it all.”

“I’ll leave the whole affair in your hands, Noyes, of course,” I responded. “When shall I go into the country?”

“Today. Go where you like, to some place within easy reach of town, and stay there till you hear from me. Don’t go back to Harpur Street, because it’s too dangerous. You must be recognised sooner or later. I’ll find Captain Wyman and explain matters to him. Why not run down to somewhere on the Great Northern, to Peterborough, for instance. It’s on the main line, and the first stop of the expresses to the north – an hour and a half from King’s Cross. You see I could get down quickly if I wanted to see you, or you could run up if necessary. There’s a good old-fashioned hotel – the ‘Angel.’ I stopped there once when I was after a German bank-note forger, and was very comfortable.”

“Very well. I’ll go there. That will be my address till I hear from you. Tell it to Captain Wyman, as he may want to write to me.”

After some discussion, in which he steadily refused to enlighten me further upon his scheme for getting hold of The Closed Book, we returned together by the underground railway to Charing Cross, where we parted, he to seek my friend Wyman, and I to hide myself in the small provincial town of Peterborough, where I arrived that afternoon about half-past four.

As Noyes had declared, the “Angel” was replete with old-fashioned comfort, a relic of the bygone posting-days and a centre of agricultural commerce on market-days. Except the cathedral, there is very little of interest in the town of Peterborough; for of late years it has been modernised out of all recognition. In itself it is ugly, although situated in the centre of the rich green pasturage of the Nene Valley, a busy place, where the hand of the vandal has been at work everywhere save perhaps in Narrow Street, the small, old-fashioned thoroughfare wherein the “Angel” is situated.

I spent the evening examining the interior of the cathedral, afterwards taking a stroll as far as the village of Longthorpe, and after dinner retired early, for I had not yet recovered from my swift journey across Europe.

The following day passed, and still the next, yet I could only idle there, chafing and anxious regarding the success of Noyes’s undertaking. Letters from Wyman showed that, aided by Enrico, he was still keeping observation upon the house, although he had seen nothing further of my friend the detective after his announcement of my departure.

I began to wonder if Noyes had broken faith with me. Yet we had been the best of friends in the old days when I had lived and worked in London; and I thought I knew him well enough to be confident that he would assist me in every way within his power.

Therefore I wandered the streets of Peterborough or lounged in the bar of my hotel, in hourly expectation of some message from him.

His silence was ominous, and my uneasiness increased until, on the third day, I determined to remain inactive no longer.

Chapter Fifteen

The Old Monk’s Secret

To idle in a provincial town without friends and without occupation is neither pleasant nor profitable. In London one can always amuse one’s self and pass the time; but in dull Peterborough my principal excitement, in addition to visiting the much-restored cathedral and the local museum in the Minster Precincts, was to watch fat stock being sold by auction.

Anxiety consumed me as to what had occurred at Harpur Street, and whether The Closed Book was actually lost to me. I had telegraphed twice to Noyes, Hammersmith Police Station, but had received no response. His silence was in no way reassuring, therefore I resolved that if I heard nothing by nine o’clock that night I would return to London by the last train.

I dined at seven after a dismal day, and while at table the waiter entered the coffee-room where I sat alone, saying that a gentleman wished to see me. Next moment Noyes, dressed like a commercial traveller in dark-blue suit and bowler hat, entered the room.

There was a smile of triumph on his face, from which I gathered instantly that he had been successful. He carried a black leather bag in his hand, and this he opened as soon as the waiter had gone out, saying, as he produced a brown-paper packet:

“I’m glad to say, Mr Kennedy, that I’ve been able to do the trick. It was a very delicate matter, and the affair presented features and difficulties I had never anticipated.”

“Then you’ve actually got it?” I cried eagerly, opening the parcel and displaying the precious volume.

“There it is, as you see,” he laughed. “Only please don’t ask how I got possession of it, because I’d rather not say – you understand.”

Detectives are apt to be mysterious sometimes, therefore I did not question him further. For me it was sufficient that he had been able to secure it without the thieves knowing into whose possession it had passed. I was well aware of the great circle of criminal acquaintances Noyes had in London, and I suspected that it was through one of them that the book had been obtained.

“I wired twice to you,” I said, when at my invitation he seated himself at the table to join me at dinner.

“I know,” was his response. “It was not necessary to reply. In such a case as this patience is everything. You were just a trifle too impatient, Mr Kennedy – if you’ll pardon me saying it. I had promised to do what I could, and did so, with the result you see.”

I know I deserved this quiet reproof, and admitted it, for patience is one of the many good qualities I do not possess.

He would explain nothing of the means by which he had obtained my property, although he told me one or two strange facts concerning Selby and the little old lady who had travelled from Paris.

“I’ve seen Selby,” he said. “At first I seemed to have a faint idea that I’d seen his face before, and that he was wanted for something. But I’ve searched at the Yard, and found no photograph resembling him, so I suppose I must be mistaken. The old woman’s name is Mrs Pickard. She knows several foreigners living at different places, mostly people in good circumstances.”

“You haven’t seen anything of a tall, dark, and very handsome young woman – Italian probably?” I hazarded, wondering if the actual thief had arrived in London.

“No. Captain Wyman is still on the watch. He’s as good as any man I’ve ever had under me – quite professional in his methods. And that young Italian, too, seems a smart sort of chap. You picked him up quite accidentally, I think you said?”

I explained how I had sought Enrico’s aid, and what opinion I had formed of him.

“Well,” Noyes remarked, as he gulped down a glass of Bass with evident gusto, “I shall return tonight, but you’d best remain here, Mr Kennedy; or, if not here, somewhere in the country. You must not be seen in town. Bury yourself away from there, and leave all the watching to us. You’ve got the book, therefore be careful it don’t go out of your possession again.”

“Trust me,” I laughed. “When I’ve gone through it all I shall put it in a bank for safe keeping.”

“It ain’t the sort of thing to leave about if the leaves are really poisoned, as you say. I’ve been afraid to open the thing,” he remarked, half apologetically.

“I’m tired of this place,” I said, longing to return to London.

“Then go somewhere else – to the seaside, for instance. You’re quite near the east coast places here.”

“A good idea,” I exclaimed. “I’ll go to Sheringham tonight. I stayed at the ‘Grand’ once, and will go there again.”

“Very well,” he said, and we concluded our meal and lit cigars afterwards, chatting over the various remarkable features of the mystery. My decision to go to the little watering-place, now becoming so popular, pleased him. My absence from London was imperative, he declared, and at Sheringham, if dull, I could at any rate get some golf. How long I would be compelled to remain there he had no idea.

“Let me complete my inquiries,” he said. “They are very difficult; but I don’t despair as long as Captain Wyman will continue to assist me. Perhaps, when you’ve deciphered the whole of the book, a further clue will be furnished to the motive of all this secrecy and conspiracy.”

“I shall resume at Sheringham tomorrow,” I replied. “I expect to discover some secret which will throw further light on recent events.”

At nine o’clock, after an exchange of expressions of confidence, we drove together to the Great Northern station, and after seeing him into the up-express. I took the slow night train, via Wisbech and South Lynn, to the clean little fishing-village of Sheringham, which Harley Street has recently discovered to be so healthy, and which society is now commencing to patronise.

I took a private sitting-room at the “Grand,” overlooking the promenade, an expensive luxury to be sure, but I wanted quiet and privacy in my investigations; and next morning, after my breakfast had been cleared, I first assumed a pair of thick driving-gloves, and then reopened The Closed Book at the page where my reading had been so abruptly broken off.

I think, in order to reproduce the record plainly, it will be best to give the transcript just as I copy it from the time-stained poisoned pages now before me, with all its quaintness of expression and orthography, only eliminating the contractions and some obscurities.