The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

“Leaving the abbey treasure still hidden,” I added.

“Certainly,” he said. Then rapidly referring to my transcript, he added: “As far as I can make out, the silver altar and the three chests full of treasure hidden from Cromwell’s men were not placed in the same lake as the Borgia jewels. Old Godfrey was clever enough not to suggest that, fearing that the casket he himself had secreted might be discovered by some prying person. You see he says that the abbey plate and jewels were buried ‘at the opposite end to where, through many years, my own treasure lay well concealed.’ Again he says: ‘Once I heard rumour that Southwell intended to pump out the lakes.’ He speaks in the plural, thus showing that there was more than one fish pond at this place. Of course, they’ve since been filled in, and this ground made comparatively level over the old foundations.”

I glanced at the passages he referred to, and saw that his surmise was correct. There was certainly more than one pond there in Godfrey’s day, and although the Borgia jewels were hidden in the water one hundred and thirty-one paces south-east of the grand altar, yet it did not actually allege that the abbey plate was submerged in the same lake, but at the opposite end. That would be south-west of the grand altar.

I pointed this out to my friend, and, both turning at the same moment, we saw the glint of sunshine upon water at the opposite corner of the rough and broken ground, level with the clock tower, and abutting upon the road which skirted the village itself.

Together we eagerly approached it, first, however, returning to the spot where we had fixed the whereabouts of the main altar, and counting the paces towards it. I counted them as one hundred and twenty-nine, while Walter made them one hundred and thirty-two.

The pond was big, full of dark water, and weedless, showing it to be of considerable depth. It had escaped our notice on entering the abbey grounds, and we both saw that although it was now bounded on one side by the high, black-tarred fence of a cottage garden, and at the end by some red-brick farm outbuildings and hayricks, it had nevertheless once been of considerable dimensions – unquestionably the fish pond of the monks from which they caught their Friday fare.

Once it had undoubtedly been well kept and cared for, but today the cattle grazing on that weedy ground drank from it, for round the mud showed prints of hoofs.

“This is it, no doubt,” exclaimed Wyman, again referring to the record. “You see it says ‘the pond was deep and dried not in summer, being fed by several springs.’ This one is of fresh water, while the other is stagnant. If the treasure has not already been found, it is most likely sunk deep in the mud here.”

We both gazed upon the unruffled surface of the water glittering beneath the sun, wondering in which part had been the centre of the original pond. At present it was not more than twenty feet across and perhaps fifty feet long. Its previous dimensions had, of course, been much greater, for it must have extended nearly the whole length of the abbey if, as seemed so probable, the depression on the east side of the field had been in connection with it.

Of course, we had at once seen that the abbey and monastic buildings had originally spread over all the fields southward, eastward, and northward; but we had here sufficient evidence of the existence of the ponds, the hiding-place of the treasure.

A flock of rooks were lazily circling around the tower, and as we stood there in silence at the edge of the pond the deep-toned abbey bell rang out the hour.

“I cannot see how we can search here without its being known,” Wyman remarked at last. “How are we to pump out this pond and dig out the mud secretly? Why, the whole village would be here in half an hour if we attempted it.”

“I am quite of your opinion,” I answered. “And I would point out further that until we are aware of where the centre of the pond was it is no use searching at all. My idea is that the spot where the treasure lies is not beneath the water at all, but in another place, midway between here and the other pond – a place that has since been filled up with the débris when the abbey was destroyed. As you see, the ground has practically been levelled, yet at one time nearly the whole of this field was a deep pond. Recollect that there were sometimes as many as seven hundred monks here; therefore they required good-sized fish ponds. No; I feel confident that if we ever do discover the treasure we shall find it somewhere about the centre of this field.”

“Which means that we’ve a lot of excavation to do, and that we must disclose our secret to the whole countryside – even if we were successful in obtaining permission from the lord of the manor, the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, or whoever owns the land.”

“It means all that,” I said, “and more. It means that if we do go to work without knowing the exact spot where old Godfrey and the abbot concealed the silver altar and the three chestsful of plate we might continue our investigations until doomsday and achieve nothing except the inevitable reputation of having made arrant fools of ourselves.”

“But how can we know the exact spot?” inquired Wyman, who was nothing if not entirely practical.

“By this plan most probably. The other plan undoubtedly refers to Threave Castle, in Scotland; therefore, what more likely than this should record the exact spot where the chests were submerged,” and I glanced at the tracing of the roughly drawn diagram with its crooked lines and puzzling numerals. “If we could only discover the key!” I added wistfully.

“I think it would be wise, seeing that we can carry our investigations here no farther at this point, to ascertain who is the proprietor of this land and other facts for our future guidance. I notice that the writer of this guide is the rector, the Reverend Henry Mason. Why not call on him and make some antiquarian inquiries?”

To this I at once consented, and a quarter of an hour later we were seated in the rector’s cozy study under the shadow of the abbey walls. He was a short, elderly, spectacled gentleman of very affable manner, and full of information upon the subject which interested us.

Finding us interested in the history of the abbey, he produced from his bookshelves several rare volumes, including Felix’s “Life of St. Guthlac,” Histories of Crowland by Gough, Nicholls, and Canon Moore, and a volume of Cole’s collection of manuscripts which contained many notable extracts from the abbey registers. These interested me most of all; and while Wyman chatted with the rector I scanned through the pages, finding references to the silver altar and the golden cups and chalices of which we were now in search.

My friend made some casual inquiries regarding the field which we had just been over, whereupon the rector said:

“The old fish ponds were originally there, but have since been filled in with rubbish and fallen stones. Traces of the ponds, however, still remain. You may, perhaps, have noticed them. In that field, too, at the beginning of the century, a fine silver cup was dug up by a workman while getting out some of the old stones with which to build a cottage. It was claimed by the lord of the manor, and is now in the possession of the Marquis of Exeter at Burghley.”

“There may be some more,” I suggested, laughing.

“More than likely,” replied the clergyman. “According to a popular legend, a great treasure is buried somewhere hereabouts, but no one has yet been able to find it.”

“Have they tried?” I asked.

“Oh, of course, the place must have been searched and dug over many times without success,” was his response. “Not, of course, of late. I have known Crowland for the past sixty years, and no search has been made in my time.”

“Whose permission would have to be obtained if operations were commenced on a serious scale?” I inquired, as though suddenly interested in this popular legend.

“My own,” was his response. “The paddocks outside the churchyard wall are my private property. The last time search was made appears to have been in 1721, for in the register there is an entry of nine shillings having been paid to four men for digging in search of the supposed treasure. A note is added that nothing was discovered of any great value.”

“Well,” I said, “the legend is certainly interesting, and I, for one, would like to make investigations some day, if you would allow me.”

“You are quite welcome, providing you replace all that you excavate,” he answered. “Of course, it will require time, money, and a good deal of patience. Besides, it will not do for the villagers to know your object, otherwise you’ll have a constant crowd of onlookers. When would you suggest making a start?”

“Ah! I must consult with my friend, Captain Wyman, here,” I said. “At present I have a good many engagements. A little later – perhaps. But, of course, this is in strictest confidence.”

“Very well, Mr Kennedy,” he said. “If you really intend to investigate in earnest, I shall be most happy to render you assistance.”

We remained with him a short time longer, and then walked back to the George Hotel, a small, old-fashioned place, where our driver had put up the horse, and took luncheon together in a cozy old-fashioned room overlooking East Street, the narrow thoroughfare roadway leading from the curious triangular bridge to the abbey.

This hotel was, we found, one of the very few in England which had not been spoiled by modern progress. The dishes were excellent country fare; but the one fact that impressed itself upon us was that the plate on the table was all early Georgian silver.

As far as we had gone everything had turned out well. The local legend appeared to bear out what was written in The Closed Book, and the fact that we had made a friend of Mr Mason, the rector, was also highly gratifying.

We had been consuming cigarettes with our glasses of old port – served in the old-fashioned style on the bare polished table – and I had risen to glance out through the wire blind into the sunny street prior to going forth into the ruins again, when of a sudden I heard the voice of someone approaching, and next instant two persons passed the window, and were lost to view almost before I was aware of their presence.

But in that moment, as they passed, I recognised in one – tall, thin, and grey-haired – the Earl of Glenelg, and in his companion – short, ugly, and hobbling – none other than Francesco Graniani, the hunchback of Leghorn, the man whose strange connection with The Closed Book was such a profound mystery.

“Look?” I cried to my companion. “Lord Glenelg has passed with the old hunchback antique-dealer who first told me of the existence of the Book. Why are they here – why has Graniani travelled all the way from Italy if not to seek the abbey treasure?”

“If you’re not mistaken, Allan,” answered my friend, jumping up and joining me at the window, “then you may be certain that the missing page in the book contains directions for the recovery, not only of the casket up in Scotland, but of the hidden gold here. They have no idea we are here, that’s evident. But that they know more than we do is equally clear.”

“But why is Graniani over here?” I queried.

“He’s been brought over, no doubt, because he possesses some key to the hiding-place. The whole affair seems to grow more and more bewildering.”

Chapter Twenty Three

Tactics of the Enemy

Walter Wyman, a thorough-going man of the world, was quick of resource. Indeed, it was his shrewdness and clever ingenuity that had extricated him from many a tight corner during his long journeys of exploration. More than once had he carried his life in his hand on that perilous trip from the Albert Nyanza up to Darfur and Kordofan, which he boldly undertook for the intelligence department of the war office prior to Kitchener’s march to Omdurman; and more than once it was his quick foresight and promptness of action that had saved him.

The picture of health, he was an ideal British officer, well set-up, well-groomed, and well-clad; and as he stood there in a suit of grey tweed and Panama hat, a thoughtful frown crossed his merry countenance reddened by African suns.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Allan, old chap. We ought to ascertain how the enemy intend to start their campaign. There’s something decidedly funny about your old Italian hunchback being over here. Are you quite certain you’ve made no mistake?”

“Absolutely. Graniani has gone past with the Earl.”

“But the latter is believed by everyone in town to be still in India. His own servants must, of course, be in the know, but the whole circumstances are suspicious. Now, the hunchback doesn’t know me, therefore I shall have a much better chance of following them than if you came. They mustn’t know that you are here.”

“No. Go and see what their game is. I’ll remain here and wait for you. They’ve evidently gone through into the abbey, and will be poking about there. Keep a sharp eye on them, and we may learn something from their movements.”

“All right,” he answered, and without another word went out, closing the door after him.