The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

The maid came in and cleared the table. Then I was left alone standing at the window, the wire blind of which fortunately prevented me from being seen from the street.

An hour passed, tolled out by the musical bells in the tower, but my friend did not return. Something important was transpiring, no doubt.

To pass the time, I took from my pocket the transcript of the old record, and reread it from beginning to end. I made a note of various books to obtain in the reading-room of the British Museum, in order to verify the statements both regarding the doings of the Borgias and the events in Galloway in the middle of the sixteenth century, as recorded by the old chronicles. My own antiquarian tastes told me that, in order to properly pursue this investigation, we must be armed with historical facts and data; and that in all probability this might be obtained either at the British Museum or at the record office. In the history of the Borgias I had been interested for years, and had read many works dealing with that celebrated family of prelates and poisoners; but of the history of Galloway I confess that I was in almost total ignorance.

True, I had been in Galloway, shooting with my old friend Fred Fenwicke of Crailloch, when my eyesight was better than it now is, and had admired the wild beauties of the country – a land of hills, streams, and lochs, and full of charming spots as beautiful as any in Scotland. I had crossed the purple heather of Lochenbreck, had traversed the giant solitudes of Carsphaim and the boulder-strewn plains of Dromore; and had shot grouse at Shirmer’s – the locale of my friend Mr Crockett’s charming story, “The Lilac Sunbonnet,” – and fished the Dee for salmon at Tongland Bridge and in the murmuring Garpal where it runs over its grey rocks through the deep wooded glen in front of Fred Fenwicke’s fine old mansion of Crailloch; yet with its historic associations I had never before had occasion to trouble myself.

I knew the titles of several books which, however, I thought might assist me, and put these down for reference.

But through it all – indeed, through all the day – thoughts of Judith Gordon, that beautiful yet tragic figure that had stood beside me on that cliff beside the summer sea, haunted me continually.

Sitting there, impatiently awaiting Walter’s return, I reflected upon her attitude towards me, and saw that she held me more in terror than in abhorrence.

You may dub me a fool for this piece of folly of the heart. Nevertheless, I tell you that this was no mere idle fancy based upon a sudden admiration, but a deep and genuine attraction, such as men experience only once in their lives.

I had never lived before that hour. Though she had shown no sign of tenderness to me, she was woman in all that could render woman adorable to man. All my days, those long weary youthful days of work and worry in London, and those years of lazy, idle lotus-eating by the Mediterranean, had been passed in striving and in longing, and my ideal had ever fled from my grasp, leaving me tantalised, athirst, unblessed. But everything had now altered. Here, in the midst of this storm and stress of mystery, one woman had suddenly come to me, and I had stood by her side enchanted. I was not sorry now that the plenitude of happiness had so long been denied me; I was glad that fate had kept me unsated.

But these pages are simply pages of record, not of argument.

When Walter re-entered the room, his clothes dusty and his face perspiring, I saw from his countenance that something curious had occurred.

“I’ve watched them the whole time,” he said breathlessly, as he closed the door behind him. “They’ve put up at the ‘White Hart,’ opposite the old bridge, and have been over the fields round about the ruins with a plan drawn on tracing-paper. They evidently know what they are about, for they haven’t been in the ruins proper at all, fortunately perhaps for me, for I concealed myself there and watched all their movements. The old hunchback speaks English quite well.”

“Speaks English?” I cried, surprised. “Why, in Leghorn he always feigned ignorance of any single word of English.”

“For his own purposes, no doubt,” laughed my friend. “Ten minutes ago I overheard him talking English with his lordship quite fluently. It seems as though this old Italian has a plan, – a tracing, no doubt, – and from it they are locating the whereabouts of the treasure. They have a measuring-tape with them, and have taken a lot of measurements, all from the southern buttress of the central tower. Their measurements, however, extended much farther than ours, indeed right away into the field beyond the one where are the remains of the fish ponds. You recollect where a footpath crosses, which, it appears, leads to a place called Anchor Church House, whatever that may be. Well, they measured, took angles by the buttress of the tower, and here and there stuck into the grass little pieces of whitewashed wood like labels gardeners use. They’ve evidently been marking out the ground in a long oblong patch, and both were exceedingly careful that their measurements should tally exactly with what was given upon the plan. Lord Glenelg went about sounding various spots by tapping the earth with his cane. The latter I discovered was a bar of iron painted dark-brown, and hooked to represent a walking stick – a clever contrivance to escape attention. He evidently expected to find some hollow spot.”

“But that is not borne out by the record left by old Godfrey, is it? Why should they expect to discover a hollow?”

“Ah! that’s a mystery,” he responded. “I merely tell you what I’ve just seen – namely, that they have some plan from which they are working in a slow, scientific, and methodical manner, not in our field, but in the one beyond, in what I’ve ascertained is called the Great Postland. They have a compass with them, and have taken proper bearings.”

“Well, they’ll have to get the permission of the owner of the land before they can dig, that’s certain. I wonder to whom it belongs?”

“To the Church, no doubt. If we warn our friend, the rector, we’ll no doubt be able to stop their little game, at least for the present,” remarked Walter. “Unless, of course, the magic of an earl’s name carries more weight than ours. Recollect that Lord Glenelg is a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries and a well-known archaeologist.”

“But why is he investigating a spot that is not mentioned in The Closed Book?” I queried. “This seems to me an independent search altogether.”

“Perhaps; but it is directed towards the same end – namely, the discovery of the abbey treasure. Yet, where the hunchback obtained his plan is certainly a mystery. They marked out an oblong on the grass about twenty feet long by ten feet, and then gauged the center of it. At the exact spot the old Italian placed a piece of newspaper under a big flint which he found on the footpath, and then took up the whitened pieces of wood with which he marked the ground.”

“And then?”

“They went back to the inn together, and as soon as they were out of sight I cut down a big bunch of nettles at the spot with my stick, and then moved the stone and bit of newspaper about fifty feet westward.” He laughed.

“So, if they make any attempt at investigation, they’ll be entirely out of it,” I remarked with satisfaction.

“Of course. We don’t intend that they shall make any find, even if they possess the missing leaf from The Closed Book, which seems more than possible.”

What possible connection there could be between old Graniani and the Earl of Glenelg was to me an entire enigma. Everyone knew the Earl to be a man who had made archaeology a profound study, for he was author of the standard work upon medieval domestic architecture, and possessed at his seat, Twycross Hall, in Staffordshire, a very fine library of early printed books, including a splendid example of Caxton’s “The Mirrour of the World,” and “The Boke of the Hoole Lyf of Jasan,” – purchased at the Ashburnham sale for two thousand one hundred pounds, – besides such treasures as “The Boke named Corydale,” “The Proffytable Boke for Manne’s Soule,” – 1490, – and the Perkins copy of the first book printed in England; truly a magnificent collection, unique, as every bibliophile is aware.

I listened to my friend’s description of how, concealed behind the crumbling ruins, he had watched intently every movement on the part of these two men so widely different in social standing and even in nationality. His opinion coincided with mine that they had returned to the inn to await the darkness before setting to work to excavate; whereupon the question arose as to whether it were best to warn the rector of their intentions, or to allow them to proceed and watch the result.

To me it seemed probable that his lordship, patron of twenty odd livings as he was, would not deign to ask permission to make the search, but just make it in secret as he felt inclined. Certainly, neither of the pair had any idea of my presence there, or they would never have gone openly to work to take these measurements. As matters now stood, we had the spot marked, while the scene of their investigations had been transferred some distance away. Even if the treasure were concealed in that farther field, they certainly would not secure it.

“Well, is it worth while seeing Mr Mason and making an explanation to him?” I asked. “For my own part, I think not. We have only to watch their failure.”

“And if they have retained the missing leaf they may post up to Scotland and forestall us there,” My companion remarked dubiously. “Without doubt the search about to be made here is the outcome of the curious conspiracy which is puzzling us.”

“But why did the prior and his accomplices sell me the Arnoldus if they wished to retain it in their possession?” I asked. “Why did Graniani follow me to Florence, and watch me through the church window; why did my servant Nello warn me against possessing the forbidden volume, and why did that dark-eyed woman, the confidante of the prior, steal it and carry it post-haste across Europe, transferring it in Paris to a second woman, who carried it to London? To me the whole thing is an enigma.”

“And to me,” Wyman admitted. “This is certainly no ordinary affair. We have, however, at present to remain in patience and watch in secret the development of events – a development which I feel confident will bring with it some almost unheard-of revelations.”

Chapter Twenty Four

Forestalled

Walter went out again, and returned after an absence of about three-quarters of an hour. They had telegraphed to Peterborough, he said, but of the nature of the message he knew nothing. After he had left me it appeared that he watched the pair ascend the curious old triangular bridge which now stands in the centre of the village at the juncture of crossroads, and once, no doubt, spanned two narrow rivers long since dried up. On the top of this old Saxon bridge, approached by three flights of much-worn steps, Lord Glenelg and the hunchback halted, and stood gazing around. Then again Graniani drew another plan from his pocket, took bearings of the northern angle of the one remaining tower of the abbey, and, his compass in hand, pointed away to a comfortable old-fashioned stone house in East Street, between the abbey and bridge, the brass plate on which showed it to be occupied by a Mr Wyche, a solicitor.

Openly, and watched by the idlers at the bridge, the lounging place of the villagers, they made a measurement to the corner of the house in question, going over the ground twice in order to make no miscalculation, Walter watching them from the bar window of a small beer-house. The villagers evidently supposed the pair to be surveyors, and took but little notice; nevertheless Wyman kept careful observation upon their every movement.

“What they intend doing at the corner of that house in East Street I can’t for the life of me imagine. They made a small mark in charcoal on the wall about two feet from the ground; then again returning to the top of the bridge and referring to the plan, took their bearings a second time and marked a spot right out of the village to the north-east of the abbey, in the centre of the field about ten yards behind the old windmill.”

“And then?” I asked, much interested.

“Then, having done this, they went to the telegraph office and wired to someone in Peterborough – afterwards returning to the ‘White Hart,’ and engaging beds for the night, saying that they had decided not to return until the morrow.”

“Why, surely they intend to make a search for the treasure?” I gasped.

“Without doubt,” was his reply. “My theory is that they’ve telegraphed to some of their friends who are awaiting them in Peterborough, and that they mean to make a secret search tonight when all the villagers have gone to sleep and everything is quiet.”

When dusk fell we again called upon the rector, explained how we had discovered the presence of our rivals and their intentions, and arranged to return to him at ten o’clock. The feature of the case that aroused the rector’s indignation – and most justly, too – was the intention of the others to search without permission. To me, their mode of facing matters boldly showed that they were in possession of positive information, and relied upon securing the treasure and getting away before anyone knew of their intentions.

When Walter once took up an inquiry, or set out upon a journey, he never rested until his object was accomplished. He was one of those men who seem continually active, and unable to rest in idleness for ten consecutive minutes, and, happy possessor of such a fine physique, was never tired. We watched the pair away from the “White Hart” again, for they were both smoking and wandering about, apparently enjoying the rural quiet, but in reality awaiting darkness. Then, when they had gone away – in the direction of the old South Eau, we learned – we both lounged into their inn, and called for ale, and chatted with the rosy-cheeked servant who brought it. A judicious sixpence released her tongue, and by careful questions we soon learned all we wished about the two guests. They were staying till morning, but did not expect any visitors. One, the tall gentleman, was a doctor, and might be recalled; therefore their coachman from Peterborough, who would remain there also, might be called up during the night, and they would be compelled to leave. His lordship had recourse to a clever fiction then. He was a doctor who might be called in the middle of the night! I suppose it never occurred to the rustic mind that, if a doctor, his practice was not in Crowland, and therefore he was scarcely likely to receive an urgent call.

The other man, she told us, was a foreigner. They had brought a bag full of papers and plans, but kept it locked. Both took a great interest in old ruins, and for that reason they had taken some measurements.

One fact she forgot she remarked before going out. The tall gentleman had said that a young lady might arrive during the evening and inquire for him. If she did, she was to be asked to wait.

A young lady! Was it possible that Judith was about to follow her father there?

As ten o’clock chimed from the abbey bells we took our candles, and, wishing the worthy landlord good-night, went to our rooms and there waited until all was still. Crowlanders retire early to bed, and presumably the policeman, like all others, has to meet another guardian of the peace, perhaps, at the end of that long, straight old road called Kennulph’s Drove, that runs towards Peterborough, for we saw nothing of him when we carefully crept down, drew the bolts, unlocked the door, and, closing it noiselessly after us, made our way to the rectory.

Mr Mason, ready attired in hat and overcoat, opened his door noiselessly ere we had approached it, and we slipped into his study to tell him all that we had witnessed. Then, feeling that we ought to go forth at once and take up our position to watch, we all went out, skirting the churchyard and passing down behind the high hawthorn hedge which formed the boundary of the field wherein were traces of the fish ponds.

The night was dark and starless, with that oppressive stillness that foretokened a storm. Behind us lay the black ruins of the abbey, rearing high and gloomy; and as we passed along, led by the rector, who knew every nook and corner, a silence fell upon us.

The rector’s object was to approach the spot marked with the paper and stone as near as possible, yet having good cover to conceal us. In this he was eminently successful; for, having traversed the field on two sides, he suddenly suggested that we should crouch down in a low hedge only thirty yards from the scene of operations.

We conversed together in low, expectant whispers for almost an hour, until, indeed, the rector began to fear that our vigilance was in vain, when of a sudden we heard on the hard road far distant the sound of wheels approaching, on the road skirting the village on the Welland side, Mr Mason declared.