The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

Presently, when the man went on to his work, and it had grown lighter, we were able to see the extent of their investigations, which was certainly far greater than we imagined; while Walter, after making some measurements, showed us the spot which they had at first marked out, and from which he had removed their landmark.

The chest and books were, of course, the property of the abbey, so we carried them to the small room in the restored portion of the fabric that the rector kept as a kind of museum, and there investigated them.

They were of little interest, all being works of theological writers, copied in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, save one (Cambridge University Library MSS., Dd. XI. 78, ff. 61, 92.), a small quarto manuscript, beautifully illustrated, written by William, a monk in Ramsey Abbey, in Huntingdonshire, in 1191, which commenced “Incipit Vita beati Guthlaci metrice composita,” a poem on the life of St. Guthlac, dedicated to Henry de Longo Campo, the contemporary Abbot of Crowland.

It was Mr Mason’s opinion, as well as my own, that the chest had been buried there fully a century before the dissolution, at some time when the abbey feared attack, and the worthy rector was already eager to demand of Lord Glenelg the return of the whole of the other volumes that had been surreptitiously carried away.

At present, however, it was agreed to make no sign. The manuscripts would, no doubt, be well preserved in his lordship’s collection, and there was no fear of their going astray.

Then, having completed our examination, we returned to the rectory, where we had hot coffee to warm us after our night vigil. Mr Mason promised to set a night watch upon the field until such time as we should deem it advisable to make our search; for I pointed out to him that a journey to Scotland was imperative, in order to forestall our friends if they attempted to make a search there, and that we should be unable to excavate the site of the monastery fish ponds until our return from Galloway.

As a matter of fact, we all felt, from the conversation we had overheard, that it was not their intention to return at present, as they had no wish to fall into the hands of the police.

“Well,” remarked Mr Mason, as we sat over our coffee in his study, “the whole affair is most mysterious and remarkable. Lord Glenelg evidently possesses certain information upon which he is working.”

“We hope that ours is equally precise,” I laughed. “That is why we intend to go north and take preliminary observations. We can only make our investigation at a certain hour on a certain day, the sixth of September.”

I was not more definite as I did not intend, at present, to give the secret away. In a hunt for treasure success depends to a very great extent upon strict secrecy. To arouse undue interest is always to be avoided. The Crowland treasure concerned the rector to a great degree, but the Borgia jewels would, if we discovered them, surely be our own.

At half-past seven we returned to “The George,” which had already been open an hour or so, and we went in as though we had returned from a morning walk. Neither servants nor landlord suspected anything until the villagers discovered the big hole near the abbey, and then, I believe, we were viewed with considerable suspicion. Indeed, I was much relieved when, at eleven o’clock, we drove out along Kennulph’s Way and through the village of Eye back to “The Angel,” at Peterborough.

Chapter Twenty Six

A Discovery in Harpur Street

At two o’clock that afternoon we were back in Dover Street, utterly fagged out by our long night watch among the rank grass and nettles of the damp fenland.

It seemed certain that the quartette had returned to London by the early train from Thorney or from Peterborough, and had carried back with them the manuscripts they had found; therefore, curiosity prompted Wyman to go forth about four o’clock, in order to try and discover something regarding Lord Glenelg’s movements.

When we parted in Piccadilly I went on to the British Museum, for I had been wondering if anything might be preserved there that would give me an accurate ground plan of Crowland Abbey before its dissolution. If only I could get that I should be able to fix the exact spot where the carp ponds once existed.

Professor Dawson Fairbairn, assistant keeper of the manuscripts, had, in the days before my self-exile from London, been one of my personal friends. He was perhaps the first authority upon palaeography in Europe, one of the founders of the new Palaeographical Society, and an expert upon Latin and early English manuscripts. A man of middle-age, he was by no means the dry-as-dust professor one would readily associate with such an unattractive study as the deciphering of mouldy vellum rolls. On the contrary, he was a short, stout, round-faced man, of merry demeanour, whose eyes blinked at one good-humouredly through his pair of circular gold-rimmed spectacles.

I found him in his room, busy deciphering a half-effaced page of an illuminated manuscript, but he placed aside his work to greet me. While in Italy I had had a good deal of correspondence with him regarding several rare documents that I had succeeded in finding, and more than one of which I had sent for his inspection and opinion. Of these we commenced to chat.

I did not care to show him The Closed Book, for various reasons. The secret it contained was my own, and I wished to preserve it to myself, for I recollected that he was an expert himself and could read that difficult script at the end of the volume as easily as I could a printed page.

“I am just now taking an interest in the history of Crowland Abbey,” I said presently. “Do you know of anything in the collections that would give me an adequate description of the monastery as it was in the early sixteenth century?”

“Crowland Abbey! How strange!” he ejaculated. “This codex I have been examining evidently came from there. It was sent to me for my opinion, along with several others, by Lord Glenelg, only a couple of hours ago. All the manuscripts undoubtedly once belonged to that abbey.”

“Lord Glenelg has been here?” I exclaimed.

“No – not personally. He sent them by a queer little old Italian with a humpback. I’ve met the old fellow before somewhere, only I can’t think where. Abroad, most probably, when I’ve been buying for the Museum. He’s something of an expert.”

“His name is Graniani,” I said. “But did his face recall to you any particular incident?”

“No, only I felt that I disliked him.”

“Lord Glenelg was, I thought, abroad.”

“So did I,” was the great expert’s reply. “I was very surprised to receive these from him,” and he pointed to a pile of heavily bound volumes on the table, those very manuscripts that we had watched unearthed a few hours before. “They’ve evidently been kept in a very damp place, for they’re half ruined and effaced.”

“You received no explanation concerning them?”

“None. Only it seems such a curious coincidence that you should come and inquire for references to Crowland just at a moment when we have this important discovery of the abbey’s liturgical and other books.”

“I found a reference to it by a monk named Godfrey in a manuscript I purchased in Italy recently, and it has aroused my interest,” I explained.

“A reference to it by Godfrey?” he echoed, looking up at me quickly through his spectacles.

“Have you actually found the missing Arnoldus?”

“It is an Arnoldus,” I responded; “but why do you ask? What do you know of it?”

“I know, my dear Mr Kennedy, that if you have really rediscovered the book I mean, you hold the secret of the hidden treasure at Crowland,” was his reply.

“But what is known of the treasure?” I asked eagerly.

“All that is known is contained in an old pocket-book belonging to this monk Godfrey now in the Harley Collection. I’ll send for it,” and, turning up one of the huge bound catalogues, he noted its number upon a slip of paper and sent one of his assistants for it.

The young man returned with a small squat volume, much-worn, bound in a cutting from an ancient antiphonarium, and secured by a small bronze clasp.

“You will see that the book is full of useful recipes, domestic accounts, a calendar of saints’ days, and memoranda of all kinds. Among the latter is the entry to which I refer.” And he opened it at a page wherein a slip of paper had been inserted.

There, sure enough, was an entry in Latin, in the same well-known hand as that upon the envenomed pages of The Closed Book. Freely translated, the memorandum was as follows:

“I, Godfrey Lovel, now monk of the Certosa of Florence, and once a brother of the Order of St. Benedict, at Crowland, in England, am about to die, and have therefore written a full account of my life and adventures, and have also given full directions for the recovery of the abbey treasures, so that the secret shall not be altogether lost. I have plainly told also where the emeralds of my lady Lucrezia are concealed. All this will be found clearly written in my Arnoldus, which I have now concealed in a place of safety. Let him who seeks to know the secrets beware! He will grasp the hand of Death midway.”

There was nothing else, so the professor informed me: only that single entry – a few rough, ill-written lines which told that the treasures of the abbey were actually concealed, and that the secret of their whereabouts was contained in the Arnoldus that had so curiously fallen into my hands.

Was it any wonder that his curiosity was at once aroused, or that he sought to know what I really had discovered?

“It is true that I am in possession of the missing manuscript,” I said; “but, unfortunately, one folio of it is missing – the very folio which gives definite instructions for the recovery of the hidden treasure. At present I am unable to make investigations because I cannot find any plan of the abbey, the cloister court, and adjacent buildings. It is to ask your assistance in this matter that I’ve come to you today, although I would also ask you, as a favour, to regard the matter at present as entirely confidential, for I do not wish anyone to know that I’m engaged upon a treasure hunt.”

“I shall, of course, respect your confidence entirely, Mr Kennedy,” the professor said; “and if I can be of any assistance in the matter I shall be delighted. It would be a grand thing to recover the treasures of Crowland. There must be a good many valuable things among them, for the place was one of the wealthiest of the Benedictine houses.”

“Well,” I said, “do you happen to know of any existing plan or any written description of the monastic buildings?”

He reflected deeply, taking off his glasses and carefully wiping them.

“At the moment I really cannot think of anything,” was his quiet rejoinder, “at least of nothing more than what has already been published in the various histories. You have, of course, seen them?”

I responded in the affirmative, whereupon he promised to make investigations and look through various catalogues, a work which I knew would mean considerable study and research.

I learned further from Professor Fairbairn that he knew nothing of the man Selby, although he was, of course, on friendly terms with Lord Glenelg, who, as a bibliophile, was frequently at the Museum when in London.

“It is evident from these manuscripts,” I said, indicating them, “that his lordship is making some careful investigations; therefore I wish that my inquiries should be absolutely secret from him – you understand?”