The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

“With me – I know of no one else who is going. We may be going to Castle-Douglas; but of course I am quite in the dark. Very often I have set out from Charing Cross with him and have not known our destination until we have been in Paris or Brussels. Again, we have, on several occasions, been living quietly at home in Grosvenor Street when all our friends have believed us to be on the other side of the equator. It is quite exciting, I assure you, to live in secret at home, see nobody, and only go out at night, and then always in fear of being recognised,” she added.

“But why does your father do these things; he surely has some motive?”

I recollected that the town of Castle-Douglas was near the castle of Threave.

She gave her well-formed shoulders a shrug, and her countenance was overspread by a blank look of ignorance which I was compelled to admit was feigned.

Mystery crowded on mystery. I could make nothing out of it all. Put yourself for a moment in my place, and ask yourself whether you could solve the extraordinary problem surrounding this popular peer and his daughter who, while appearing frequently at the most exclusive functions in London, were sometimes living in absolute secrecy in their own house, or wandering over the face of the world without apparent motive, yet evidently with some fixed but secret object.

The more I reflected, the more utterly mystified I became.

“It is impossible – quite impossible?” she said when, at the Park Lane corner of Grosvenor Street I halted to take leave of her. “We must not meet again. I hope, Mr Kennedy, you will think no more of me,” she added; “because it pains me quite as much as it does you. As I have already told you, I would explain the truth if I were allowed – but I cannot.”

I saw that her eyelids trembled slightly, and I, folding her hand in farewell, pressed it with a deep meaning which she understood, and to which she responded.

“But we are friends, Lady Judith; we are friends, are we not?”

In response she drew a long sigh, and shook her head, saying, “Mr Kennedy, I know you are my friend, and one day, perhaps, I shall require to put your friendship to the test. Until then, let us remain apart, because it will be best so. You know the fears I have – the fear that evil may befall you.”

“I am ready to serve you at any moment,” I answered.

She withdrew her hand, sighing again, and, filled with emotion by my final declaration, hurried away through the hot, oppressive night.

For a moment, full of vague regret, I watched her departure, then turned on my heel and strolled down Park Lane into Piccadilly on my return to Dover Street, my mind full of that sweet-faced woman.

Those strange words of hers rang in my ears. At what did she hint? Tragedy, deep and mysterious, was underlying it all, I was confident, yet as a man of action I felt impelled towards that other spot mentioned in The Closed Book – the grim castle of Threave, that scene of foul deeds, that through the Middle Ages was the home of the Black Douglas. That her father intended to go there was evident, and it therefore behooved us to lose no time in going North and making preliminary investigations.

The advisability of going North without delay filled my mind until I had become oblivious to all about me, and indeed I was walking quite unconscious of the hurrying traffic in Piccadilly until I felt a slight touch on the arm and heard a woman’s low voice exclaim in Italian, “Pardon, Signor Kennedy, but I believe we have met before?”

I started and turned quickly aside to recognise in the speaker the very last person whom I expected to meet in that busy London thoroughfare – the dark-eyed, well-dressed woman whom I had encountered in the prior’s study at Florence, the woman in black who had made confession to Father Bernardo.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Some Explanations

My first thought, of course, was that the woman was a thief, for it was she who had so cleverly stolen The Closed Book from my study at Antignano and carried it to Paris, there transferring it to the hands of old Mrs Pickard, of Harpur Street.

My first impulse was to tax her with the theft; but fortunately I saw a necessity for careful tact, and therefore responded pleasantly in the same language, “Yes, signorina. It was one afternoon not long ago in Florence, if I remember aright.”

“It was,” she said quickly. “I wish to speak with you in private. Where can we go that we are not observed? I know so very little of London.”

For a moment I reflected. If she really wished to give me any information I ought to secure it at all hazards. Her manner was that of one who feared recognition in that public thoroughfare, and wished to speak with me in private; therefore I hailed a passing hansom, and as we were getting in I recollected that, it being dinner-time, we might secure a quiet table in the upstairs room at Scott’s at the top of the Haymarket. Therefore, to that famed restaurant I gave the cabman directions.

Her manner was as though haunted by a grave suspicion that she was being followed, and during our drive along to Piccadilly Circus she scarcely uttered a single word save to express satisfaction at finding me in a giant city like London, and to drop the remark that she had been following me for an hour past – the latter proving that she had seen me with Judith, and had undoubtedly noted my tenderness towards her.

My wooing in those crowded London streets that evening had certainly been strange, but really not extraordinary when one considers how many declarations of love are made among London’s millions amid the roar of traffic and the hurry and scurry of outdoor life. There exist few places in the heart of London that are adapted for lovers’ walks and lovers’ talks, and those few spots are so well patronised that the majority of lovers carefully avoid them. Romance is enacted among the smoke-blackened bricks and mortar of London just as often as in the briar-scented country lane or on the shingly beach of the popular seaside resort. The quiet thoroughfares of London, where one knows not his neighbour, are always more private than any country lane, with its sneaking yokels and the local gossip of its nearest village.

Still, the mystery with which this handsome, dark-eyed woman had accosted me, and the rapidity with which we had driven away, caused me to reflect. She was either my enemy or my friend – which, I intended to discover.

In the upstairs room of the restaurant we found a quiet corner safe from intrusion or observation, and when I had ordered a light dinner I asked for her explanation.

“I arrived in London three days ago,” she explained in Italian, “and have been in search of you ever since. I saw you leave that house in Bloomsbury together with the signorina, and have been following you ever since – oh! so far that I am very tired. But I kept on, because I desired to speak to you. The risk I have run is very great,” and she glanced around apprehensively at the half-dozen diners scattered about the room. “If I am discovered then the worst must come.”

“Why?”

“Because they do not know that I am in London, or that I am determined to warn you.”

“Of what?” I asked eagerly.

“Of this plot against you.”

“By whom?”

“By the persons you believe are your best friends,” she answered, bending across the small table towards me, and speaking in a low half-whisper.

“And why do you wish to give me this warning?” I inquired suspiciously, recollecting that this fine, handsome woman had acted as a thief, and had evidently herself participated in the plot – whatever it might have been.

“Because I am ordered to do so by one who is your real friend.”

“And what’s his name, pray?”

“Padre Bernardo of Florence. It is at his orders that I have sought you tonight.”

Her reply surprised me. The fat, good-humoured prior of San Sisto had certainly been very friendly towards me; but I had never believed, after what had occurred, that he was actually my friend. Had he not, by means of a ruse, endeavoured to induce me to withdraw from my bargain over my precious Arnoldus? Was he not an exceedingly clever and ingenious person, this Bernardo Landini? His actions had been puzzling from first to last, rendered, indeed, doubly mysterious when viewed in the light of my discovery at the end of that rare volume, and by recent events in London and at Crowland.

It was surely curious that he should send this woman to me, of all other persons. Yet somehow she seemed to be in his confidence. If not, why had they talked in his study with closed doors?

Suspicious that this woman had approached me with evil object, I nevertheless allowed her to explain. She was attired very much in the same manner as when I had first encountered her – namely, in plain black, a gown of apparent Parisian make, and a stylish hat that suited her dark beauty admirably, yet not at all loud in design.

She leaned her elbows on the table, and bending forward, with her gloved hands held together, thus explained her object in seeking me:

“I have been sent to warn you,” she said with a strange look in her dark eyes – those eyes that had once haunted me in that sun-blanched city by the sea.

“But you called at my house at Antignano and obtained possession of the manuscript which I had bought of Father Bernardo,” I said. “Why?”

“Because its possession constituted a danger to you,” was her answer, still speaking in Italian.

And I wondered whether she were aware that its vellum leaves were impregnated with a deadly venom that had not yet lost its potency.

“But that was no reason why you should steal the manuscript,” I said, in Italian, rather bluntly.

She raised her wine-glass to her lips and drank slowly in order to reflect. Then, setting her claret down, exclaimed:

“Ah! my action was under compulsion. You should have been warned by the prior of the evil that possession of the book would bring upon you.”

“Well, now tell me, signorina – for I haven’t the pleasure of your real name – ”

“Anita Bardi,” she interrupted.