The Closed Book: Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

For some days yet it was impossible to follow the old monk’s directions for the discovery of the spot at Threave; therefore, with the prospect of the Crowland treasure being revealed, we eagerly went on the following day to the British Museum and were closeted with the professor.

“I had no idea that this most interesting document existed,” he said, as he sat at his table and unfolded to our gaze a dark old parchment, whereon was a large but rather roughly drawn plan, very similar in style to those in The Closed Book.

“You will see here,” he said, pointing to an inscription in a small Gothic hand underneath, “that it was prepared by Richard Fosdyke, the celebrated architect, by the order of John Welles, the last abbot. From the difference in the drawing on the north side, it was apparently intended to make certain additions to the monastery buildings; but having compared it with the ground plan of the present ruins, it is proved that the abbey was dissolved before the work was carried out.”

“It is the exact positions of the fish ponds that we are very desirous of ascertaining,” I said. “What is your opinion?”

“There can be but one. They are here,” and he pointed to two squares drawn at some distance at the north-east of the abbey church, and in an exactly opposite direction to the written record of old Godfrey. “This square of buildings enclosed the cloister court,” the expert went on, “and here you see is the chapter house, the refectory, and the mausoleum, all of which have now disappeared.”

Then he took out a plan of the present ruins, and we compared the two carefully, being surprised at the wide ramifications of the original abbey and the extent of the outbuildings.

I inquired if it were possible to have a tracing of it, when our friend the professor took from a drawer a large sheet of tracing-paper upon which he had already had a copy made. This he gave to me, expressing pleasure that he had been of any service to us in our investigations.

“I am myself intensely interested in the work you have undertaken,” he said. “If you really hold Godfrey Lovel’s Arnoldus then you may, after all, be successful in discovering both the abbey treasures and the Borgia emeralds.”

“That is exactly what we are trying to do, but unfortunately we are not alone in it.”

“You mean that the Italian hunchback has discovered something?”

“Why, has he been here since my last visit?”

“He was here all day yesterday. He has in his possession some curious plan or other.”

My companion suggested that we should go that very evening to Crowland, place the plan before our good friend Mr Mason, and commence investigations in an open and straightforward manner. This course we adopted, and arranged to leave for Peterborough by the Leeds express.

At five o’clock, however, the Captain returned to tell me that he had received an imperative call from Paris, and must be away for several days. As there was nothing to be done until the seventeenth, his absence made no difference with our plans, though I found my patience sorely tried by the long wait. I employed the time in searching the British Museum for more detailed accounts of Threave, but without success. Within less than a fortnight Wyman had rejoined me, and we were making plans for a leisurely trip back to Scotland when I received a telegram from Fred Fenwicke that accelerated our plans. It ran:

“Come back tonight without fail. Go on to Castle-Douglas, and put up at ‘Douglas Arms.’ Will meet you there tomorrow morning.”

At ten o’clock on the following morning we were back again in Scotland, breakfasting in a cozy room in that old-fashioned hotel, the “Douglas Arms,” at Castle-Douglas, and anxiously awaiting Fred Fenwicke.

We had spent a comfortable if rather warm night in the sleeping-car from Euston, and both of us being constant travellers, neither felt the fatigue of the long railway journey. The urgency of Fred’s message caused us the greatest anxiety, and as we sat there together our eyes were watching the window for his arrival.

Outside, the long, broad street, the principal thoroughfare of the town, was already filled with the August sunshine, the roadway almost as white as those glaring roads of Italy, the sky almost as blue as it was in my once-loved Tuscany.

We had engaged that room for ourselves, for there seemed to be a party of London holiday-makers staying in the hotel; at least so we judged them to be by the gorgeous tweeds of the men and the tourist kit of the women. Loud laughter rang in the corridors of the quiet, eminently respectable place, and before the door was a coach upon which the party were slowly settling themselves for a drive through the beautiful Glenkens.

At last, just as the coach drove away, and the old post-house settled down to its normal quiet, Fred Fenwicke opened the door and closed it quickly after him.

“I’m glad you fellows have come,” he said in quick excitement. “There’s something strange going on here. Yesterday I was cycling through here, and while passing down the road along Carlingwark Loch, the same road by which you drove the other day, I overtook Lady Judith. She was walking slowly, talking with an old hunchback.”

“A hunchback?” I cried. “Then it must be Graniani.”

“He was Italian, that’s all I know. I didn’t wait to acknowledge her because the fact struck me as very curious, and I thought it would be best if she were unaware that I had discovered her. So I ran on here, and on inquiry found that the lady, who had given the name of Miss Fletcher, had arrived on the previous day, and that the old Italian, who had signed his name in the visitors’ book so badly that it could not be read, had arrived that morning.”

“And they are both here! I wonder why?” I asked, amazed.

“Well, I suppose their visit has some connection with the search they intend to make over at Threave,” Fred said. “At any rate, I thought it best that you should be on the spot, and watch what was happening.”

“But the sale of the island?”

“Brooks wired me yesterday that the contract is signed, but the money is not yet paid over. The sale is to be completed on the sixteenth of September.”

“Ah, Lord Glenelg, too, evidently thought of the change in the calendar. Well, we must take our chances of a clash with him. Today is the fifteenth. On the day after tomorrow, at three-thirty, we ought to be at Threave and take our observations by the sun.”

“But suppose it’s a wet day?” suggested Fred, always practical.

“Ah! suppose it is?” I echoed. “Then all our chance may melt away from us.”

Half an hour later, while the Major and the Captain strolled along to have a chat with Mr Batten, at the office of the British Linen Company, of which he was manager, I excused myself and remained behind.

Scarcely had they gone when Graniani passed the window with Selby, both well-dressed and presenting a prosperous appearance. They were speaking in Italian, in order, I suppose, that those who overheard should not understand their conversation. But I knew from the hunchback’s gesticulations that he was excited by some untoward event.

Judith was undoubtedly alone; therefore I rang for the waiter and sent him with my card to “Miss Fletcher.”

Five minutes later she entered the room half-timidly, as though fearful of detection. Her hand trembled, her face was pale, and I saw that she was in a highly nervous condition.

“I had no idea you were here, Mr Kennedy,” she gasped. “What brings you here?”

“I am here to be near you, Lady Judith.” I answered, holding her small white hand. “You are still in distress. How may I help you?”

“How can you help me?” she echoed. “By leaving here at once. If you remain you will imperil your life. Ah! you don’t know the terrible risk you are running.”

“But why are you here?” I demanded. “I believed you were in Edinburgh.”

“I am not here of my own free will,” she said slowly. “It is because I am compelled.”

“Compelled! By whom?”

“By your enemies, Allan. Ah! heed me – do heed me, and get away from here at once.”

“Why may I not remain as your protector?” I demurred.

“Because I need none; for me there is no protection,” and she trembled as she stood before me.

“Where is your father?”

“I don’t know,” she responded. “Some strange events have happened since we met last.”

“But you still trust me, dearest?” I cried passionately, bending until my lips touched hers lightly. They were cold, and her features seemed like marble.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I still trust you, Allan. My only fear is for your safety, not for mine. Recollect that we are dealing with people who are desperate – who will stick at nothing in order to gain their own sinister ends.”

The thought of that weird sign in Bloomsbury crossed my mind, and I fell to wondering.

“If you reciprocate my love, dearest, it is all that I desire in life,” I said quietly, in deepest earnestness. “You are in peril, you have told me, and I am your protector. You tell me nothing, because a silence is imposed upon you.”

“Ah, Allan! I dare not tell you. If I did, you – even you – would hate me; in years to come even you would detest my memory. With me life is now short; but even though surrounded by a thousand perils and pitfalls, I am nevertheless happy because I know that I shall die loved by one upright and honest man.”